"Don't tell Stark. You know what I mean," Solomon said to Natasha Romanoff as they prepared to part ways. "If you let that guy run wild, he'll drag me to some noisy bar, order me round after round of non-alcoholic drinks, then get plastered himself and puke on his own pants. Or worse, he might take me to see overweight Hawaiian dancers, where he'll party, drink, smoke weed, get plastered, and—yes—puke on his own pants. Worst case scenario? He takes me to Las Vegas, blows millions of dollars in one night, treats everyone to drinks, and, again, ends up puking on his pants."
"Why do all your scenarios end with him puking on his pants?" Natasha asked, laughing.
"Because I'll make sure that's how it ends," Solomon replied dryly. "Honestly, I'm not sure if Nick Fury's brain is working. He thinks I have severe psychological problems, so he sent Steve Rogers to 'help' me. When that didn't work, he turned to Tony Stark. Stark's antics are tolerable, but Captain Rogers? He'd probably sign me up for the Boy Scouts, some weird Catholic group, or, God forbid, one of those organizations infamous for… unsavory scandals. Or maybe he'd have me watch some local church TV programs. What else could he do? Teach me boxing? He'd probably lose to me. Or should I get divine permission for every little thing I do?"
"Rogers isn't as uptight as you think," Natasha replied, amused. "He's just struggling to find his place in this era. It's not easy for him to adjust to peacetime. Back in his day, those organizations weren't as bad as they are now. Also, he's not as strict about faith as you think. He doesn't care about religious differences."
"Priests liking little boys has been around for centuries. Why would American priests be any better? I doubt Protestant churches are much different from the Roman Catholic ones. And me? I'm irreligious. Screw God. I've got a score to settle with Him anyway! I don't even know if my biological father is that guy! Honestly, if my dad turned out to be some criminal in a jail cell, it'd be better than this mess. F*ck! Everyone's life is torment. Sometimes, I wish I hadn't been born!" Solomon vented, downing his tea in one gulp. His frustration eased slightly as he gazed into Natasha's beautiful green eyes, slowly calming down.
She met his gaze, as if trying to discern something.
"And what about you, Natasha?" Solomon asked. "Have you recovered? Did Nick Fury get you a therapist?"
"No," Natasha replied, her smile fading. She shrugged and pretended not to care, staring into her teacup. "But I'm a spy. I can handle little problems like that."
"Hmph. Guess I'm more dangerous than you are; otherwise, Fury wouldn't be so on edge. As for you, poor Natasha, you still haven't pieced your shattered psyche back together. At this rate, you'll end up with a split personality," Solomon said bluntly.
Natasha shrugged again, feigning indifference. Even if she did care, she wouldn't show it. Solomon had no way of knowing what she truly thought. He was polite enough not to use magic to pry into someone else's mind over such matters.
"Okay, let's leave it at that," Solomon said, sensing she didn't want to delve deeper. "To hell with Boy Scouts, to hell with bars. I've never been, and I don't want to go. I hate American life—the endless parties, drinking, weed, tattoos, the constant noise. It's exhausting. I always thought Americans had a switch on their backs. Press it, and they laugh uncontrollably. Press it again, and they throw a fit. Press it a few more times, and they develop some bizarre psychological disorder. Ever heard of 'stranger anxiety disorder'?
Ha! I bet their brains aren't even as good as a difference engine! And Nick Fury? I wonder if he can even do basic arithmetic. If I really caused trouble, he'd be dead already. As for Alexander Pierce, someday I'll strangle him with his own intestines. Tell Fury this: if he keeps disturbing my quiet life, I'll crack open his skull. He won't die, but he'll be quiet for a while until S.H.I.E.L.D. fixes him up."
Talking smack about superiors always lightened the mood. The shift in topic, combined with the delicious food, made Natasha visibly relax again. She cut a small piece of syrup-drenched pancake from Solomon's plate, popped it into her mouth, and gave him a playful wink. Her mood swung quickly, as it often did during missions—a symptom of her fragmented psyche. Every word she said felt true to her, making her immune to lie detectors.
"You wouldn't come asking for my help without bringing a gift," Natasha said, extending her hand. "I know you, Solomon. You prepare for everything. Where's the gift, little gentleman?"
"Of course," Solomon replied. He took a shoebox from Dana, his homunculus. Opening it, he revealed a pair of elegant suede high heels adorned with minimalist bows. "Salvatore Ferragamo heels, crafted with silk-blend uppers, grosgrain trim, and water-snake detailing. These are for you, Natasha."
"How much did they cost?" Natasha asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Not much. $1,400. Just a roadside purchase," Solomon said nonchalantly. "Dollars are just paper to me. I'm glad those scraps of trash can be useful for once."
"You've got quite the sweet tongue."
"You spent $1,400," Jeanne said, sitting at the dining table with a pair of glasses perched on her nose. She held a ledger and pencil, meticulously jotting down notes. On her lap lay the Cheshire Cat, sprawled out and motionless, seemingly enjoying a nap. Since its spa trip, the cat had developed a taste for luxury. Solomon couldn't tell whether it enjoyed the soft music, the pleasant aromas, or simply having cucumber slices on its eyes. Whatever the reason, its coat now gleamed, and it clung to Jeanne more than ever, having apparently forgotten who sent it to the vet in the first place.
"What did you buy?" Jeanne asked, pointing the pencil at Solomon like a rapier. Her question was as sharp as her tone. On the couch, Bayonetta remained an amused spectator, enjoying the drama. This was a typical occurrence in their three-person household—a family spat that always left one person free to enjoy the show.
"A gift," Solomon replied with a smile. "A gift expense."
"What kind of gift costs $1,400? I know you don't care about dollars, but that's my paycheck. I put that money into our household fund!" Jeanne's irritation made the Cheshire Cat lift its head curiously before licking her fingers.
"And I pay the utility bills for this apartment," Solomon countered calmly. "Neither you nor Bayonetta bother with those details."
"My dear Jeanne, why don't you just use my bank card? You know the numbers on it—I don't even bother keeping track. You're the one managing our accounts. Also, it's me who attends the community meetings. Just saying."
"That's your money!"
"It's our money. It's meant to cover my expenses in the mundane world. Do you think I care about it? We're a family—you said it, Bayonetta said it, and I believe it too. A family shares everything. Feel free to enjoy my account balance however you like."
"Exactly," Bayonetta chimed in, fanning the flames. "Why not accept the boy's generosity, Jeanne?"
"You haven't even married him yet, Bayonetta!"
"That's happening soon enough, darling Jeanne," Bayonetta replied slyly. "It's only a matter of ten years or so. But before that, we'd love to hear what Athena told you during your little spa day."
"I…" Jeanne stammered.
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