Free Velveteen vs. the Junior Super Patriots by Seanan McGuire Page B

dating Action Dude, and that was the first cover she’d actually cared for. “Secret Lovers?” said the caption, making her blush all the way down to the tips of her toes. Lovers? Not yet. But . . . maybe.
    Maybe soon.
    She was stretched out on the bed with her chin propped in her hands, watching as Action Dude did one-handed push-ups against the ceiling. They were substantially harder than normal push-ups, he’d confessed to her; gravity kept trying to yank him down to the floor, and the combined strain of staying aloft, pulling himself back to the ceiling with nothing to hold onto, and maintaining proper form was enough to make even him break a sweat. He definitely looked good doing them. Velveteen blushed, burrowing further down under the cape that she was using as a blanket.
    “Aren’t you done yet ?” she called, trying to sound coy. (Privately, she thought it made her sound like she had a head cold. But it was a try, and he’d appreciate that much.) “Girl friend getting cold.”
    “Maybe girlfriend should be dating Heatwave,” said Action Dude, laughing. “Just ten more.”
    “Cut it short and I’ll make it worth your while.”
    “Cut it short and Marketing will cut my recreation time for a month,” he replied. . . but there was a new urgency to his movements as he pulled himself up to the ceiling, pushed down, pulled up. Velveteen smiled lazily, watching him, counting in her head. Her count and his reached ten at the same time, because that time when he pushed away, he didn’t pull himself back up. Instead, he came drifting down to the floor, landing gracefully next to the bed. “Hi.”
    “Hi,” Velveteen said, and pulled back the cape in invitation. “Come on. I’m lonely under here.”
    “I’m sweaty,” he cautioned.
    “I like you sweaty,” she said. After that there was nothing but giggling and snuggles, and feather-light touches under the safety orange Kevlar weave of his cape, where even the in-room security cameras wouldn’t be able to record the location of their hands. They’d been going a little further all the time, feeling out one another’s boundaries as their relationship got more secure. A hand under a uniform strap. A foot hooked around a knee. Fingers slipped beneath utility belts.
    Velveteen’s power set was one that kept her grounded, and she’d always liked it that way. But as Action Dude lowered his mouth to the hollow of her throat, her breath caught, and for just a moment, she believed that she could fly.
    *
    Velma pulled into the Starbucks parking lot approximately seventeen minutes after leaving the Chevron. Locking the car doors, she jammed her keys into her pocket and stalked toward the coffee shop. He won’t be there, she told herself sternly. That was a warning, and they thought you’d play nice if they sent Aaron, but you didn’t. He’s gone back to headquarters by now to report his failure. Yelena’s laughing. She’s saying that she told them so. She’s saying that they were idiots to even try. He won’t be there. Don’t you dare hope, because he won’t be there, just wait. He won’t—
    He was there.
    Like so many career superheroes, Aaron really had no idea how “normal” people dressed when they went out for things like coffee, the newspaper, or donuts. He was dressed like he was on his way to a job interview or a funeral, in a suit that was such a studiedly nondescript gray that it actually demanded further study, just to determine whether or not the wearer was in mourning. His tousled blond curls were slicked into what he clearly thought was a “normal” haircut, and black-framed glasses hid his eyes. Not well. She would have known them anywhere. Behind sunglasses or implanted in a cybernetic killing machine, she would have known them.
    There was a cup in front of his table’s other seat, and a slice of blueberry coffee cake. Velma’s eyes started tearing up again. Wiping them with the back of her hand, she ordered herself firmly not to