The room’s still got that sterile hospital smell, but today, it feels a bit less oppressive, maybe because Jordan’s finally here. They stand in the doorway for a second too long, like they’re not sure if they’re in the right place, but then our eyes meet, and there’s this awkward sort of half-smile on their face. I try to return it, but I’m pretty sure it comes out more as a grimace. It’s weird, seeing Jordan here, in the flesh, after what feels like forever.
“Hey, Sam,” Jordan says, their voice a little unsure, like they’re testing the waters, seeing if they’re too cold or too hot.
They shuffle closer, hands buried deep in their pockets, and I can’t help but notice how different they look. The last time I saw Jordan, we were… well, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? What matters is they’re here, looking like they’re carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.
I manage a smile, surprised at how my heart leaps at the sight of them. “Jordan,” I breathe out, my voice steadier than I feel. It’s been weeks, maybe more, since we last spoke, the hospital room feeling smaller with them in it. “Hi, Jordan,” I repeat, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. It’s like we’re two strangers trying to figure out how to talk to each other again, except we’re not strangers, or at least, we weren’t.
They step inside, closing the door behind them with a soft click that seems to echo off the sterile walls. We’re both awkward, aware of the gulf the hospitalization has wedged between us, yet there’s an underlying current of relief, a silent acknowledgment that we’re finally bridging that gap.
Jordan breaks the silence first, “I… uh, got us a place. The music hall.” They shuffle their feet, looking everywhere but at me. “After my mom… you know, I talked to the owner. It’s not exactly zoned for living, but it’s ours. For the team.”
My eyebrows shoot up, a mix of surprise and admiration. “You did that?” I can’t help the grin spreading across my face, both at the thought of the music hall becoming our base, but, like, officially, and at Jordan’s initiative. “That’s… incredible, Jordan. Really.”
They finally meet my gaze, a tentative smile tugging at the corners of their mouth. “Yeah, well, we needed a place. And I needed… I needed to make things right, somehow.”
I raise my eyebrow. “You also needed a place. Don’t make it sound like you were doing me some big favor.”
Jordan puts a hand to their hair and squeezes. “But you can live here! When you’re out of the hospital. You know, waiting for them to fix your house.”
I almost feel bad for Jordan. Their eyes have this deep darkness to them, huge bags beneath that I’m not sure are from makeup. “Jordan, my house is almost done.”
“Ah,” they say, almost flinching from it.
“Dude, man,” I say, waving my hand up.
“Neither, but go ahead,” they reply.
I grab my pillow, put it in front of my face, and yell quietly, built up frustration in my throat and in my neck. Not at the gender stuff, just… expelling a lot of Jordan-related emotions at the moment. “It’s April, Jordan.”
“Yeah, I know,” they reply, pretending to not understand why I’m mentioning the date and time.
“My birthday is in two weeks and some change,” I continue.
“Congratulations,” they mumble.
I stare at them, but they look away, towards the ways in which this hospital room has been made mine. A couple of shark plushies, and a larger quantity of dog or wolf related plushies, most of them scattered about the floor or assembled in loose piles near the bottom of my bed. The stacks of textbooks all dog-eared like nobody’s ever going to use them again (and thus the disrespect for the paper is acceptable). My laptop, quietly playing smooth jazz for me, sits on the table positioned next to my bed. So does several packets of jello. Like I mentioned before, I could go several years without eating jello again, but, you know, it’s a flavor.
“It’s not just a base,” Jordan explains, a hint of pride in their voice, trying to change the subject from my obvious implication. “It’s a statement. That we’re not going anywhere, that we’re here to stay.”
I lean back, absorbing the magnitude of what Jordan’s accomplished, not just in terms of logistics but what it signifies for us as a team, as a family forged by choice and circumstance. “You’ve really outdone yourself, you drama… monarch” I say, meaning every word, but unable to stop the sarcasm from dripping out of my throat nonetheless. Is it sarcasm, or is it venom? Either way, I feel bad for it coming out. I can see the wince winding up on Jordan’s face. “I can’t wait to see it, to be there with all of you.”
Jordan’s smile widens as they look away from me, and they nod, their eyes alight with the vision of our future. “Yeah, it’s going to be great, Sam. You’ll see. Once you’re out of here, we’ll make it our fortress, our sanctuary.” Their gaze drifts, lost in their daydream instead of back on Earth, here, doing the important things like “explaining themselves”.
“So, how’d you swing that?” I ask, trying to bring them back down to the ground.
Jordan’s neck snaps back down and they look at me a little funny. “Huh? Swing what?”
“How’d you swing being able to rent the music hall, dummy,” I respond, trying to avoid my initial urge to say dumbass. Therapy has started sanding off all my rough edges. I know it’s probably, like, good for me, but my therapist thinks I should be cussing less. And so does the support group. I remember I barely said fuck this time last year, I thought it was a sacred thing to be reserved for situations like ‘being in life threatening danger’ or ‘stubbing your toe’, but it feels like with the company I’ve been keeping (particularly Playback), my cuss per hour ratio has rapidly accelerated throughout my superhero career.
Ahem.
Anyway.
“Well, I had to track down the guy who owns the place first. You know, good ol’ fashioned detective work, like the kind you… do,” Jordan says, visibly straining not to say ‘used to’. I get it. “Elbow grease and all that. Then I just rung him up and explained the situation. Hey, buddy, it’s me, your squatter. I’ve been cleaning the place up and putting in air filters and solar batteries and shit. Any possibility I can rent from you, because my mom is a spiteful cunt and disowned me and I’m improving your property values for free?”
“And he went for it?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Jordan laughs. “No.”
“Jordan!” I half-shout, but they put their arms up defensively.
“I had to talk them down from a ledge! You know, shit we’re used to. I had to bring out my epic negotiator skills. And offer him a shitload of money, you know, first and last and second-to-last and second and third-to-last on an old, historically significant building – it’s not cheap. Ate a lot of my college fund,” Jordan explains, slowly lowering their hands as they watch my expression. “The guy was really mad that I was squatting but I got through to him. And like I said, it’s not ‘zoned for residency’, whatever that means,”
“My dad would know exactly what that means. You should ask him,” I interrupt.
“Frankly, I’m not interested in getting someone from city hall peeking into my illegal occupancy of a historical monument, dawg,”
I scrunch up my face a little. “Oh, yeah, right. Anyway, zoned for residency.”
“Right. It’s an old, decrepit, busted up building, and even if it wasn’t, it was a music hall, not an apartment complex–” Jordan continues.
I have to interrupt with a joke my Dad told me the other day. “Complex? I actually think it’s an apartment simple, maybe even an apartment easy,”
“Will you let me finish the story, damnit?” Jordan half-shouts, raising their voice and their hands a little in gesticulation. I flinch back with a sheepish smile. I’m not actually afraid Jordan will hurt me – an extremely funny sentence, given how we met, I understand – but I’ve just been jumpier recently. Jumpier since Chernobyl. The person, not the place. Obviously. “Anyway. So, what we’re doing there is still technically illegal, but, like… you know, I’m paying him a lot of money. I have enough saved up for like four months of rent, so either we start kicking butts and reclaiming wealth for the neighborhood again,”
“Extremely unlikely, given my super-cancer,” I joke. When Jordan looks at me with the biggest, wettest eyes I’ve ever seen on a human being, much less a stray dog, it’s my turn to raise my hands up defensively. “I’m fine! I don’t have cancer. Most of the radiation has been purged from my bone marrow from my regeneration. I will probably not get cancer.”
Jordan breathes a sigh of uncomfortable relief. “Or I have to start finding, like, an actual job, and paying actual rent. And doing that while saving up for college. And rent.”
“You said rent twice,” I point out.
“I think about it a lot!” Jordan snaps back. My hands are still up from the cancer quip, so I raise them just a little bit more, like I’m shielding my face. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright, man. So you’re here to slyly ask me to come back into action so that we can steal money from criminals to pay the rent for long enough for you to save up for college and escape the life you’re stuck in?” I ask, trying to dig to the heart of the matter.
“No,” Jordan says extremely defensively, looking away from me and crossing their arms over their chest.
I don’t respond. I just stare at them with an eyebrow cocked. A guaranteed negotiation-killer, courtesy of my father and Pop-Pop Moe. Just stop talking and raise an eyebrow at them.
“Yes,” Jordan exhales, their entire body sagging.
“It sounds like you think of me less of a friend and more of a tool for financial gain,” I blurt out, regurgitating some fears my therapist has been working on. I immediately shoot my hand up to cover my mouth. “That was a joke.”
Jordan stares at me like I just called them the nastiest thing I could think of. There’s about a minute of silence as Jordan formulates how to respond. I’m prepared, fully, for the consequences of my actions. Either Jordan slaps me, or I’m about to get an earful.
Instead, what comes out is; “Sam, that would be really hurtful if it wasn’t partially true,” they say back, and we both burst into awkward, but genuine laughter. As each chuckle and chortle comes out, it becomes a little less awkward and a little more genuine, until we’re both wheezing with hysterical ha-has.
It feels good.
Eventually, we calm down, after what feels like forever but is probably five minutes. I break the resulting silence first, since I know the no-talking chicken could last forever. “It’s good to see you again. And I’m glad we have our base, for however long that is.”
“Yeah,” Jordan replies. “You too,” they breathe out. As our time together draws to a close, Jordan stands, their chair scraping softly against the floor. “I should let you rest,” they say, though it’s clear neither of us wants to end this moment of reconstruction.
“Thanks for coming, Jordan. Really,” I tell them, my gratitude deep and genuine. “It means a lot.”
They nod, a silent… something hanging in the air between us. “I’ll be back soon, Sam. We’ll all be waiting for you.”
Jordan lingers by the door, their hand resting on the handle, but they don’t turn it. Instead, they pivot back toward me, the weight of unsaid things hanging between us like a tangible force. “Sam, there’s something I’ve got to say,” Jordan starts, their voice laced with a heaviness that immediately draws my attention. I raise the eyebrow again, but try to do it in a way that’s a little less accusatory.
I straighten up, sensing the shift in the air, the mood turning more solemn. “What’s up?” I ask, my earlier amusement fading into concern.
“It’s about… after Chernobyl – sorry, Illya. After I saved you,” Jordan pauses, struggling to find the words. “I felt so guilty, Sam. For leaving you at the hospital, for not being there when you probably needed me the most.” They look away, unable to meet my gaze, their admission hanging in the air.
I’m taken aback, confusion knitting my brows together. “But why, Jordan? You saved my life. Why would you feel guilty about that?” It doesn’t make sense to me. I mean, I have a vague recollection of them being there while I was out for two weeks, but really, vanishing afterwards just felt like… I don’t know. It felt like a very Jordan thing to do, despite being extremely upsetting.
Jordan takes a deep breath, finally turning to face me again, their expression a mix of frustration and sorrow. “I don’t know, Sam. I honestly don’t. It was like… everything was too much, too real. I was scared,” they admit, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Scared of seeing you hurt, scared of what it meant that I couldn’t protect you from that. You’re one of my best friends. You’re definitely my best superpower friend.”
“Not Spinelli?” I ask, quirking the eyebrow with slightly more accusatory power this time.
“Boyfriend does not equal best friend, loser,” Jordan replies, reaching in to give me a noogie, only to falter mid-reach at my tiny little buzz cut of hair. It’s started growing back! Barely. For a moment, we just sit in silence, each lost in our own reflections on the events that have so fundamentally altered our lives. Jordan’s hand lowers. “Sorry, I’m being gay. Like in the 2002 way of it,”
“I don’t know what that means but I’m not going to question it,” I mumble. There’s another couple minutes of uncomfortable silence, Jordan’s hand just getting sweaty against the door handle. “I get it,” I finally say, my voice soft, but firm. “I’ve been living with all the guilt too. You know I was there with… Diane. I don’t want you to feel like you have to shoulder the same feelings. It’s alright,” I want them to understand, to really hear me and know that this bond we share, it’s stronger than the trauma, stronger than the fear. “We’ve been through a lot together, man. It’s okay. Just… text me next time that you’re alive.”
“Were you worried about me?” Jordan replies, cracking the tiniest of smiles.
“Yes, you doofus!” I half-shout, throwing a plushie at them. “You go radio silent, I see Spinelli like once a month and, by the way, he’s getting ripped, and, like… people stopped visiting me, man.”
I look away, because saying it out loud suddenly makes it hurt, like a knife to the chest. Maybe more. “People feel really bad when you just come out of a coma. But they don’t feel nearly as bad the next couple of weeks after. I really hated the pity party, but then, I really missed it. And you… just weren’t there, man. I thought you just got bored of me.”
“Never. You’re far too stupid to be boring,” Jordan jokes, but I’m not having it.
“Take this seriously, Jordan,” I sort-of-order them. “I nearly died. And you and Spinelli saved me. And then you just vanished, and you stopped answering my texts, and you stopped talking in the HIRC chat, and it’s not like I can tell my parents hey, can you go check in on the abandoned music hall a neighborhood or two over, just while you’re here in a hotel two blocks away from me so you can make sure I’m not dying of super-cancer. Huh? No reason, I just have a friend squatting there that I want to make sure isn’t dead. You fucking dumbass, didn’t you think I’d be worried about you too?”
Jordan nods slowly, a tentative smile beginning to form. “Sorry. I didn’t get bored of you,”
“I KNOW!” I shout, for real, this time a full shout. Jordan wobbles back like an industrial fan just shot out a puff of air across their wiry body. “It’s just… like… people stop leaving flowers. And I wanted to make sure my best friend didn’t get killed by the supervillain mafia! And had a stable living situation! You’re like a sister to me, man. Or a brother. A sister-brother.”
“You can just say sibling,” Jordan chuckles in between tears, wiping their face with one finger, wrapped up underneath their sweater. A sweater? In this heat? Whatever. “And thanks, I’m friendifying you too.”
“This is not the part where we tearfully start making out, no,” I reply, turning around to make sure that I’m not being heard by anyone other than the intended target. I feel a surge of paranoia run through my shoulderblades, and whip my head around to face the window. Then, I raech over to shut the curtains. “No, the curtains shutting do not change that.”
“You’re not my type, Sam. Too girly,” Jordan jokes, trying to break the skin of tension that’s formed like a weird pudding skin across my hospital chocolate puddings, of which I desperately need more of.
“I’m too girly?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes. You’re a girl. I’m not into girls. And you’re too femmy for me even if I was,” Jordan replies like it’s the most normal thing to say in the world, hand flipping outward in a dismissive gesture.
“I’m too femme?” I ask again, in mild disbelief.
Jordan leans in a little closer. “Did I stutter?”
I sit back, mock-offended. “Whatever. Anyway.”
“Anyway,” Jordan chirps. “Sure you don’t want to make out?”
“Jordan!” I hiss, swatting their hands with my own. Oh! Note to self – my nails have grown back. They’re all nice and even now. I honestly didn’t even notice until now. Yay!
Then, it’s quiet. Jordan sitting on the guest chair, me sitting in my hospital bed, the light slowly getting dimmer outside as the sun goes down. Streetlights flickering on one by one. We don’t do much, for a couple of minutes. Then, those minutes stretch out into an hour or so. We sit together in a silence that’s no longer uncomfortable but filled with a sense of mutual understanding and reassurance. It’s not a complete resolution, but it’s a step, a moment of connection that reminds us why we’re not just teammates but friends.
In the newfound quiet of the room, Jordan and I share a glance, an unspoken understanding passing between us. It’s as though the room itself breathes a sigh of relief, the walls echoing back our silent agreement to move forward, not just as individuals, but together.
“Looking back,” Jordan begins again, their voice steadier now, but sounding scratchy for a second until they swallow, to freshly lubricate their throat with spit, “I think I was overwhelmed. Not just by what happened, but by the fear of losing you, of losing any of you. And somehow, distancing myself felt like the only way to handle it.” Their hands clench and unclench as they talk like they’re milking the invisible cow. But I won’t mention any of the melodrama, because G-d, does it feel like my life has been sort of a soap opera all of a sudden.
I nod, feeling a pang of empathy. “I can’t pretend to fully understand, Jordan, but I do know what it’s like to be scared,” I say, throwing my hands around in a circle, gesturing at the hospital room around me. “It’s been, you know… it’s been a crazy couple of weeks! Couple of months, really. I haven’t seen the inside of a school building since the winter. And my parents are back in Philly and even though they have a security detail I’m scared, you know? We’re all scared.”
“Right,” Jordan agrees, a small but genuine smile breaking through.
“But we don’t have to be scared alone. We can be scared together,” I continue, cracking a grin, all my shark teeth interlocking. “You know, like we’re watching a horror movie. Scared together.”
“Stronger together,” they say. It feels like a vow, a commitment to not just the idea of us as a team, but as a family of sorts, bound not by blood but by choice and circumstance. “When’d you learn to be such a philosopher?”
My answer is blunt and unambiguous. “Group therapy.”
Jordan laughs. “Really? You go to group therapy now? Doggirls Anonymous?”
I scrumple my brow up. You know, scrumple. Not really a better word for it. “First off, it’s shark powers and you know that. Secondly, yes, I go to group therapy now. I go to a lot of therapy. Mental, physical, and I’d say spiritual but I’ve only seen a Rabbi like… twice while I was in here so I can’t exactly say it was regular.”
“Doesn’t your Pop-Pop Moe count as a Rabbi?” Jordan asks, leaning back in their uncomfortable guest chair, stretching their legs out. “I thought he was all about dispensing old Jewish wisdom.”
“Well, no, it’s a thing you have to study for. And like… get a degree, I think,” I answer. Truthfully, I’m not sure if Pop-Pop Moe is a secret Rabbi or not, but the thought of him dressed as one sure is making me giggle a little bit internally.
Jordan chuckles. “A degree in Rabbiology.”
“You mean Religious Studies?” I correct them.
Jordan’s face goes blank for a moment. “Ah, right. Forgot that existed. But tell me about group therapy! Is it like… a support group for traumatized superheroes?”
I blink at them a couple of times. “Yes.”
“Shit, really? I was joking,” Jordan mumbles sheepishly.
“I mean, traumatized superhumans, but, yes. As far as I know I’m the only one there that’s, like, an actual superhero. The rest of them are just civilians that have superpowers and just, like, don’t use them for superheroics. Which,” I start talking, stopping to wave my hand in front of my face like I’m dispelling a bad odor. “Let’s not get too deep into that. I’m sure you’ve had enough philosophy for one day.”
“You’re damn right, give me the gossip,” Jordan cheers.
“Okay, Yenta,” I start, ignoring Jordan’s pointed look of confusion. “Ethan, Zara, Tara, Derek, Liam, Marcus, and Nina. Ethan has super-reflexes, Zara has some form of ESP, Tara can do something with heat, Liam I’m not really sure, Marcus can create small time loops, and Nina generates, uh… what are they called, EMPs. Electromagnetic–“
“Yeah, yeah, I know what an EMP is. Tell me about Derek. You left him out on purpose to get my attention on the missing man out,” Jordan says, catching me by surprise by my metaphorical ankle like a bear trap snapping shut.
“Damn, at least let me play up the suspense. Jeez,” I wave my hands around, wearing an exaggerated frown. “Derek is an asshole.”
“As his superpower? Because that’s sort of my superpower and I don’t really do doubles,” Jordan cracks.
“No, I mean… I have no idea what his superpower is. Or anything about him besides that he’s a huge douchebag. He dresses like the Columbine dudes,” I start, leading to a pained wince from Jordan. “He doesn’t say anything and when he does say something it’s always some sort of like, snarky comeback that I’m sure sounds cool in his head but just makes him sound like a tool, and he always leaves 30 minutes early. Which, like, fine, whatever, but he’s always like ‘I’m done here’,” I say, trying to imitate his voice to draw a laugh out of Jordan (it works), “and makes, like, a show of it. He wears a leather trenchcoat.”
“Like Keanu Reeves in the Matrix?” Jordan asks, their eyes alight with some sort of sparkle that I do not understand.
“Like Keanu Reeves if he had orange hair and freckles and also was a huge dork with no personability at all. So, yes. Like Keanu Reeves in the Matrix,” I say, watching with no small amount of amusement as all that sparkle leaves Jordan’s eyes in a second. I have no idea what it was, and, really, I don’t want to ask.
“So, obviously, the mystique has you going absolutely insane, right? Like totally apeshit–“
“YES! UGH!” I groan, punching one of my plushies. “I hate him so much. He’s so cocky but in a way that’s totally not cool at all. I’ve never once felt the need to bully someone… well, that’s not true, but that was to escape torture, so–“
Jordan interrupts my interruption. “Come again?”
“Long story, I’ll tell you later. Anyway, like I was saying, I have never felt the need to bully someone before but I really need to give this guy the swirlie of a lifetime. He’s just so… cocky! And dismissive! And cocky! And like… rude and brusque. And gruff. And just a dick,” I say, sighing, my entire body sagging as I run out of synonyms. That’s not true, I just got tired of speaking. My throat hurts, so I reach over to sip on my provided water cup.
“Cool it on the thesaurus, daughter of a librarian,” Jordan teases, flicking my nose. I scrunch my face up in slight pain and flick them back. They don’t even flinch. “But I get it. There’s nothing more annoying than an impenetrable wall.”
“Yeah. I need to figure out what his deal is,” I grumble, looking back at the window, expecting to see the city but only being greeted by curtains. Augh.
“Want me to tail him?” Jordan throws into the conversation, nonchalant, like it’s not a big deal. I whip my head around so fast that my neck cracks, and I see stars for a second – ten of them later, and Jordan’s helping me up after I’ve fallen just totally down, losing all muscle tone for a moment. That was… unpleasant. “I’m serious,”
“Jordan, that’s illegal. And weird,” I remind them.
“I’m not a superhero, remember?” they remind me. “Antihero at best. Well-intentioned supervillain at worst.”
“The only person you’re fooling with that sort of shit is yourself, you big sap,” I counter, reaching out to mess up Jordan’s crinkly, slightly-gelled hair. I don’t comment on it, just filing it away into my mental filing cabinet – Jordan got dolled up a little to come see me. Implications? Unsure. “You’re a superhero through and through. I remember that shit you said to your mom. You aren’t fooling anyone.”
“FINE, I’m a superhero, you got me. But not the cop kind, which is why I can still tail someone and not feel bad about it. I don’t have scruples, Sam!” Jordan points out. “We’ve been robbing criminals to get by! I’ve been illegally squatting for months! I’m not exactly what you’d call a model citizen.”
“Do what you want,” I say, trying to dismiss the conversation entirely. “I know I can’t really stop you from here.”
Jordan laughs. “True, but I’d listen to you if you told me not to,”
I stare at the curtains. Jordan looks at me, I can see that much in my periphery. The minutes drag on with the ticking of the clock on the wall, tick, tock, tick. I watch the sliver of moonlight starting to stretch out from between the curtains on the windows. Every second that passes, my refusal to answer becomes more pointed.
It takes me about a minute to figure out how to respond. “Just… make sure he’s not a serial killer, but don’t break into his house, okay? I already feel gross saying that.”
“Because you’re trying to come up with a good excuse to make it not sound like you want to spy on him purely out of self-interest?” Jordan jabs, making my heart skip two beats.
“Stop doing that!” I semi-yell.
“Reading you?” they ask.
“Yes!”
“No, el oh el,” Jordan responds, scrubbing their palm and fingerpads over my prickly, prickly scalp. “But I know how you really feel, so don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything. I know your precious little superhero heart couldn’t justify spying on someone based on a hunch, you good samaritan, you.”
A sigh builds up in my chest and explodes outwards, as my body flops onto the bed. All the talking has worn me out – most of the time, I’m just listening. “Do what you want, Jor.”
Jordan reaches down and pulls me into a loose hug. It lasts for another couple of minutes, and about halfway through, I reach up enough to hug them back. “You’re a good person, Sam. And a good friend. And I’m sorry for being a shitty one,”
I thump them on the back twice, hard enough to make them cough. “We’re even. Don’t worry about it.”
They pull away from me, gathering their bookbags and other sundries from the floor and slinging them around their shoulders. “I’ll be back tomorrow, or whatever. Okay? Don’t go getting mega-ultra-cancer overnight and dying on me, or I’ll be really mad.”
I can’t help but smile as they turn around and head towards the door of my hospital room. “I make no promises,”
“Good. Promises are stupid,” they reply.
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