Simon Paladino is not a mirthful man.

He's been humor-deficient since he came from the womb—at least, so his friends and family insist. His attempts at jokes fall flat. Others' attempts to joke at him fall flat. He has no funny bone. Not that the funny bone is a real bone; it's not, and it's certainly not the proper name for your ulnar nerve, which is not even a bone. And during the rare occasion when Simon whacks his ulnar nerve, he doesn't think the resulting pain is funny at all.

This is probably why Simon became a lawyer. As his sister once joked (he didn't laugh, if you were wondering), there's no career less humorous than the bar. Except, perhaps, that of an undertaker. And at least you can find black comedy in that profession, if you look hard enough and have the right mind for it. Being an attorney is just books and books and books of dense legal jargon, intricate details which most people find mind-numbingly incomprehensible. Paperwork without end. Hours of straining your eyes by dim lamplight at two in the morning. Frustrating cases that lead nowhere for either Simon or the client. Or, when he succeeds, more paperwork.

Simon loves it. Every facet of the work, he revels in it. He was born to be a lawyer.

As he's discovered, he was also born to be a superhero.

He didn't exactly fall into this particular pastime; in fact, he was doing his best to avoid it. Though Simon's interest was always in superhero law, it was more a symbolic interest than anything else. He didn't grow up wanting to be a superhero. He grew up afraid of his powers, afraid that he'd stare too hard at some poor person and zap a hole through their skull. So he didn't stare. Mostly, he avoided eye contact at all costs.

A doctor diagnosed him autistic when he was fourteen, and for all Simon knows, maybe that's true. Maybe he would have avoided eye contact even if he didn't have laser vision. But he'll never know, because that's not the card fate dealt him.

Metaphorically, of course. Simon doesn't believe in fate.

So he grew up avoiding eye contact and using his powers only at the sparsest of intervals. And he became a lawyer, easily gaining entrance into one of the most prestigious law schools in the country, passing his exams with highest honors, and quickly establishing himself as a superhero advocate. After all, even though Simon hasn't chosen the life of a superhero, he is a super, and he's passionate about helping his fellow supers find justice. They can't help having their powers; they can't help who they are. Simon knows that well. He's lived it.

He takes on cases. Defending supers who are being unfairly sued by civilians they'd only been trying to save. Defending supers who have been accused of committing crimes using their powers—though, of course, only the ones who Simon is convinced are innocent. Defending supers, even, who have been unfairly "outed" and, as such, lost jobs or other opportunities. It happens dishearteningly often. And whenever he can, Simon helps fix it.

In retrospect, he should've known people would start to suspect him.

It all starts when the hero known as Gamma Jack is accused of using his powers to rob a bank. As Simon is a well-known hero advocate at this point, Jack turns to him for help. The trial is over in three days. Simon brutally cross-examines the dishonest bank manager, breaking through the obvious discrepancies in his story and turning him into a snivelling mess. It turns out that the entire thing was an insurance scam. Gamma Jack is set free promptly, and it's over.

But as Jack steps out of the courtroom blinking in the sun with Simon by his side, he turns to him and smiles, clapping him soundly on the back. "Good work, Paladino. You live up to your reputation, huh? I'm impressed," says the blonde super in his baritone voice; he's wearing his colorful super suit, and his mask sparkles in the sun.

Simon smiles tightly, just about the only way he knows how to smile. "I'm glad I could get you off the hook."

"Hey, come to dinner tonight. A couple of my friends want to meet you." Jack speaks the commanding words easily; he so often tells Simon what to do instead of asking, which rubs Simon very much the wrong way, but he says nothing of it. After all, Jack is a very wealthy client who always pays his bills on time and without complaint. And, to be very blunt, Simon fully expects him to be involved in a criminal case again in the future, which means more work for Simon. (Of course, though, he would only defend Gamma Jack if he were sure the superhero was innocent.)

The attorney frowns in response to his client's words. "Superhero friends, you mean. Why would they want to meet me?"

Gamma Jack shrugs his wide shoulders. "To thank you, maybe? You've been a pretty stellar advocate for hero rights. Let us treat you to dinner, buddy. You deserve it."

Simon has known Gamma Jack for a week, and has been thanked by him exactly zero times, so the lawyer is suspicious that thanks aren't really what this dinner is about. Nonetheless, he accepts his client's invitation, if only to build a valuable potential relationship with potential future clients.

His suspicions are right. When he steps into that diner on Fourth Street later that night, Simon's dressed in his nicest suit, but his three gentlemen companions are wearing super suits. Mr. Incredible, smiling a showman's smile. Gamma Jack, smiling a smarmy bastard's smile. Frozone, smiling the coolest smile possible.

Together, they manage to convince Simon to become a super.

Oh, it isn't easy. It takes multiple dinner meetings, a lot of hemming and hawing on Simon's part, a few trips to renowned super fashion designer Edna Mode (which Simon fruitlessly insists are just perfunctory and mean nothing, despite the fact that she measures him extensively and even presents a few costume designs for his approval). But eventually, Simon starts to accept the idea of himself working as a superhero. He starts to imagine himself fighting crime on the streets, actually making a difference for people—directly. A visible difference. No longer hiding and repressing his abilities, but utilizing them for the greater good.

He even spends some time dreaming up superhero names for himself.

"What about Viewpoint?" he asks his friends excitedly—or, at least, with the most excitement he can muster, being himself. They're sitting in a small room in Edna Mode's house, waiting for the designer to show up, hopefully with Simon's finished suit in tow.

Gamma Jack and Frozone glance at each other. Mr. Incredible laughs awkwardly. "You're—you're kidding, right?" The smile melts from the blond super's face. "You're not kidding."

Simon frowns. "What's wrong with it?"

Gamma Jack chortles. "What's wrong with it—?"

Mr. Incredible silences him with a look. (None of the group can stand Gamma Jack, and sometimes, Simon isn't sure why they even allow him to tag along with them.) The blond hero then turns his attention to Simon. "Puns used to be the go-to for superhero names in the super community," Mr. Incredible explains, "but nowadays they're considered a little… outdated. Just try to avoid picking a pun for your name, okay?"

Simon nods. He may be a highly-educated expert on matters of the law, but when it comes to heroic topics, he's quickly discovering that he's got a lot to learn. So he'll take his new friends' advice wherever he can.

"Hey, hey, I got it." Frozone leans forward in his seat. "What about Gazerbeam?"

When no one speaks for a few moments, Frozone elaborates, "Y'know. Gaze? Beam, like the beams that come outta your eyes? You get it, right?"

"Yeah, I get it." Simon slowly smiles. Something about the name seems right, though he can't pinpoint exactly why he likes it. "I don't mind that at all."

A few minutes later, Edna Mode enters the room, accompanied by a high-tech mannequin that bears Simon's new superhero costume. And he officially becomes Gazerbeam.

x

Simon quickly discovers that, if one wants to get anywhere as a superhero, one registers with the National Supers Agency, or NSA, the government watchdog whose job is to keep heroes in line. Simon doesn't mind. He's a rule-follower—to a certain reasonable extent, that is—and being held accountable doesn't bother him.

What does bother him is being assigned a personal babysitter.

He likes Rick Dicker, the agent who initially helps him acclimate to the NSA leaning over his shoulder and monitoring his activities. Dicker's stoic, blunt, honest, quiet—the kind of guy to whom Simon can easily relate. A no-nonsense kind of guy. With someone like Dicker keeping him in check, Simon feels like he's in good hands. But when Dicker introduces Simon to his personal assistant, Simon instantly bristles.

"This is Winston Deavor," Rick says in his gravelly voice, his hand on the shoulder of the younger, shorter, more eager-looking man who stands beside him. "Kid's been my assistant for six months. Now he's getting promoted. Deavor, you'll be working as Gazerbeam's handler. You'll be the liaison between him and the NSA. Don't let me down, kid."

"Absolutely not, Mr. Dicker." Simon can see that Deavor is practically quaking with excitement. Greener than a leaf. "I'll do my best. I learned from the best, after all." With that, he thrusts a hand towards Simon. "Winston Deavor, sir. It's such a pleasure to meet you; I'm such a fan of your work! Can't wait to work together!"

He and Simon are probably around the same age, but Deavor has a thousand times the energy and stamina; Simon's already annoyed. Still, he shakes the offered hand. "Nice to meet you, too."

Deavor talks his ear off for the rest of the day.

The rest of the year, actually.

I.

Winston Deavor never seems to shut up. He loves superheroes, and by the end of their very first day together, Simon has heard this fact repeated approximately ten thousand times. (Actually, that was hyperbole; it was actually twenty-six. Simon counted. Still, too many.) He also loves jokes. And puns. And talking. The kid was born with the gift of gab, and his eternally-cheerful attitude can easily become grating.
Simon quickly learns that he much prefers field work to dealing with the endless bureaucracy of the National Supers Agency. He'd rather be out there, stopping a burglary or battling a villain, than doing paperwork in a small, fluorescent-lit back room in the NSA's main headquarters. He knows it's necessary, and some of the legal intricacies are fascinating, he has to admit, but the complex processes it takes to officially register with the NSA are frustrating, circuitous, and not very enjoyable. Which, for Simon, is saying something.

From the other side of the metal table where they're sitting, the metal cold against Simon's elbows, Winston enthusiastically (because they've been doing paperwork for four hours and Winston still hasn't lost his stamina) says, "Are you done with the Agreement of Insurance Rates form yet, sir?"

"You don't need to call me sir. But yes, I am done." He finishes his final signature—two blocky slashed letters reading GB, because for NSA paperwork, he's allowed to use his super name rather than his real one—and sits back, looking at his new liaison. "Is that all?"

"No, s—sorry," Winston chuckles. "Almost slipped up there! No, it's not. There's still a few Acknowledgement of Licencing forms to deal with." He pushes a few papers across the table towards Simon, who regards them the way you might regard a dead cat on the roadside.

With a small sigh, Simon picks up his pen again and leans over the first form, beginning to read. A frown forms on his face. "Just a minute. They're allowed to make merchandise of my image?"

"Yup. Toys, games, propaganda posters, you name it."

"I'm not sure I like that."

Winston shrugs, smiling awkwardly. "Yeah, it's not the best thing in the world, huh? But unfortunately, you gotta sign it, or they won't let you in. Rules are rules."

Simon doesn't reply, just begins filling out the form, because Deavor is right. In the end, it's not an enormous problem. It's just something he isn't entirely comfortable with. He can live with it. Besides, it's not as though he wasn't expecting this. Spending his days surrounded by superhero merchandise, how could he not have expected it?

It's just strange. The idea of seeing himself as a cartoon or an action figure. It doesn't feel right.

The other man's face brightens as Simon continues filling out the form. "Hey, they might make a cartoon out of you. Wouldn't that be great?"

"I have no opinion," he says without inflection, signing yet another little box.

"Oh, c'mon. Seeing yourself as one of those animated figures on the screen? You don't have an opinion on that?"

"Not really," he mutters.

"Y'know, they're making a cartoon out of Mr. Incredible and Frozone."

"I did know. It's the only thing Mr. Incredible has talked about for weeks," he says, internally chuckling. (He rarely externally chuckles.)

"Really? Is he excited?"

Simon recalls all the anxieties Incredible has expressed in the past few weeks. "I wouldn't say so. He seems nervous. He is worried they won't get his face right. Very worried, in fact."

Winston laughs. "Hey, all they have to do is give him the biggest chin possible, right?"

Simon blinks at him.

"Uh…" Deavor deflates, looking embarrassed. "He's got a big chin. Right?"

"I never noticed," Simon answers honestly, and goes back to his paperwork.

II.

Simon staggers into the main lobby of the NSA headquarters, bloodied, bruised, grimacing in pain. A red gash runs down his leg, tearing his super suit into shreds. The pain almost whites out his vision.

"One hell of a robot," he explains shortly to the horrified receptionist at the desk. "Could you please get me medical services?"

Fifteen minutes later and he's lying on a bed in one of the NSA's clinic's hospital rooms, doped up on pain medication and being bandaged by an NSA doctor. Winston bursts into the room, wearing one of his trademark blue suits and looking frantic.

"Jesus," he exclaims, practically running to Simon's bedside. "Someone said you were dead!"

Winston never swears—no, not even as mildly as that—so hearing him curse is something of a shock. "Rumors of my death were exaggerated," Simon manages to grunt past the pain in his leg. The medication isn't doing much, and he's close to asking the doctor for more.

"You aren't going to ask what happened?" he grinds out, somewhat sarcastically.

Winston chortles, grinning. "Why would I ask what happened? I saw it all on TV! You were a star! That robot had it coming. Our guys are up there now, doing cleanup; they're gonna investigate whose tech it is. Who are you thinking?"

"Baron Von Ruthless. It looked like his type of robot. I've dealt with him before—" With that, he grimaces as the doctor brushes against a particularly painful spot.

The NSA agent looks concerned. "Hey, haven't you been given pain meds?"

"I have. They aren't particularly effective."

"You'll have to wait a few more hours before I give you more. Just policy," the doctor intones distractedly, still wrapping layers of bandages around Simon's wounded leg.

Simon groans. He's got a high pain tolerance, but that slash is dreadful.

"I'll sit with you. Nothing better to do!" With that, Winston pulls up a nearby chair, its legs screeching along the floor, and plunks himself down next to Simon.

"So. How about that battle, huh?"

Simon doesn't particularly want to talk about the battle—or at all, actually—but there is, he has to admit, something comforting about the idea of a distraction.

"Yes. It was quite the melee." He exhales, admits something he doesn't particularly want to admit: "It's the closest so far that I've come to being killed."

And why does admitting that feel like a failure? Simon knows everything can't be perfect—that's a basic tenet of life on Earth—but he craves control, wants to exert the most possible sway on what happens in his life, whether that be in the courtroom or on the battlefield. And there were several moments today, fighting that formidable robot enemy, where he genuinely thought he would lose control of the proceedings, or, in other words, lose the fight and die. It's his first fight as a full-fledged superhero where he feared he might not win.

So, yes, admitting that feels like a personal failure. He wishes he hadn't said it for Deavor and the doctor to hear.

"You look disappointed," observes Deavor, and he sounds and looks surprised, confused. "I don't get it."

"I almost failed. I looked weak out there." There he goes again, admitting things he doesn't particularly want to admit.

But Winston chuckles. "No! That's just part of being a super. Sometimes you win, sometimes you…" He winces, makes an awkward gesture with his hands. "Er, win less gracefully. Nobody's perfect, and you're just starting out anyway. Don't sweat it."

He pauses for a moment, then continues when Simon doesn't deign to respond. "You're a perfectionist, huh?" he says with that knowing smile and wink he's so fond of offering. "I've noticed that about you."

"I suppose," Simon says shortly. His leg is throbbing like hell.

He expects Winston to give him a lecture about shedding perfectionism in favor of living in the moment—precisely the opposite of Simon as a person—but his liaison surprises him. "I get it, I've been there," Winston admits. "You just get this urge to do everything perfectly, not a single thread out of place, or else you don't even want to try. And if you do something and it's not perfect, you just want to scrap the whole shebang, or else you think you're letting everybody down. Am I close?"

A groove forms between Simon's eyebrows, a slight frown. "You know, you've hit the mark there." He doesn't want to admit that, either, but that's just the perfectionism rearing its ugly head again.

"Yeah, I thought so. Don't worry. Like I said, I've been there," says the other man kindly. "But really—don't beat yourself up. A lot of us were crowded around in the break room watching that whole battle on television, cheering you on. You did great. And I think you're gonna get better with time, too. Oh, not only with fighting bad guys, though, that too. I think you're gonna stop judging yourself so harshly. At least, I hope so."

There's something about the combination of Winston's kind words and warm smile that's contagious, and—though he knows it's psychosomatic and, in other words, not real—Simon notices the pain in his leg has started to dim, to become more like background noise.

"Well, that's a nice sentiment. Thank you." He knows his voice sounds flat, as always, but he means it. Very much so.

"Hey." From the expression on Winston's face, Simon can tell Deavor thinks he's just thought of something very clever. "Wanna hear a topical joke?"

"I'm game." He's not really, but anything to distract him from the wound on his leg.

"Okay, okay. Why was the robot angry?" He stares at Simon expectantly, already unable to keep a smile down.

"I don't know. Why?"

Winston snorts before he delivers the final punchline. "Because someone kept pushing its buttons."

Simon does not laugh, as usual. Instead he gives an honest reaction. "Very amusing joke, Deavor. I get it. Because robots tend to have buttons. That's very clever."

Winston does not look fazed. "Someday I'm gonna draw laughter from this stone. You just mark my words, Gazerbeam."

"I doubt it," he says—again, with all the honesty in the world.

Down by his legs, the doctor has just finished tying the last loose end on the bandage, and stands up, rubbing her back. "Huh. Well, I thought that was pretty funny, anyway."

III.

Yes, Deavor talks a lot. Yes, this can be irritating when one first meets him.

Also, his smiles are infectious. His cheerfulness is heartwarming. His encyclopedic knowledge of superhero lore makes it easy to get sucked into a conversation with him. His generosity is stunning. He's got dimples you can get lost in—

Not that Simon would ever admit any of this.

All this notwithstanding, it pays—quite literally—to have Winston around. His father, a multi-billionaire, is as enamored with superheroes as his son, and makes very generous donations to the NSA on a regular basis. By the end of his first year working with the NSA, Simon has met Deavor, Sr. multiple times; charming man, and his wife is nice, too. The first time they met, the senior Deavor clasped his hand hard and smiled at him.

"Hear you're working with my son. Go easy on him!"

"I'm trying," said Simon in response, his attempt at a joke. And to his credit, the other man did laugh.

So Winston's presence pays, both personally and financially. And professionally, Simon should add. On the regular, Winston pores over footage of superhero fights—Gazerbeam's own, along with those of other heroes—along with Simon. Training battles, as well as battles against villains that were luckily caught on tape. Together they analyze the footage, criticize maneuvers and strategies, and learn from them. That's another area where Winston's ubiquitous knowledge of hero topics comes in handy.

Winston has helped him improve. Simon has to admit, without Deavor around, he would never have shed his pride enough to watch himself in action and criticize where he went wrong. But with Winston it never feels like criticism. It feels like growth. Persistent, valuable, optimistic growth.

"Hey, I noticed you're leading with your left foot a lot lately," Winston might point out one day. "Have you considered trying your right instead? It's your dominant one, after all."

Or: "You ever think about trying one continuous beam of energy instead of a few short spurts? Might give your attacks more kick."

Or: "Y'know how you kind of wander around trying to get a visual lock on your target? You probably waste a lot of energy that way. My sister invented this special zoom-and-enhance helmet, and I think it'll probably help you. Wanna give it a try?"

On a more personal note: Winston is one of the few people Simon has ever met who never gave him any flack about avoiding eye contact. There seems to be an unspoken understanding between them: Winston knows why, without having to ask, and he doesn't seem inclined to bother Simon about it. That is a new experience, and a welcome one. In general, being with him is easy. He never makes one feel inadequate, or stupid, or anything less than their best. Even someone as humorless and sardonic as Simon—the realist incarnate—feels looser, brighter, more at-ease around him.

Things have changed in Simon's life in the past few months. He's grown apart from the supers he used to be friendly with—especially Gamma Jack, who he rarely sees nowadays, and for whom Simon makes little effort to disguise his distaste. He has also developed a closer relationship with the local media. Simon is interested in helping people, not particularly so much in being a celebrity, but when one is a superhero, such things are entirely impossible to avoid. Most of the time, he grits his teeth and bears it: the morning talk show circuit, the microphones shoved in his face.

Most other supers are different—they don't just tolerate the limelight, they've learned to relish it—especially Gamma Jack, who, in Simon's view, spends far more time grinning on television screens than he does actually serving the people of Municiberg. Simon isn't interested in looking good for the cameras or promoting himself, but he knows that interviews are Municiberg's way of holding him accountable, and as long as that's the case, he'll put up with them.

One day, though, an interview comes along that Simon balks at.

"An hour," he says to Winston.

They're in the back of a taxi together. Winston is busily scribbling some notes on a notepad. "Huh?" he says absentmindedly.

"An hour-long interview. You just said that. Right?"

"Yup." He looks up. "You're not nervous, are you?"

"No," he says uncomfortably. "I just wish I had been given more notice. This will be the longest interview I've ever done by far."

"Okay, look," Winston chuckles. "When I said an hour, I meant that's how long the television slot is. Your actual interview will be closer to forty minutes. Feel better?"

"Not particularly."

Winston begins to look concerned, now, and sets the pen and paper aside. "Look. You don't need to be worried. You've done fine with reporters and cameras so far, and I'm pretty sure you're not gonna stop today. Chin up, you can do it."

Sure, his words are encouraging, but Simon still can't help feeling uneasy. He knows he lacks charisma, and he also lacks a desire—and, frankly, the means—to actually engage with reporters the way his peers do. A ten- or even twenty-minute interview is one thing. Forty minutes is another entirely.

He doesn't particularly want to share these things with Winston, but he knows, realistically, that part of the liaison's job is to help him through these matters. So reluctantly, he starts talking. "What if I run out of things to say?"

"I'm pretty sure it's the interviewer's job to make sure that doesn't happen," Winston points out.

"Fair enough. But what if…"

"C'mon, spill. What if what?"

He exhales, frustrated. "Surely an interview this long can't help my image. I just can't imagine a television audience who would want to watch thisfor one straight hour. Mr. Incredible or Blazestone or Gamma Jack, supers like them, actually know what to do in situations such as this. They know how to make the interviewer and the audience care about them. Me, I'm clueless. And for ten or twenty minutes at a time, perhaps I can disguise that cluelessness, but an hour? Everyone watching will hate me by the time it's done."

Winston is silent for a few long moments, frowning in consideration. Finally he says, "Huh. Didn't peg you for the kind of guy who gives a hoot what people think."

"I don't." Simon laughs, a stupid and bitter sound. "Allegedly."

"But it's different, isn't it?" guesses Winston knowingly. "This is a different context. This is you, presenting yourself as a super, and that's a whole different ballpark, right? A super's bread and butter is whether or not the people care about them and trust them."

Winston is exactly right. Trying to be cool again, Simon nods wordlessly.

But Winston places a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I get it," he says sympathetically. "Heck, I'd have trouble getting on a platform and blabbing for forty straight minutes, too." (Given how much Winston talks, Simon doubts this, but says nothing.) "And to be honest, you don't have to do this if you don't want. I can easily cancel, say that some villain popped up somewhere and had to be dealt with. We can try another day, when you can be better-prepared. How about it?"

Given that Winston has already told him that this particular interview took a month to set up, and that Winston called in some high-profile favors to make it happen, Simon knows that it's not that simple. But the fact that Winston would so readily suggest cancelling the interview, just for Simon's peace of mind, is, he has to admit, touching.

"No," he says resolutely, staring straight ahead. "I'll do it. Mind you, I might not enjoy it, but I'll do it. Besides, I believe supers need to be held accountable, and journalism is an important aspect of that process. If I start to refuse interviews, I'll be risking my integrity. Regardless of how I personally feel about it."

"That's the spirit," Winston says with a grin, gently punching him on the arm.

They ride in silence for a few more minutes before Winston again looks up from his notepad, where he's been scribbling god-knows-what.

"Hey, Gazerbeam, you think a joke might help you loosen up?"

"No."

Winston ignores him. "Why is Cinderella bad at soccer?"

"I don't know," Simon says, after giving the subject a few moments of thought.

"Because she… wait for it… always runs away from the ball." Winston laughs loudly, slaps his own knee.

From the front of the cab, the driver snorts. "Sorry, fellas. Couldn't help but overhear."

But Winston looks disappointed with Simon. "C'mon, not even a little chuckle? A chortle? A guffaw? Nothing?"

"It was very amusing. A very clever joke."

"But you didn't laugh." Winston points at him. "Mark my words. Someday."

Simon shakes his head, though he is smiling a little, and again tells Winston, "I doubt it."

IV.

There are certain things he should be growing tired of: Winston's propensity to talking one's ear off, his constant barrage of jokes and puns, his never-ending cheerfulness that's apt to last through the most grueling of situations. They do not grow tiring, however. They grow… familiar, but not tiring. Warm, solid and assured. Something that will always be there, dependable. Like home.

Simon has been on dates (most of which ended ambivalently or badly, to be frank). He's had romantic interests. He has dipped a foot in that world before. All relationships have ended in mild-to-crushing disappointments. He has moved on.

But he can truly say that he has never had feelings like this for another person before, and there are both positive and negative aspects to it. There is certainly a difference between this emotion and a casual friendship. There is the desire to impress the other person, to say things that amuse them, that gain their approval, which, with Winston, is not hard. There is the strange, irrational, not-entirely-unpleasant flutter that starts in your chest when they merely enter the room. The longing that feels almost like a sickness.

Also, for example, the almost-paralyzing terror that overtakes your entire body like a virus when you realize they've been kidnapped by a nefarious villain.

Which Winston has.

The call he received from Rick Dicker this morning plays over and over again in his mind. "Kid," said the gravelly-voiced agent, because he calls everyone kid no matter if they're twenty years younger than him or a decade older. "I think you'd better sit down."

Simon did not sit down. Moments later, though, he found himself agreeing with Rick's assertion that he should have.

By this time, Gazerbeam has been a full-fledged, NSA-registered superhero for seven months. He has rescued civilian hostages from villains before, each time reassuring them with his calm, confident demeanor. This time is different. Simon almost feels hysterical. It's difficult to breathe. None of this really feels like it's happening. He can't possibly be piloting a small NSA-issue jet across the Atlantic to the lair of a villain called Inertia on a tiny deserted island, watching the infinite waves crest underneath him, meeting the horizon on all sides. He can't possibly be terrified out of his mind on this calm Sunday afternoon. None of this can be real.

(Except, logically, he knows that it can, and is. None of this is out of the realm of possibility. It's quite firmly in that realm, actually.)

All the time he's soaring across the ocean, his mind races. He's never been a creative type of person, but now, a vast imagination has been unlocked which Simon never knew he had. His brain brings forth examples of things that could've happened to Winston by now. Torture. Terror. Death. With each moment, his hand squeezes the throttle harder until he's going dangerous speeds. It is never fast enough.

His memory shows him images of Winston smiling, laughing, only now these benign memories are laced with dread and fear, telling him what he's got to lose.

He makes it to the island before evening, when the sun's low on the horizon but hasn't yet set. There, he infiltrates the villain's high-tech lair, using his laser vision to take out two guards from afar and to bust open the lock on the main door. He creeps through vents and ducts, down labyrinthine halls, evading guards when he can, calmly blasting them with a controlled burst from his eyes when he can't. He radiates confidence and control, but inside he's breaking down. His exploration is yielding no fruit. Every room he enters, every door he slams in increasing alarm and frustration, is one that doesn't lead to Winston. The Deavor heir is nowhere to be found.

Finally, he enters a large, cavernous room filled with blinking computer monitor screens. It appears to be the classic example of a villain's lair, and surely enough, there's Inertia in his teal-colored suit and cape, standing with his back to Simon, deep into a dramatic monologue. Simon cannot see to whom he's monologuing. But he has his suspicions.

Carefully, Simon edges to his left—Inertia doesn't notice; he's too busy babbling—until he can see around the villain. As he suspected—and for a moment, everything stops—Winston is there, chained to the wall and looking equally terrified and annoyed. Simon sizes him up in a moment, nearly buckles with relief. He's not hurt. His trademark blue suit is barely ruffled.

Winston sees Simon. Gazerbeam can tell, from the way the other man's eyes flick towards him, widen, then focus on Inertia again, all within a fraction of a second. Winston is intelligent enough not to give the super's presence away.

"And so," the villain is crying in glee, "when your father finally caves and gives me the ransom I deserve, I'll be able to build my glorious empire the way it was meant t—"

Simon zaps him. Straight to the back of the neck; he'll have a nasty second-degree burn there later, and he instantly crumples to the floor unconscious, but he'll live. Not that he deserves it.

Another few expertly-aimed laser blasts and the chains holding Winston have snapped away, and he pushes off from the wall where he was chained, rubbing his wrists. Immediately Simon is all over him, which, for Simon, means hands concernedly placed on his shoulders.

"Are you hurt?"

"Nah. Bruises. Nothing serious." Winston glances over at the downed, twitching form of Inertia. "He wanted to extort my father for a billion bucks. How sad is that?"

"We know. The NSA got the ransom note. Are you sure you aren't hurt?"

"Stop fussing!" Winston exclaims, though not unfondly. "I'm fine. Swear to god." He pauses. His smile changes, becomes a little more hesitant. "Thanks for coming to get me."

"No need for thanks," Gazerbeam says shortly, irrationally embarrassed. "It's just my job."

Winston is about to say something further, but a low boom interrupts them, one that shakes the entire room from underneath and causes the fluorescent lights above to rattle on their mounts. The boom quickly settles into a loud, insistent rumbling that causes both men to sway on their feet.

"Some sort of self-destruct timer," Simon guesses, instantly on0edge. "Come on, we have to get out of here now." With that he grabs Winston's sleeve and starts dragging him towards the exit.

"Hey," Winston says from behind him, nervously laughing. "What do you call a—"

"This is no time for jokes!" Simon snaps, though he knows Winston's only joking because he's scared out of his wits.

After what seems like an hour of dodging through the winding halls of the building, they just barely manage to escape, throwing themselves out of the main entrance to the lair and onto the grassy ground beyond, just instants before the entire complex collapses into a mound of fire and dust and groaning metal. The two men lay on the ground for a while, breathing hard. The sound of Winston's breathing is reassuring. It means he's still alive. It means Gazerbeam did his job right today. It means everything's going to be okay.

Well. It doesn't, really. Rationally, Simon should know this.

But it sure feels like it.

"Winston," he says, rolling towards the other man.

Winston, whose blue suit is spotted with dirt and dust, one sleeve torn, tie askew, coughs and tilts his head towards Simon. "Huh?"

He stumbles over his words, because the sudden wave of relief over Winston being all right threatens to crush him, and he thinks he's never seen anything so similar to a living work of art. "Uh—what was that joke you were going to tell in there?"

"Oh." Winston laughs, shakes his head, and stares up at the darkening sky above. "Darned if I can remember."

V.

Part of Deavor's job as an NSA liaison is to assign missions for Simon. Most of the time, Gazerbeam and the other NSA-affiliated supers work freelance, dealing with crime wherever it rears its ugly head. In other cases, though, the NSA identifies a problem that needs solving, and assigns a super, or a team of supers, to confront it. It's Winston's job to identify an issue—a suspected terrorist plot in the making, a robot gone rogue, mysterious activity on some desert island somewhere—and assign his associated super to deal with it.

Which is all well and good. Until Winston stops doing his job.

Simon starts noticing it, around a year after they began working together. His liaison used to assign him dangerous missions, involving derring-do and spectacular feats of bravery, involving some actual goddamn work. Nowadays, though, the missions Winston assigns Gazerbeam are almost insultingly easy, nothing more than child's play. He's asked to deliver a speech at the grand opening of the Municiberg Capital Hotel. To spend the day with schoolchildren at a special event. To eliminate the threat posed by The Spellbinder (a pathetically weak villain who wears a costume made out of knit-together dish towels, for crying out loud). Individually, these assignments are no problem for Simon; he's proud to give back to his community however he can. But lately, Winston has been babying him. It's one thing after the other, and he can no longer stand it.

Then comes the last straw.

At 1:53 on a sunny Wednesday afternoon, Simon barges into Winston's office at the NSA's headquarters, clutching a crumpled-up piece of paper in his hand.

"Your jokes aren't funny anymore, Winston."

Winston, who's sitting behind his desk, looks up at Simon in confusion. "Huh? Whaddaya mean?"

"This." He lifts the crumpled paper, frowning hard. "I received your fax. You want me to drive to the downtown core for the sake of retrieving a kitten from a tree? Even you have to admit: that's outrageous, and insulting. You know I can do better than that."

Winston looks quite uncomfortable, even as he tries to maintain a smile. "Oh, c'mon, Gazerbeam. Minor tasks have to get done too, y'know."

"This is not simply a minor task," he intones. "This is one insult in a very long string of insults. What's the matter with you lately?"

"Nothing!" he protests.

"Then explain this." He takes a stride towards Winston's desk and tosses the crumpled piece of paper towards him; it bounces once, then settles on the wood.

Winston stares at the paper for a moment, like Simon just threw a beating human heart at him, or something. "Look," he finally says, "I get that you're upset."

"I'm insulted."

"That, too. I get it. I'll… start assigning more challenging missions for you. If that's what you want. And I apologize if you felt belittled. Didn't mean to insult you, not at all." He extends a hand, smiling. "Wanna make peace?"

Simon remains silent and crosses his arms; Winston's smile fades, and he withdraws his extended hand. "That's a no, huh?"

"I am satisfied with that. But I also want to know why," he says firmly.

"Um…" Winston waffles, wincing. Simon can see that this is sore territory for him, and a lightbulb suddenly goes off in his head. (Metaphorically, of course.)

"It's Dicker, isn't it?"

"Huh?" Winston blinks at him.

"It's Dicker," he repeats. "Or someone else higher-up than you. They're trying to push me down, and you don't want to be the whistleblower. Is that right?"

Winston blinks again. Simon finds it hard to read other people's body language much of the time, but from the way Winston looks, it seems as though he's genuinely surprised. "No," he says. "That's not it. How can you even think that? You've gotta know Dicker loves you. Heck, everyone else at the NSA loves you, too. You've been nothing but an asset."

"Then what is it?" Simon demands, his tolerance running short.

"It's me," Winston admits, looking as though it very much pains him to speak the words. He flushes with them, too, like they're embarrassing to speak.

"Yes, I know it's you," Simon says impatiently. "But why? Just tell me."

"I just—" Winston's fists both clench on the table, and he shakes his head in frustration. "It's stupid. It's almost, y'know, subconscious or something." He waves his hands around his head to illustrate. "And I don't want to tell you because I think you'll hate me for it, but…"

"I don't think so," he says with complete honesty, because at this point, he doubts there's anything that could make him hate Winston. "But I do want to have the truth."

"I don't want you to get hurt." The words burst apologetically from Winston's mouth, and then he's on a roll, like a trainwreck. "I just, I see all these different battles you fight, and missions you do, and they're all so darn risky, and I just—I keep imagining that you'll make a mistake and you'll be gone, forever, or hurt badly, or something, and Christ, Simon, it's unbearable being this scared all the time. So, don't worry, it's not you, it's nothing you've done. It's just me being an idiot. That's all. And I'll stop doing it, I swear."

Simon's anger has dissipated entirely, leaving something strange in its wake. For a moment he can only look at Winston, can't muster up anything with which to respond. In fact, many responses fly through his head—You really think that little of me, that I could be killed so easily? or perhaps, I chose this career. It's not your choice to make—but he doesn't think any of them are appropriate. And the one that finally comes out of his mouth doesn't resemble them at all.

"Well, I-I-I'm flattered you care so much." This is a particularly inane response to come out of Simon's mouth, especially since he almost neverstutters, and he feels foolish even as he's saying it. "But still, hero work isn't a picnic. It's dangerous, and that's a given. I knew the risks when I signed up for this job, and I accepted them."

"I know," says Winston, sighing heavily. "I know it's stupid, and that I haven't been doing my job right." He chuckles bitterly. "Don't worry, I know exactly how stupid I've been. It won't happen again, I swear. Oh, and by the way, you don't have to go rescue that kitten. I'll call the local firefighters. They're more equipped to handle incidents like that, anyway. They have, y'know. Ladders and stuff."

It's supposed to be a joke. Neither of them laughs.

"Listen, Winston…" Simon hesitates awkwardly, wanting to say something—wanting very badly, in fact—but he's so unskilled at these sorts of things, these people things, and he's afraid whatever he could say would just sound nonsensical.

He finally settles on: "I'm not upset. I actually…"

There it goes again: his pet peeve, a lack of control. Because he cannot stand not being in control of any given situation, and not being in control of himself is the worst of all. He doesn't know what to say, what to do, only that he wants to say something or do something.

Just the thought that Winston worries as irrationally much about Simon as Simon worries about him… that thought is both comforting and frightening. And he does not want to spend any more time denying the fact that he has fallen in love, and badly.

It's not like Simon to avoid reaching out for something he wants. But there is something new about this situation, a newness that takes away his easy confidence like taking candy from a baby. So he just mutters, "Don't worry about it. I'm not upset—just please don't do it again," and walks from the office. For once, Winston calls no jovial words after him—only watches him go in silence.

VI.

They don't speak of what happened.

Winston stops assigning insultingly-easy missions; Simon stops complaining about the missions he does get, even though he notices that, though they're certainly more challenging than rescuing kittens from trees, they're still not as dangerous as the ones he tended to do before. They reach an easy equilibrium, even though there's clearly something between them that neither of them is brave enough to openly acknowledge.

Simon's relationship with the NSA remains stable and solid, and even after he joins the super team called the Thrilling Three and his life becomes steadily busier and busier, he remains in contact with Winston. Not only because it's a requirement, but because he wants to. They mesh, though their personalities might be different. Simon likes being around Winston. He likes it very, very much, in fact. And—he can't know, of course, but he hopes—Winston might feel the same.

But the relationship remains professional, despite what Simon might personally want. He is usually a go-getter, the kind of person who, if he wants something, goes after it. But for the first time, he is scared. Scared that he might ruin the friendship they have. Scared that he might not be wanted in the same way he wants. Scared that, even if something did commence between them, whatever might bloom would be ruined by Simon's propensity to zap things at which he stares too intensely. That is always something he's been mindful of, in the context of interpersonal relationships, but with Winston, it actually feels like a threat. The idea that he might, even by accident, hurt someone he— kill someone he—

It's enough to make even the most unflappable man frightened out of his wits.

x

One cool autumn day, Winston and Simon are walking through the hallways of the NSA's lower level, where most of the agency's super-related activity is conducted. They're heading to Winston's office, where they'll discuss a new design for Gazerbeam's suit. His old super suit is quickly wearing out, and both he and Winston have agreed it's time for a change. With luck, they'll agree on features they would like to request, and then Winston will phone Edna Mode to arrange a consult.

Simon sees a man in the distance down the hall, arguing with another shorter man, and he instantly feels the urge to roll his eyes. It's Gamma Jack, with his immaculately-coiffed golden hair. He's got his super mask on, but instead of his super suit, he's wearing jeans and a T-shirt, which is odd for him. He's holding some item of clothing up on a hanger and shaking it—his super suit? Simon can hear him yelling from several meters away.

"Watch out," Winston mutters quietly, and Simon nods. It's a known fact in the agency that Gamma Jack is the least-popular super on campus. The public loves him, the civilian ladies (and a good number of gentlemen) love him, but everyone who knows him behind the scenes can't stand him. He treats almost everyone like garbage.

As they approach closer, arranging into single-file so they can move past Gamma Jack and the other man, the words a scowling Jack is yelling at the other man, who looks in equal measure terrified and annoyed; Simon now recognizes him as Jack's liaison.

"No, you listen. This suit is filthy. And I want it dry-cleaned right now. Right. Now."

"Jack, you're not listening," squeaks the other man. "We'd need to set up an appointment—"

"No. Right now." He shakes the suit directly in the agent's face. "Do you see this? Do you have a working pair of eyes? It's absolutely filthy. And I'm not going out there looking like trash!"

"Why not?" Winston mutters under his breath as they pass; Simon can barely hear him. "Your personality's plenty trash already."

Simon laughs.

It's funny (funny weird, not funny ha-ha): Winston has told probably ten thousand jokes since he and Simon first met, most with the express purpose of trying to draw a chuckle from Simon. It has never worked. Not once. But this one time—and, most likely, Winston wasn't even trying this time—Simon couldn't help himself. The loud guffaw bursts forth spontaneously, and everyone's heads snap toward him in surprise. Hearing Gazerbeam laugh—honestly laugh, not pretending-for-the-cameras stilted laughter—is like seeing a unicorn running through the halls of the NSA.

Winston whips around and stares wide-eyed at him, opening his mouth, but Jack speaks before Winston can. "What's so funny, Gazerbeam?"

"Oh, nothing," he says, back to his cool-and-collected self again. "I just thought of something amusing, that's all."

Looking unconvinced, Jack goes back to yelling at his agent, while Winston and Simon head down the hall to the staircase at the end. Once they're in the stairwell with the door closed behind them, Winston turns to Simon and shouts, "You laughed!"

"It was funny," Simon answers honestly.

"Yeah, but look, I'm kind of insulted! I spend, what, a whole year trying to tell you a joke that you actually find funny, and in the end, I end up doing it by accident? That's a let-down!"

He knows Winston's joking, but Simon feels compelled to answer with honesty, not with more joking of his own. "Don't stop," he says, blurting the words almost as if someone else is the one saying them.

Winston blinks. "Don't stop what?"

"Telling the jokes."

"Uh, well, I wasn't planning on it. But…" He looks confused. "Why do you care? You don't… like any of them."

"That's not strictly true. I do like them. I'm guffawing away on the inside. Trust me." It's the truth: even if he doesn't outwardly show it, Simon has grown incredibly fond of Winston's bad jokes.

"Well." Winston playfully punches him on the shoulder. "You might want to try laughing on the outside one of these days, just to stroke my ego."

"If you want me to, I will." Again, it's like it's not Simon saying what he's saying, but another person who's taken over his body, a person who feels almost childishly vulnerable all of a sudden. And he knows there must be some odd quality to the words he spoke, because Winston's expression changes. He can't read it—but what else is new?

When he speaks again, Winston's face has softened considerably and his voice has lowered. "I didn't know you actually liked when I joke around. I thought you were… well, kind of annoyed by it. So I was toning myself down. To be honest."

"That is not accurate. I…" He hesitates, wondering exactly how open he's willing to be. He's a hair's breadth away from making a confession. In a stairwell, for crying out loud.

"I, uh, enjoy your jokes," he finally says awkwardly. "Even if I don't show it. I find them amusing. You are… well, a warm person to be around. The truth is that I enjoy your company very much. If you stopped joking around, I—well, I'd be disappointed."

By the time he's done stumbling through that confession, he's almost wincing, certain that he's said something very, very stupid. He has little experience with these matters. He's been on dates before, but none that went well, and certainly not with anybody for whom he felt this way. Not with anybody whose mere presence turns him into a stuttering mess.

But Winston doesn't look unimpressed; quite the contrary. He looks awed. "Why, Simon J. Paladino," he says. "Do you have something to say to me?"

Sure, he knew that Winston knew his full name—the NSA keeps those sorts of details on record, for accountability purposes—but hearing Winston say it like that is… well, to say the very least, a very different experience. Simon quickly realizes he's been too forward, too obvious. That's not hard for a man like him: he's so stalwart and erudite that merely showing an actual emotion for once is enough to give him away.

Gazerbeam has faced enemies who could kill him if he made so much as a split second's wrong move; he's faced enemies who had the capacity to wipe out the entire earth. He's faced them with confidence and bravado. Rationally, he knows that this particular situation does not carry higher stakes than life-or-death. So why does it feel that way? Why does it feel like if he fails at this, he has failed at everything that matters?

He steels himself and mentally writes a script. All or nothing, he supposes.

"It's been a pleasure working with you," he begins.

Winston's eyes widen. "Are you quitting?"

"No. Let me finish. It's been a pleasure working with you in a professional capacity, and I have quite enjoyed our time together in that context, but, as I think you've guessed already… my personal emotions have progressed beyond professionalism. I have been trying my best to disguise it."

"Well." Winston looks like he was hit by a truck. "You've… uh, you've been doing a pretty good job so far."

"I didn't mean to give you the impression that I was unamused by you," Simon continues, the words starting to come out faster, his careful scripting fading away. "It's the opposite. I know I can seem cold sometimes—all the time, I suppose—but I… I'm grateful that I met you. I'm grateful that I get to spend so much time with you. You make every day more enjoyable. You make me want to be better. I don't show it like most people because I can't show it like most people, and I'm sorry about that, but I—I want to show it, because I don't want you to think that I'm merely tolerating you. And if you want me to laugh at your jokes, I will. Every time."

If Winston looked like he was hit by a truck before, now, he looks as though he was thrown out of a cruising-altitude jet plane. He opens his mouth, closes it. This is one of the only times Simon has seen the NSA agent struck speechless.

"I'm sorry," he says hurriedly, afraid that he's violated some social more. "If I said something wrong, I apologize. I don't want this to ruin our working relationship. It would probably be best if you just ignored me."

Winston has turned quite red, and he sputters, "Uh, I—I, uh—I didn't even suspect that—"

They begin to speak over each other.

"Please, it's probably best if you just ignore—"

"—I mean, I hoped that—but I—"

"—me and move on, we don't have to let this ruin—wait, you hoped what?"

"I. Uh." Winston winces, blinking rapidly like something has gotten caught in his eye. "I sometimes, uh, hoped that you… well, that you were… that I was… well, I hoped that you liked me. More than you were letting on, anyway. Because I don't know if you noticed, but I was trying pretty hard to make you like me, and I didn't know it was working, but apparently it was, and… uh… If you know what I'm talking about. Heck, I'm no good at this stuff."

A good ninety-nine percent of the time (this is hyperbole. He has not actually calculated this), Winston is uniformly cheerful and unflappable. Seeing him stutter and stumble, obviously struggling with what to say, is not only relatable to Simon, it's a massive relief. And hearing him say that he hoped Simon liked him… well.

Maybe he should just, as the kids say nowadays, go for it.

He takes a step closer, because that's a good place to start. "I think I do know what you're talking about. You should know that your efforts were working. They are working."

"Good to know," says Winston shakily. Simon wonders if he's honestly never heard anyone confess something like this to him, because he looks stunned by it, like a deer in headlights, to quote the cliché. If he hasn't, it would be a shock to Simon. Winston is so charming, so likable, so honest and good, how could no one have ever fallen for him before? He should be drowning in love confessions.

Winston hasn't backed away, and though Simon isn't good at reading body language, he doesn't think Winston's speaks of rejection, so he dares to take another step closer until he's in what you might consider Winston's personal space. "They're working right now," he says, with total honesty. He's not trying to flirt. It's just happening.

He feels rather like a coward, and he doesn't know what'll happen next—will he be brave enough to make the next move? He was barely brave enough to get this close.

Winston doesn't seem inclined to let this moment slip away. Unexpectedly, he moves forward until their chests are very nearly touching, and reaches up, his hands brushing the sides of Simon's mask.

"Can we get this off?"

Simon has a decent memory, and he can't remember ever removing his mask in front of anyone at the NSA. Surely they must have an unmasked picture of him on file, but that is entirely different. He also knows that removal of his mask, even in a facility as secure as NSA headquarters, could be disastrous if the wrong person were to see.

He also wants it off. Very, very badly. He's suddenly got a lump in his throat for which there's only one cure.

"Yes. Please."

The mask covers his eyes with a visor; having the visor off tends to put Simon on-edge, especially in a context such as this. He can't help but instinctively shut his eyes, for his own peace of mind, as Winston hooks his fingers underneath the edges of the mask and gently pulls it away. He feels a warm hand on the side of his face.

"C'mon, open your eyes."

"I don't want to hurt you." All he can see is blackness.

His tone is uncommonly tender, a change from his usual brash cheerfulness. "I'm okay with the risk."

Simon remembers other times. Times when he came clean about his powers and was instantly abandoned—by friends, by dates, even by family. But this person knows him, knows what he can do, has seen the damage his eyes can inflict, firsthand… and trusts him. And doesn't care.

That, in itself, is enough to make him open his eyes—though only halfway—and lean forward, closing the gap between them.

The last thing Simon thinks is that this moment sure isn't a joke, but he's close to smiling anyway.