The Last Storm Rising

Carefully Chosen Words, Spoken & Silent

Before Reed or Sue could hammer out the details to a solid plan of attack--read: care--Johnny dropped off the face of the planet. Not literally, of course, though he had proven that he was capable of flying past the mesosphere. They knew he was still sleeping at the penthouse, that he did work in his office often, that he still ate some of the food from the shared kitchen. But neither Sue, nor her husband, had seen hide nor tail of her brother. Reed was slightly less concerned by this than Sue was, but it left both of them restless, nonetheless.

Now that they were aware that there was a problem, they wanted to fix it. Sue had always been driven to fix things, especially where Johnny was concerned. And Reed wasn't one to let a puzzle pass him up. Not that Johnny was a puzzle to solve or a problem to fix; no, if anything, they were the problematic puzzle. And it would be a cold day for Johnny when they would give up trying to work this out.

Sue thought that she might have a chance to change things slowly: being responsive instead of reactive. Actively trying not to jump to conclusions, and pass blame--especially when it was unnecessary. She and Reed were hyperaware of Johnny when he was around, and how he responded to them; even if they didn't interact, Johnny was--probably subconsciously--stiff around them. He still held himself with the bravado and swagger they associated with him, but Reed and Sue weren't called geniuses for nothing. The 'cool-and-easy' persona was forced: a habit at best, and a hasty shield at worst.

So they were looking for every opportunity to put him at ease. It seemed to be working, when they had seen him over the last month. But other than the mild uptick in incidents around the city that normally accompanies Halloween, no one living in the penthouse could pin down the human torch. They had all interacted on every mission, and all of them had noted Johnny's Surprising lack of running commentary. He still spoke to them, of course--they needed to keep in contact for safety reasons, at the very least. But the 'normal' sarcastic quips or joking remarks were continually absent.

Ben had been thrilled. He was happy to bring it up, and how nice the new quiet was, in front of Johnny more than once. Whether they were on their way back to the Baxter building or intersecting in the kitchen, Johnny had heard about how great it was that he wasn't talking their ears off anymore. Sue had stiffened at every comment and pinned Johnny with her eyes, just waiting for him to look up and see how she disagreed with Ben's choice of words. But he just left. He went back to his rooms, or took off shortly there after.

And Reed was no better. He got himself stuck in his head trying to work out how to explain which parts he agreed with. And long before he could get them into any semblance of order, Johnny was gone. And Sue was just getting more and more frustrated with the whole situation. Why couldn't Ben back off? Why couldn't he understand? Why couldn't Johnny see that she was trying?

'Are you? What have you said? To Ben? To Johnny?

How can they understand if you don't talk to them?'

'How can I talk to him, if he's never around?' Sue thought to herself, sullenly. She was trying to work through some payments they needed to make to the city, with all of the fuss last week with Halloween. If ever there was a night for all of the crazies to take to the streets en mass, it was that night. But she couldn't quite focus. And it was really starting to annoy.

She glanced up as someone entered the open room, and stiffened slightly as she saw Johnny making his way to the fridge. She consciously relaxed and worked to watch him out of her peripheral, pausing her music but leaving her headphones in. She took him in and smiled softly as she glance back to her computer screen. He was loose, and smiley--almost carefree in a way. He smoothly swept around the kitchen, his back always to her, almost dancing. She took in his voice and almost reached to remove her headphones.