Epilogue

Perry turned to the homeowner standing at his elbow. "What do you think, Mrs. Washington? Is that better?"

The woman cocked her head, peering at the other side of the room. "Maybe. Yes. How about just a touch more green?"

Perry raised his hand and pushed a hint of teal at the painted surface of her main bedroom wall.

"No, no." Mrs. Washington immediately shook her head. "Back the way it was."

Perry eased the blue toward the cornflower shade he'd started with.

"Yes. That one."

"Great." Perry went over and pulled down the sample chip he'd taped to the wall, reflecting the color they'd ended up with. He raised his other hand, said, "Back," and restored the rest of the wall to the original off-white.

Mrs. Washington pouted. "Couldn't you have left the blue up for a while?"

"Sorry." Perry handed her the chip. He'd partnered with her interior decorator but part of the deal was doing demos only. "Have your designer match that and—" His phone rang with the cop-show theme he'd picked for Lieutenant Jeffries. There were two reasons Jeffries might call him in the middle of a workday and one was bad.

He fumbled to answer. "Yes? Is Deckard all right?"

"Deck's fine," the deep rumble of Jeffries' voice reassured him. "We need your superpower."

"The Interior Decorator to the rescue." He felt giddy with relief. "Where?"

"The mayor's house. ASAP. I'll text you the address. Our van's in the drive."

"See you soon." Perry hung up, checked the incoming text— oh, I know where that is— and turned to Mrs. Washington. "So sorry, duty calls."

"But you were going to do the bathroom next."

"I have to go superhero. I'll be back in the morning. You can give more thought to that harvest gold in the living room." Like, think about taking it six shades lighter. But it was her house and he had more important things to do. He hurried to the door, stuffing his feet into his boots.

"But…"

"Tomorrow!" With a wave behind his back, he ran to the driveway. His motorcycle sat waiting, a trusty steed. He jammed his helmet on, made sure his phone and wallet were secure down in his pockets, and swung a leg over. The machine vibrated under him as he hit the starter, and a moment later he was peeling out of Mrs. Washington's drive and heading west.

Perry loved his bike. It wasn't a helicopter but it gave him almost the same feeling of flying. Deckard had bitched about the dangers of bike accidents but acknowledged that it was a cheap form of transport. He'd even been heard to let a whisper of glee escape when he rode behind Perry on one of their day-off adventures.

Traffic thickened as Perry neared the mayor's place and he had to stop for a light, drumming his fingers on the handlebars. This was only the fourth time the bomb squad had called him in for help since the whole Fox-face affair, which he tried not to think about too hard. The other three had all been false alarms in locations Nix couldn't reach, but helping felt good. Important.

He'd sent his mother a copy of the official SPAM acknowledgement of the Interior Decorator's role in controlling the Lithomancer, after the certificate showed up on his dresser one morning. She hadn't answered back. He was okay with that. He had Deckard and the squad and Tucker was becoming a true friend. Perry worked for three local interior decorators and one of them had included him and Deckard in her Labor Day party, where he'd played ball with her school-age kids. Found family was everything.

The mayor's long driveway was blocked down at the street by a patrol car. The uniformed officer radioed to confirm Perry had official standing, then suggested he leave the bike, and let him past on foot. The drive was a bit of a hike between clumps of woods, and he flashed on trudging toward Fox-face's lair that hot morning, Deckard too far away to see, Mrs. Goshima captive— Perry fought down his shudders. It's over. He'd dead. We won. Mrs. Goshima got to kick him in the nuts first. This is a cool autumn day. Not the same at all. He pulled in one slow breath after another.

Mrs. Goshima had rallied with amazing composure from being a captive, at least when Perry could see her. He made a point of visiting often, now he lived with Deckard. He and Tucker had found another broke queer kid who needed a cheap room, who'd promised to try to look out for her while living there. They reported that she had darker moments, but they thought she was mostly all right. Mothering them seemed to be doing Mrs. Goshima some good, too. She'd never baked Perry cookies.

A few more strides took Perry around the curve and gave him a view of a familiar van, a huge house with a shiny sedan parked in front, and a clump of people in police uniforms. Deckard was visible over the top of Fong's head and Perry's heart leaped.

Deckard spotted him and waved him over. He was in uniform and Nix wore her vest, so Perry settled for a, "Hi, folks, what's up?" and not the hug he'd have preferred.

Jeffries turned to him. "Oh, yes. Just the man we need."

Perry bit his lip to not grin like a fool over how good that sounded.

"We have a… situation." Jeffries gestured at the car standing on the circular drive in front of the house. "Mayor Kirk pulled her car out of the garage, then saw a plume of smoke coming from the direction of her back yard. She hurried back there to investigate, leaving the car parked and unlocked. The smoke turned out to be a small smoke bomb, like people use for special effects. But when she came back, someone had left a package in her front seat."

"A package? What does Nix think?"

Deckard said, "She didn't signal a find from outside the car, though she was very interested in sniffing around the door. I had to stop her getting her nose too close. There are ribbons running from the top of the box and they might hide trigger-wires leading to the doors. Or the bomb could be vibration sensitive. We haven't dared open the car."

"Ribbons?"

"It's a beautifully tied package," Jeffries said dryly. "Question is, what's inside?"

"I want to help," Perry said, "But I can't work through a window."

"We think we can cut the quarter glass out of the side window to give you access without causing too much vibration. Hopefully."

"I'm ready as soon as I have a line of sight."

"You'll still suit up," Jeffries told him.

Perry made a face, because he wasn't looking forward to the sweatbox, even though the department had bought him his own entire suit, boots included. He'd worn it for one of the previous three calls and he was not a fan.

The lieutenant added, "Sorry. But the cutting could shake something loose or there might be a timer. We're playing it safe."

Perry and Ramirez suited up side by side in the van. Deckard stood next to Perry, helping him with his straps and buckles. Perry could've managed, but he recognized Deck's worried fussing for what it was. He tried to smile reassuringly without seeming sappy. From Fong's smirk, that was a fail, but for Deckard, he'd take some teasing.

When Ramirez was ready, Jeffries opened the back of the van and the bomb tech lumbered down the ramp with a tool kit. But when Perry would've put on his helmet and followed, Jeffries grabbed his arm. "Wait till the glass is cut. No sense risking two."

"That doesn't seem fair," Perry protested.

"He'll concentrate better without you next to him," Deckard pointed out.

Perry knew that was true, but it was still hard to stand around and watch Ramirez walk toward that waiting car. As Ramirez set down the tool case and got out a couple of devices, Perry murmured to Deckard, "How do you guys do this, watching someone else taking those risks?"

Over Deckard's shoulder, Jeffries said, "Meditation, yoga, visualization."

"Really?" Jeffries hadn't seemed like the yoga type.

"Or maybe prayer and a good bottle of booze in the evening."

Deckard gave a hoarse chuckle. "Yeah, that sounds more like us."

Wells had Ramirez's helmet camera view on her screen. Perry turned to watch as Ramirez clamped a suction handle to the windowpane, then took a cutter to the seal around the outside. Nothing happened as he set the blade to the black rubber. Nothing happened as he trimmed around the small triangular window to free the seal, then lifted the glass out of the rim.

They all breathed with relief when Ramirez set the intact pane on the drive behind him and turned to wave.

"Right, Perry, you're up." Jeffries thumped him on the shoulder. "Go easy, don't touch any part of the car, just give us a view inside the box."

"Got it."

Deckard handed Perry his helmet with a steady look. Perry met his gaze. Don't worry. I'll be back demanding a reward kiss in just a few minutes. He licked his dry lips. Deckard brushed the back of Perry's hand with his own and stepped away.

The cool autumn day felt a lot hotter in the sweatbox of his suit as he crunched across the gravel. At least his toes weren't screaming. When he reached Ramirez, he got a thumbs up and a gesture toward the opened window.

Perry bent to peek into the car. On the passenger seat lurked a two-foot square box of white cardboard, pretending to be innocent. A huge red bow with streamers splayed across it. Perry shivered despite the heat, wondering what fiendish triggers that might conceal. He peered closer.

"Are those stains on the bottom?"

"Yeah," Ramirez said.

"Theories?"

Ramirez was a master of the sinister grin behind his faceplate. "You don't want to know."

"Timer may be running, Perry," Jeffries said over the intercom.

Moving forward along the car to get a better angle through the small opening, careful not to touch anything, Perry raised his hand. A remnant of silver nail polish on his thumb glittered in the sun. Tucker had invited him and Deckard to a club the previous weekend, and Perry'd finally dared show up in public in his catsuit, with makeup and nail polish. Fun. Although, the best part had been after he and Deckard got home…

Focus.

He framed the part of the package visible through the opening and murmured, "Transparent."

A wide triangle of the white cardboard faded from view. Through the gap, he saw… "What is that?"

"Manure, I think." Amusement threaded Wells's voice. "Let me magnify."

"Ew." But Perry kept his helmet aimed at the package.

"Possibly bullshit," Wells continued. "But more likely cow shit. I can't promise there's no explosives buried in there. Can you get me a wider visual area?"

"Maybe." He shifted around, moving his angle of view across the box, until he'd cleared a good fraction of the nearer side and top.

"No wires leading to the bow on top," Ramirez noted. "Can't promise about the bottom."

Perry realized making the octopus of ribbons transparent would reveal any wires running under them. By the time he'd done that, with zero hidden wireage, sweat was making his neck itch. Relief flavored the voices of the squad over the intercom.

Jeffries asked, "What do we think, guys, gals, and nonbinary pals?"

Perry heard Deckard murmur, "Decent option, sir," and love for Deck flared like a little sunburst in Perry's chest. How did I get so lucky?

Wells chimed in, "I think we're safe opening the door. No tripwires I can see. Ninety-five percent odds that box is a gift of a non-explosive sort."

Perry said, "If Ramirez opens the door, I can Transparent the rest of the box."

"Do that," Jeffries told them.

Once Ramirez had eased the door wide, Perry used Transparent from every accessible angle, which just showed more manure. The stains crept higher up the sides of the box. Finally, Perry backed away while Ramirez slit the side of the carton with a knife. Dirty straw and poop cascaded out onto the mayor's seat and down to the driveway. The emptying box didn't reveal any explosives.

Perry removed his helmet gratefully, then recoiled. "Oh my god! That reeks!"

Ramirez said, "Maybe I'll keep my helmet on. Although the smell's seeping in."

Jeffries chuckled. "I'll give the mayor the all-clear. Come on back, guys."

"Shouldn't we…?" Perry waved at the mess in the front seat.

"If it doesn't explode, it's not our problem," Jeffries told him. "Your part's done. Come get out of your sweatbox."

Well, Perry didn't need to be told twice. He jogged toward the van, trying not to look clumsy with Ramirez behind him. When they'd stripped out of the suits, Deckard handed Perry a bottle of water. "Here, hydrate."

He tipped it to his lips, swallowed, and almost choked at a thunderous pounding on the van door.

Jeffries opened up and looked out. "Yes, Your Honor?"

"What have you done to my car?" the mayor screeched. "What is that bullshit?"

"Precisely." Jeffries kept his expression admirably calm. "It looks as though the perp didn't want to kill you, just deliver a rather stinky message."

"There was a bomb. My life was at risk." She drew herself up to her full height, which, at five-foot-something-small, and standing on the ground below, brought her about to Jeffries' belly button.

"No, ma'am. Just a package of manure."

The mayor swiveled an icy glare around the interior of the van. "You will all keep this confidential. As far as the press is concerned, there was an incident at my home and the bomb squad was called out. No details are forthcoming. Do I make myself clear? Anyone who blabs differently will find themselves directing traffic for life."

Nix barked at her from Deckard's side. Deckard set a hand on the dog's head.

The mayor huffed, muttered, "This'll cost me a mint," pivoted on her heel, and stomped back toward her manor.

Fong said, "Maybe she can apply to the victims' compensation fund for reimbursement. Wait, no, she can't, because she vetoed the tax that would've supported it."

Wells murmured, "Would be such a shame if the press got, um, wind of this situation."

"Hush," Jeffries told her. "We're under orders."

"She's not the boss of me," Perry pointed out. "I'm an independent contractor."

Deckard hugged him from behind. "Still probably a bad idea."

"I doubt she can keep it quiet," Fong said. "Unless she wants to ship her nice new Mercedes with the custom plates out of state, she'll need to get that car detailed. Fumigated. Whatever. That message was not subtle."

"However it works out, it's not our problem." Jeffries straightened. "Let's head back to base. Perry, do you need a ride?"

"I have my bike." He wanted to offer Deckard a ride, but unless he got a sidecar, they couldn't take Nix.

"See you at home," Deckard murmured. "We're off duty in an hour."

"Yeah. See you." Perry hesitated… but his heart was still pumping from the tension of the almost-bomb and these people were all cheering him and Deckard on. He reached up, grabbed the back of Deckard's head, and pulled him into a fast kiss.

He loved that Deckard didn't resist, just smooched and smiled. "Ride safe."

As Perry jumped out of the back of the van to the ground he heard someone— Fong or Wells, he wasn't sure— say to Deckard, "Aw, poopsie, you're getting laid tonight."

Damned right he is. Or I am. We both are.

The driveway seemed shorter walking the other direction and pretty soon, he was on his bike, heading home. Unlocking the door with his own key and turning off the alarm as he stepped inside was still a moment of, How is this my life? But as he walked through the kitchen, sorting the mail he'd plucked out of the box, the familiar comforts of home soothed him.

He took a short shower, leaving hot water for Deckard, and pulled on sweatpants and a loose T-shirt. Easy access is a thing. The kitchen was currently seafoam green with a deep blue floor, soothing but cool. He switched the walls to a pale sunshiny yellow and turned the tiles a warm caramel brown. At first, he'd figured he'd find what Deckard liked best and keep the house that way, but it turned out Deckard loved mood decorating. For a man who'd lived in black-and-white, Deck sure did love his colors.

And me. He loves me.

Perry dug through the fridge, contemplating dinner, and added a couple of beers to chill. Watching Ramirez working around that bomb had reminded Perry just how hard the observer role was. Deckard deserved a bonus for not reminding Perry to be careful. Hell, Deckard deserved all the good things just for being Deckard.

Perry had a soup slow-cooking by the time the door opened to admit Deckard and Nix. Nix was out of her vest, so when she bounded over and sat up on her hind legs, Perry told her to wave, then gave her a tiny scrap of sausage he'd saved for her.

"Quit spoiling my dog." The smile on Deckard's face as he leaned on the wall watching them didn't match the words.

"Aw, mean Daddy, little poochums loves the treats," Perry cooed. "Anyhow, I used a command first."

Nix, aware he wouldn't give her more sausage, turned a cool look on them and trotted to the door to be let out into the yard.

As Perry closed up after her, Deckard hauled him into a tight hug.

Perry squeaked and breathed, "Hi, there," against Deckard's neck.

"Nix will want some outdoor time." Deckard tilted Perry's chin up for a kiss, then straightened Perry's glasses that he'd knocked askew with his love-squish. "Our bed's just twenty feet away."

"I was making dinner."

"It can wait."

"You smell stinky." Perry sniffed and pretend-wrinkled his nose, even though the scent of Deckard's sweaty skin got him hard faster than almost anything.

"But if I shower now, I'll just have to shower again later." Deckard nipped Perry's earlobe.

"This is true. Quite logical, Captain."

"Sergeant." Deckard stepped back. "Let me stow my gun belt and get out of this uniform and we can get sweaty together."

"I'll turn down the soup and meet you in the sweatarium. That's the bedroom to you guys who insist on real nouns."

"I like your inventive mind."

Deckard disappeared down the hall to disarm and undress and, knowing Deckard, wipe a wet cloth under his arms and around his balls because he didn't seem to believe Perry liked him dirty.

Perry set the soup to a low simmer, peeked out the window to make sure Nix was happy investigating the back yard, then headed to the bedroom.

Deckard lay stretched out on the bed. He'd taken "get out of this uniform" down to the skin, and the sight of a naked Deckard— thick, furry thighs and flat belly, curved biceps and veiny forearms, arrayed for Perry's pleasure— stopped his breath.

"I can do something very inventive with all that." Perry tugged his T-shirt over his head and stalked toward the bed. As he pitched his shirt onto the dresser, a square of white paper fluttered to the ground. Perry bent and picked it up.

SPAM

The reverse said, You have twenty-three training videos cued up in your account. In the next seven days?—

Perry didn't see the rest because he ripped the page in half. Grabbing a waiting pen out of its holder, he scribbled on one half-page under the SP, "I have better things to do with my time." On the other under AM, he wrote, "And if you're watching now, April, you're going to get an ass-first view of one of them." Dropping the torn bits back on the dresser, he stalked toward the bed.

Deckard frowned across the room. "Another love note from SPAM?"

"You'd think they'd get the message by now." Perry would consider helping SPAM if they needed his talents to defeat a real supervillain, but he was not interested in training or paperwork, even if it came in video form.

"How many notes is this?"

"Seven this month. It does worry me that they've started appearing whenever we're about to get busy."

Deckard raised his voice. "Maybe April has a crush on you!"

Perry was probably imagining the nebulous gag sound he heard, as the torn note vanished from view. But he hoped it was real. "Roll over," he told Deckard. "I promised the lady a look at your asshole."

"You don't think she's actually watching?" Deckard turned over as requested.

"I doubt it. With how many superheroes SPAM monitors? Last week alone, the Plaid Piper led a flood of hamsters through Pittsburgh and Climbing Man did a drunken King Kong impersonation on the Empire State Building. As luscious as your ass is, she probably has other work to do."

"Speaking of luscious." Deckard pushed up on one elbow. "When you're done worshiping my ass?—"

"Who said I was going to worship? Maybe I want to color it blue."

"Your talent doesn't work on people."

"Maybe I bought body paint."

Deckard blinked. "Did you?"

"No." Perry grinned. "But it's not off the table."

Deckard smiled, warm and wide and soft. "Ah, hell, I do love you, Peregrine Crawford. You and that inventive mind. But, speaking of luscious, before you end up in my ass I want to suck you."

Perry wasn't sure what he liked more— that smile, or the shine of Deckard's eyes, or the big body laid out for his pleasure. All of him. All is good. He shucked his sweatpants and climbed onto the bed, digging his fingers into the meaty globes of Deckard's ass cheeks, then bent to take a gentle bite. "Sucking me off is a plan I can totally get onboard with," he mumbled against Deckard's warm smooth skin. "But first, lie back down and let me love you."

"Sure thing. I'm yours." Deckard lowered himself flat on the bed.

Perry stretched out over him, skin to skin, and kissed the back of Deckard's neck, thinking about how they'd begun, with explosives and glitter and secrets and loneliness. And yet somehow, from all that mess, Perry had ended up here. He had friends and work he enjoyed and enough confidence to make the Interior Decorator a badge of honor, not a slur. And he had Deckard— this man and this home, and the life and love they were building.

"I think you have a superpower," he murmured into Deckard's hair. "You make me a better person."

"Nothing to do with me," Deckard said into his pillow. "That's all you. Now, speaking of better, maybe a lot less talk and a lot more action? Or do you need a training video for that?"

Perry laughed and nipped Deckard's shoulder. April and SPAM could fuck right off with those training videos. Any spare moment Perry had he was going to spend right here, making sure Deckard knew he was always, eternally, Perry's superhero.

##########the end #########