Minion

2

Minion wakes up late to cozy shafts of late-morning sunlight and the scent of spices tempering. He smiles, mouth already watering. Then, the hammering starts outside the window.

"Fucking woodpeckers," he mutters, shaking the sheets off.

Crossing the room, he bangs hard on the glass. Three birds startle off the stucco beside the window, tiny balls of floofy feathers scattering into the clear blue sky. Minion squints after them. Unlike that bratty hero last night, these little demons look deceptively innocent when they're flying.

As he puts medicine on his burn, he hums tunelessly. Today he's not even going to open the Henchr app to see who needs help losing to a rookie hero. He's just going to relax. He could watch the latest episode of Ultimate Showdown of Masked Fighting. It's always cathartic to watch self-righteous heroes getting stomped by stronger heroes for a paycheck, even if the whole "guess who's under the mask" part is childishly simple for anyone who knows anything about modern heroes, no matter how elaborate the costumes. Or maybe Dom will want to do something. Maybe she'll be up for a threesome. It's been a while.

A tap comes at the stucco again. Growling, Minion smacks the glass until the bird takes flight.

In the spacious kitchen, Dom sips coffee over the scroll of news on her tablet. "Morning, doll," she says absently, tilting her chin to accept the kiss he drops on top of her head. "Good job last night?"

"I've had better."

She doesn't ask for details, and he doesn't offer. This has been their rule since they stopped working together. Plausible deniability and all that. The only thing that ends a marriage faster than sharing STIs is sharing felonies.

Dom's bowl is already empty. "Oats are still hot," she says, scrolling carefully to avoid her long, pointed nails scratching the screen. Minion serves himself a big bowl of the steaming, fragrantly spiced oats and vegetable mix.

"You wanna do something today, babe?" he asks, sliding into the chair across from her with a suggestive waggle of his thick eyebrows.

"Maybe tomorrow." Dom doesn't look up. "I've got lunch with the girls and I've already gotta cancel my three o'clock at the dungeon 'cause Shan's computer science teacher wants us to come in for a chat."

"What about?" Minion asks. Or tries to ask. His mouth is full of oats upma, so it comes out more like, "Wabbit?" Swallowing, he tries again. "What's the teacher want?"

"They wouldn't say."

"Is our little baby getting in trouble at school?"

Dom sighs. "Don't get your hopes up."

Minion shakes his head. "You're one of the most notorious villains to ever terrorize Big City--" Dom preens at the compliment "—and it used to be that every young villain looking to make a name for themself knew they needed Minion on their team. How'd the two of us end up raising a kid who wants to be an accountant? Everyone else at the henchparent meetups are desperately scheming to get their kids apprenticeships with the big-name villains. Meanwhile, we're going on tours of Ivy League colleges." Minion makes a gagging sound.

Dom pats his hand sympathetically. "It's not our choice, doll. She's her own person and she's gonna go her own way. We need to support her, no matter what."

"Of course I'll support her. That doesn't mean I need to be happy she's wasting all those innate evil instincts to spend her life doing math." Minion shovels the last of the spicy oats into his mouth. "You keep your appointment at the dungeon. I'll meet the teacher."

Dom arches one wickedly pointed eyebrow. "You sure? I don't mind handling the teacher stuff if you've got a job to prep for."

"I'm taking the night off," Minion says, because for some reason I'm thinking about retiring, actually, doesn't seem to want to come out of his mouth. He thumps his broad chest. "Gotta get my dad-time in before she never wants to talk to me again."