Charlie vs the Union of Doom - 3. Chapter 3: The Aloe, the Duck, and the Infiltration

The Caribbean sun was no longer a celestial marvel; it was a personal insult.

Pip sat on the edge of the plush, absurdly high-thread-count bed in their premium villa, staring down at his legs. For twelve thousand years, his physical form had been an indestructible, self-maintaining vessel of divine grace. He had stood in the fires of Gomorrah and felt only a pleasant warmth. He had waded through the icy depths of the ninth circle of Hell and never once shivered. His skin was supposed to radiate an inner, golden light, untouched by the mundane decay of the mortal coil.

Currently, his skin looked like a hastily boiled lobster, and it was peeling in flakes that resembled stale pastry crust.

"I am molting," Pip whispered, his voice cracking with dry, raspy horror. "I am shedding my epidermal layer like a common reptile. This is the end of all things."

Charlie stood in the doorway of the bedroom, leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed. He was wearing a plain grey t-shirt and board shorts, looking entirely too comfortable for a man sharing a room with a decaying angel. Charlie’s undead physiology meant he didn't burn, didn't sweat, and didn't particularly care about the humidity. He just existed, cool and collected, while Pip actively disintegrated.

"You're not molting, you drama queen," Charlie said, though his voice lacked its usual sharp edge. There was a softness to it, a bemused fondness that he was trying very hard to suppress. "You have a sunburn. A really, really bad sunburn. Because you decided to stand outside and yell at a tour guide without your divine SPF."

"I was defending your honor!" Pip protested, trying to stand up and immediately wincing as the angry red skin behind his knees stretched tight. "Ow. Ow. Mother of all creation, why do mortals build joints that require lubrication? Everything squeaks. I feel like an un-oiled door hinge."

"You feel like a guy who needs aloe vera," Charlie corrected. He walked into the room, abandoning his casual lean. He picked up Pip's discarded, slightly damp shirt from the floor and tossed it gently onto a chair. "Come on. Get up. We're going into town."

Pip eyed him warily. "Town? In the sun? The sun is my enemy now, Charlie. It hates me. I can feel it plotting against me through the window."

"The town has pharmacies. Pharmacies have after-sun lotion, painkillers, and hats," Charlie explained, reaching out to grasp Pip’s forearm. He was careful to hold him by the wrist, avoiding the worst of the crimson burn that painted Pip’s shoulders. "You can't just sit in the villa and wait for your grace to magically un-jam itself. We have to do mortal maintenance."

Pip let himself be pulled to his feet. Charlie’s hand was cool against his overheated skin, a grounding point in a body that suddenly felt entirely alien and fragile. Pip looked at Charlie—really looked at him. At the messy dark hair, the sharp jawline, the dark eyes that were currently devoid of their usual guarded cynicism.

Pip had spent months operating under the "bro with benefits" protocol. It was easy. It was safe. He would drop by, flash a smile, offer a flawless vegan fritter, and they would tumble into bed for mutual relief. Pip had always been the invulnerable one, the ancient being dropping down to the mortal plane for a bit of fun. He was the one who provided protection, who lawyered up in demonic court, who opened tears in reality.

But right now, shivering in a climate-controlled villa with a stubbed toe and peeling shoulders, Pip had absolutely nothing to offer. He was useless. He was worse than useless; he was a liability.

And yet, Charlie was looking at him like he mattered. Not like a tool, not like a bodyguard, not even like a casual hookup. Charlie was looking at him like a person who needed taking care of, and Charlie—who had spent his entire life taking care of everyone else—was stepping up to do it without a second thought.

"Okay," Pip muttered, swallowing past the sudden, thick lump in his throat. "Okay. To town. For... mortal maintenance."

"That's the spirit," Charlie grinned. "Put a shirt on. A loose one. And brace yourself, because the humidity out there is going to feel like walking into a dog's mouth."

Ten minutes later, they were trudging down the paved, palm-lined path that led from the Emerald Vista Resort to the small, vibrant local town that bordered the property. Charlie had been entirely correct about the humidity. It was oppressive, thick with the scent of salt, overripe mangoes, and damp asphalt.

Pip was wearing one of Charlie’s oversized, faded band t-shirts. The soft cotton still felt like sandpaper against his scorched shoulders. Every step sent a jolt of dull pain up his leg from where he’d kicked the brass towel rack. He was sweating profusely, a biological function that he found deeply insulting.

"I don't understand how you people do this," Pip complained, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. "You just... walk around. Constantly decaying. Constantly leaking fluids. Constantly aware of gravity. It's a logistical nightmare."

"You get used to it," Charlie chuckled, matching his pace to Pip’s slower, gingerly hobble. "Well, I mean, I don't anymore, because I'm technically dead, but I remember it. You have to stay hydrated. Drink water."

"Water is for fish," Pip grumbled. "And for punishing sinners in the Great Flood. It is not for internal consumption."

"If you don't drink water, you'll pass out, and I am not carrying you back to the resort," Charlie threatened playfully. He bumped his shoulder gently against Pip’s unharmed bicep. "Just survive for five more minutes. The pharmacy is right up ahead."

The local town was a chaotic, colorful cluster of brightly painted stucco buildings, open-air markets, and bustling tourists. Reggae music drifted from a nearby bar, mixing with the sound of moped engines and the squawking of gulls. Charlie navigated the crowds with practiced ease, carving a path for Pip, acting as a physical shield against the wandering elbows of oblivious vacationers.

They stepped into the local farmacia, and the blast of heavily industrialized air conditioning hit Pip like a blessing from the Almighty. He groaned in absolute relief, sagging against a display rack of cheap sunglasses.

"Sweet, merciful refrigeration," Pip whispered, closing his eyes. "I take back everything bad I ever said about human engineering. This is divine."

"Don't lean on the merchandise, buddy," Charlie laughed, grabbing a small plastic shopping basket. "Stay here in the cool air. I'm going to hunt down the first aid aisle."

Pip opened his eyes and watched Charlie walk away. He watched the way Charlie moved—confident, grounded, utterly unbothered by the chaos of the world around him. Pip felt that terrifying, wonderful flutter in his chest again. It wasn't the thrill of a casual hookup. It was a deep, resonating ache. He wanted to be the one Charlie relied on. He wanted to be the one who made Charlie smile like that all the time. But how was he supposed to earn that when he couldn't even handle a UV index of 8 without literally falling apart?

Charlie returned a few minutes later, the plastic basket loaded with supplies. He had three bottles of aloe vera gel (one green, one clear, and one infused with lidocaine), a tube of SPF 100 sunscreen that looked like it belonged on a hazardous materials manifest, a large bottle of electrolyte water, and, resting on top of it all, a hat.

It wasn't just a hat. It was a baseball cap with the words Cape Verde Pride 2019 on it.

Pip stared at it in horror. "Charlie. No. Absolutely not."

"Charlie, yes," Charlie corrected, pulling the hat from the basket and brandishing it like a weapon. "You have no celestial protection, Pip. Your face is the color of a stop sign. You are wearing the hat."

"I am a warrior of the heavenly host! I stood at the gates of Eden with a flaming sword! I cannot wear a seven year out-of-date Pride cap, I’ll look like a frat boy!"

"You are currently a sunburned tourist who lost a fight with a towel rack," Charlie reminded him without an ounce of pity. He stepped close, raising the hat. "Duck."

Pip glared, but he obediently lowered his head. Charlie settled the out of date hat onto Pip’s golden hair, adjusting the brim so it cast a wide, cooling shadow over his face and neck.

Charlie stepped back to admire his work. The turquoise straw clashed horribly with the faded black band t-shirt. The rainbow looked utterly absurd framing Pip’s ancient, patrician features.

Charlie burst out laughing. It was a genuine, bright sound that echoed through the quiet aisles of the pharmacy.

"You look ridiculous," Charlie wheezed, covering his mouth. "You look like a closeted frat bro on a cruise to Boca Raton."

Pip scowled, adjusting the brim. But looking at Charlie—seeing him actually laugh, free from the stress of demons, custody battles, and apocalypses—Pip couldn't maintain his anger. A small, self-deprecating smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"If any of my siblings see me like this," Pip muttered, "I will be laughed out of the Silver City for the next three eons."

"Your secret is safe with me, Boca," Charlie grinned, turning to head for the checkout counter.

They paid for the supplies and retreated to a small, shaded courtyard just outside the pharmacy. A massive banyan tree provided a thick canopy of shade, and a wrought-iron bench sat invitingly beneath it.

"Sit," Charlie ordered, popping the cap off the bottle of lidocaine-infused aloe vera.

Pip sat heavily on the bench, pulling the ridiculous hat off his head and resting it on his knees. He winced as his shirt rubbed against his back.

"Take the shirt off," Charlie instructed gently, stepping behind the bench. "Let's get this on you before you actually burst into flames."

Pip hesitated. For twelve millennia, his body had been a flawless instrument. Taking his shirt off in front of Charlie usually led to very specific, highly enjoyable physical activities. But right now, stripping off the cotton tee felt incredibly exposing. He was blistered. He was peeling. He was flawed.

Slowly, awkwardly, Pip pulled the shirt over his head, biting his lip to stifle a groan as the fabric dragged over his shoulders.

He sat there, bare-chested in the humid air, feeling entirely too fragile.

Charlie didn't make a joke. He didn't mock the bright red skin or the flaking patches. He just squeezed a generous amount of the cold, green gel into his hands, rubbed his palms together, and placed them gently onto Pip’s shoulders.

Pip let out a sharp hiss, his back arching instinctively.

"Sorry, sorry," Charlie murmured, his voice dropping to a soft, soothing cadence. "I know it's cold. Just breathe. It'll numb the burn in a second."

Charlie’s hands moved with practiced, incredible gentleness. He spread the aloe across Pip’s shoulders, working it down his spine, over his shoulder blades, and up the back of his neck. His touch was feather-light, completely avoiding any pressure that would cause pain, but firm enough to ensure the soothing gel coated every inch of the damaged skin.

Pip closed his eyes, leaning his head forward. The contrast between the fiery, agonizing heat of the sunburn and the cool, numbing relief of the aloe was intoxicating. But more than that, it was the touch itself.

Human physiology was intensely responsive to touch, and the way Charlie’s hands were gliding over his back muscles, Pip was very aware that he had the biggest erection of his 12,000 year life.

He groaned, knowing that much more and he’d have a real problem on his hands down below. But the intensity of it was intoxicating.

Charlie wasn't rushing. He was taking his time, his fingers tracing the topography of Pip's back with a quiet reverence. It was sexual, but it was also intimate in a way that terrified Pip down to his very core.

"You're very good at this," Pip whispered, his voice sounding entirely too fragile.

"I spent my entire childhood patching up scraped knees and sunburns," Charlie replied softly, his thumbs working small circles at the base of Pip's neck. "My dad used to fall asleep by the pool every summer and wake up looking like a cooked prawn. I've had practice."

Pip let out a small, breathless chuckle. He kept his eyes closed, soaking in the sensation of Charlie’s hands on his skin.

"Charlie," Pip started, the word catching in his throat. He wanted to say it. He wanted to say I want to be more than a convenient distraction. I want to be the guy you patch up forever. I want to earn you.

"Yeah?" Charlie asked, his hands pausing at the center of Pip's back.

Pip opened his mouth. The vulnerability of mortality was seeping into his mind, breaking down the ancient, celestial walls he used to keep everyone at arm's length. He took a breath.

"I..." Pip swallowed. "I hate being mortal. But... I don't hate this. Having you... take care of me."

It was as close to a confession as he could manage.

The courtyard was quiet, save for the distant sound of the ocean and the rustle of the banyan leaves. Charlie’s hands remained still on Pip’s back for a long, heavy moment.

Then, Charlie slowly removed his hands, wiping the excess gel on a napkin. He cleared his throat.

"Well," Charlie said, his voice a fraction higher than normal, completely deflecting the weight of Pip's words. "That's what bros are for, right? Gotta keep my favorite wingman in fighting shape."

Pip felt his heart sink like a stone in a pond. Bros. Right. He was the bro. He was the buddy. He was the convenient, low-stakes hookup. He had spent months carefully building that exact box for himself, and now he was suffocating inside it.

Pip forced a smile, picking up the baseball cap and shoving it back onto his head. "Right. Exactly. Bros. Thanks for the lube job, man."

Charlie handed Pip the water bottle. "Drink. And let's get back to the resort before Cecil actually murders an angel. I don't want to explain that to the hotel management."

“Where the hell are Angelo’s parents?” Pip mused aloud. “They didn’t just dump that poor kid off at the day care and swanned off… I need to have a word with them. Poor Matt’s doing double duty.”

“Matt loves it,” Charlie said with a shrug. “He’s really good with the kids.”

As they began the slow walk back to the Emerald Vista, the distance between them felt wider than it had before. Charlie walked a little faster, his eyes fixed firmly ahead, his mind racing. Pip trailed behind, feeling more mortal and defeated than a sunburn could ever account for.

---

While Charlie and Pip were navigating the agonizing, aloe-scented waters of unspoken romance, Matt Bailey was currently surviving a hostage situation at the resort’s lagoon pool.

The hostages were himself, his sanity, and a giant, inflatable yellow duck.

"Okay, gentlemen," Matt said, kneeling on the hot concrete of the pool deck, a massive bottle of SPF 70 in his hand. "We have established the rules of engagement. Rule number one: We do not burn. Rule number two: We do not drown. Rule number three: We do not set the other guests on fire. Do we have an accord?"

Sitting on the edge of a striped beach towel were Cecil and Angelo.

True to the sacred, unyielding vow sworn in the daycare center, their hands were locked together in a vice-like grip. Neither toddler looked particularly happy about this arrangement, but neither was willing to be the first to break the holy law of the 'Super Fun Buddy System.'

Angelo sat rigidly upright, wearing a pair of pristine, white swimming trunks adorned with tiny embroidered clouds. He looked like an advertisement for angelic purity.

Cecil, on the other hand, was radiating waves of dark, grumbling heat. He was wearing his fireproof black trunks, and he was currently trapped inside the circumference of a giant, inflatable yellow duck swimming ring. The duck’s cheerful, painted face mocked him. He could not remove the ring because his right hand was clamped to Angelo’s left hand, effectively threading the cherub through the duck's radius.

"I am not asking, I am applying," Matt announced, squeezing a massive dollop of white sunscreen into his palm. He aggressively smeared it across Angelo’s chubby cheeks. The cherub closed his eyes and accepted the anointing with stoic, divine grace.

Matt then turned to Cecil, who immediately narrowed his glowing red eyes and bared his tiny, sharp teeth.

"Noli me tangere, stulte mortalis," Cecil hissed, a wisp of smoke curling from his lips. (Do not touch me, foolish mortal.)

"Yeah, yeah, I love you too, buddy," Matt said cheerfully, completely unfazed by the demonic threats. Having spent the last few months chopping meat for a former supervillain, a grumpy toddler was light work. Matt aggressively rubbed the sunscreen over Cecil’s nose, turning the cambion’s face completely white. "Gotta protect that delicate demon skin. You're pale. You get it from your dad. The undead one, not the philosopher one."

Cecil glared at Matt, crossing his free arm over his chest. "Cogor, sed non placeat," he grumbled, kicking the plastic beak of the yellow duck. (I am forced, but I do not like it.)

"I'm going to pretend that was a compliment," Matt smiled, wiping his hands on a towel. He sat back on his heels, adjusting his straw boater, and looked at the two toddlers.

Despite the sheer absurdity of the situation—babysitting the antichrist and a cherub who were locked in a literal holy war but bound by the rules of a teenage daycare worker—Matt felt a profound sense of domestic contentment.

"You know," Matt mused aloud, resting his chin in his hand, "I always wondered what it would be like to have kids. Simon and I talk about it sometimes. Well, I talk about it, and Simon makes a spreadsheet about the financial implications of university tuition in eighteen years. But looking at you two..." Matt tilted his head. "I wonder what a baby Simon would look like. Probably very organized. Probably color-coding his mashed peas."

Cecil looked at Matt. He looked at the neon pineapple board shorts. He looked at the straw boater. Cecil actually adored Matt. Matt didn't treat him like a bomb waiting to go off; Matt treated him like a fun, slightly weird nephew. It was a respect Cecil appreciated.

Cecil reached out with his free hand and patted Matt on the knee.

"Ginger," Cecil stated flatly in perfect English, delivering the ultimate deadpan critique.

Matt burst out laughing, clapping his hands together. "You are completely right, my dark lord. So ginger. It would be blinding. Alright, troops! Into the water! Let's execute the amphibious assault!"

The logistics of getting the two hand-locked toddlers into the pool were complex.

Angelo, being a creature of light and air, took to the water immediately. He paddled his chubby legs with perfect, synchronized form, swimming like a buoyant, golden fish.

Cecil, however, was a creature of fire and earth. He hated the water. He hated the duck ring. But because his hand was inextricably linked to Angelo’s, he had no choice.

As Angelo paddled happily toward the shallow end's artificial waterfall, he functioned as a tiny, divine tugboat. Cecil, trapped in the yellow duck ring, was the grumpy, fire-breathing barge being towed behind him.

"Lentius, pennate stulte!" Cecil yelled, bobbing aggressively over a small wave, his hands gripping the plastic duck neck for dear life. (Slower, feathered idiot!)

"Aqua est donum vitae!" Angelo sang back, splashing happily, pulling Cecil relentlessly toward the deeper water. (Water is the gift of life!)

Matt waded into the pool after them, the water coming up to his waist. He had one eye on the toddlers and one ear cocked toward the glowing, slimy shell wedged in his left ear canal.

"Derek, status report," Matt whispered, tapping the shell.

"Stop talking to the shell like it's a person, Matt," Simon's voice crackled exhaustedly directly into Matt's brain. "And don't call me Derek. I am currently approaching the target. I am in the lobby. I have visual on Marcus."

Matt grinned, sloshing through the water to ensure the holy tugboat didn't tow the demonic barge into the deep end. "Copy that, Agent Color-Code. Remember the objective. We need the guest list to cross-reference Arthur P. Mothman and Victor Gargoyle. You have to use your assets. Turn on the charm. Seduce the asset."

"I don't have charm!" Simon hissed back. "I have a binder! And I don't know how to flirt!"

"Derek says to offer him a pineapple," Matt advised sagely, watching Cecil try to casually bite Angelo's arm, only to be thwarted by the plastic duck wing. "Do you have a pineapple? Find a pineapple."

"I am not giving him a pineapple!"

"Tell him to drop his shoulder and lower his voice," Lynix's voice suddenly echoed through the magical frequency, joining the group chat from inside Simon's head. "Mortals love that predatory garbage. Ask him what his astrological sign is. Tell him he looks like a Leo."

Matt laughed aloud. "Yeah, what the demon said. Be a predator, Simon. Rawr."

"I hate both of you," Simon groaned. "Going dark. Initiating contact."

---

In the grand, marble-floored lobby of the Emerald Vista Resort, Simon Bailey was currently vibrating at a frequency that could shatter glass.

He was standing behind a massive, potted monstera plant, clutching his color-coded binder to his chest like a bulletproof vest. He peered through the broad green leaves at the concierge desk.

Marcus was standing behind the mahogany counter. The tour guide looked significantly less polished than he had an hour ago. His aggressively white polo shirt was singed at the hem, and he was currently applying a thick layer of burn cream to his left wrist, looking around the lobby with the paranoid, darting eyes of a man who expected a toddler to jump out of a planter and incinerate him.

Simon took a deep, shuddering breath. He had to do this. He was the only active Ministry operative on the island. He had to uncover the union organizers, and Marcus had access to the master guest ledger on his tablet.

"Shoulders back, Simon," Lynix coached from the velvet sofa in his mind. "Stop clutching the binder like a security blanket. Put it down. Strut. Channel your inner inccubus."

"I don't have an inner incubus," Simon whispered furiously. "I have an inner filing clerk."

"I am an incubus and I am literally inside you. So make the filing clerk sexy. Walk!"

Simon forced himself to step out from behind the plant. He tried to strut. It came off more like a rigid, syncopated march. He approached the concierge desk, his heart hammering in his throat.

He reached the counter. He tried to lean casually against the mahogany surface.

His elbow slipped on a patch of polished wood. Simon lurched forward, his chin smacking loudly against the countertop.

Marcus jumped back, dropping the tube of burn cream with a yelp. He stared at Simon with wide, terrified eyes.

Simon slowly slid his chin off the counter, his face burning with a blush so fierce it practically melted the zinc oxide off his nose.

"Hello," Simon squeaked. He cleared his throat, trying to lower his voice to a predatory purr as Lynix had instructed. It sounded like he had a chest cold. "Do you... come here often? To... work? At your job?"

Marcus stared at him. He looked at the massive straw hat, the long-sleeved linen shirt, the binder clutched in Simon's white-knuckled grip.

"Sir, are you okay?" Marcus asked cautiously, keeping a safe distance from the desk. "Do you need medical assistance?"

"Oh, this is agonizing," Lynix groaned in Simon's head. "Pivot, Simon! Ask him about his star sign! Compliment his hair!"

"I hear you like... the stars," Simon blurted out, staring unblinkingly at Marcus's forehead. "You look like a... a Leo. Very... lion-esque. Roar."

Simon actually said the word 'roar.' He didn't make the sound. He just said the word.

Marcus looked wildly around the lobby, clearly looking for security. "Sir, I am a Capricorn. And I am currently off duty. If you need a fresh towel, the kiosk is by the pool."

"Abort! Abort the flirtation protocol!" Matt yelled through the ear shell. "Derek says you are crashing and burning! Pivot to pity! Be pathetic!"

Simon didn't need to act to be pathetic. He slumped against the desk, dropping the terrible seduction act entirely.

"Look," Simon said, his voice returning to its normal, frantic, bureaucratic pitch. "I'm not trying to flirt with you. I don't know how to flirt. I am nineteen years old, I am terrified of the sun, and my boyfriend is currently babysitting a fire-breathing baby and an angel in a duck floatie."

Marcus visibly flinched at the mention of the fire-breathing baby. He took another step back, rubbing his singed wrist. "You're... you're with that kid? The one who made the fire sing?"

"Yes," Simon said quickly, seizing the opening. "I'm the uncle. Look, I just need to plan a surprise for Charlie. A... a scavenger hunt. I need to look at the guest list. Just for a second. If you give me the tablet, I swear on my binder I will make sure the baby never comes within fifty feet of you for the rest of this vacation."

It was a bold negotiation tactic. It was entirely unauthorized by the Ministry. But Marcus was a broken man. The trauma of the singing purple fire had shattered his apex predator confidence.

Marcus looked at the tablet resting on the desk. He looked at Simon. He looked around the lobby one more time.

"Fifty feet," Marcus whispered, his voice trembling slightly.

"A hundred feet," Simon countered, sensing victory. "I will personally guarantee a hundred-foot anti-arson perimeter."

Marcus didn't say another word. He shoved the digital tablet across the mahogany counter, turned on his heel, and fast-walked briskly toward the staff breakroom, abandoning his post entirely.

Simon snatched the tablet. His fingers flew across the screen, bypassing the resort promotional menus and diving straight into the backend guest registry.

"I'm in," Simon whispered, tapping his ear shell. "Falcon, I have the ledger."

"Boom! The color-coded spy strikes again!" Matt cheered in his ear. "Derek is very proud of you. Find the targets."

Simon scrolled rapidly through the alphabetical list. He bypassed the standard vacationers, scanning for the anomalies.

Miller. Mitchell. Monroe... Mothman.

"Got him," Simon breathed, his eyes scanning the data. "Arthur P. Mothman. Checked in two days ago. Room 402."

"Wait," Lynix's voice chimed in. "402? Simon, didn't Mr. Hartley complain about his keycard trying to open room 402 this morning?"

Simon froze. His bureaucratic mind connected the data points instantly. The Gremlins had hacked the electronic keycards. They were trying to redirect the resort guests to Arthur's room. They were using the hotel's infrastructure to run interference for their union leader.

"They're coordinated," Simon whispered, a cold sweat breaking out under his linen shirt. "They're incredibly coordinated. What about Victor?"

He scrolled down to the Gs.

Gargoyle, Victor. Room 402.

"They're sharing a room," Simon confirmed. "Arthur and Victor. Union leader and Sergeant-at-Arms. We have their location, Matt. We need to plan an infiltration."

"Copy that, Agent Binder," Matt replied, his voice suddenly sounding very far away and very distracted. "Infiltration planning is a go. But right now, we have a Code Nap. I repeat, a Code Nap."

"What?" Simon blinked, closing out the tablet and leaving it on the desk. "What's a Code Nap?"

"Return to base. Over and out."

When Simon finally marched back to the lagoon pool, clutching his binder and vibrating with the adrenaline of successful corporate espionage, he found Matt in the shade of a large cabana.

---

The epic holy war of the toddlers had concluded, not with a bang, but with a whimper.

Matt was lying flat on his back on a double-wide sun lounger, his straw boater resting over his eyes to block the sun. Sprawled directly across Matt’s chest, dead to the world, were Cecil and Angelo.

The tropical heat and the intense physical exertion of the tugboat maneuvers had completely drained their supernatural batteries. Cecil was drooling slightly onto the collar of Matt's neon Hawaiian shirt, a tiny, harmless wisp of smoke puffing out with every exhale. Angelo was curled into Cecil's side, his golden halo dimmed to a soft, sleepy glow.

And, true to the sacred vow of the daycare center, their tiny hands were still locked tightly together in a death grip.

Simon stopped at the foot of the lounger. His heart, which had been racing with spy-thriller anxiety, suddenly melted into a puddle of absolute, domestic mush.

He pulled out his phone and took a picture. He took three pictures.

Matt lifted the edge of his straw boater, peeking out at Simon with one eye. "The majestic beasts are dormant," he whispered in his Attenborough voice. "They have accepted the human as their mattress. It is an honor."

Simon smiled, a genuine, soft expression that completely ruined his attempt at a stern, undercover operative persona. He sat down gently on the edge of the lounger, careful not to wake the sleeping toddlers. He reached out and brushed a damp curl of dark hair off Cecil's forehead.

"You did good, Falcon," Simon whispered, tapping the shell in his ear.

"We're keeping them," Matt mumbled sleepily, wrapping one arm protectively around the tangle of angelic and demonic limbs on his chest.

"Matt, they're not ours. Cecil belongs to Charlie and Taine, and Angelo belongs to... whoever dropped him off at the daycare."

"Don't care," Matt yawned, his eyes drifting shut again. "We're keeping them. I'm going to teach them how to play Mario Kart. Derek agrees with me."

Simon looked at his chaotic, beautiful, completely ridiculous family. He looked at the color-coded binder resting on his lap, filled with evidence of an impending supernatural labor war. He looked at the two mortal enemies sleeping peacefully, bound together by a rule they refused to break.

"Yeah," Simon whispered softly, leaning down to press a quick, zinc-oxide-flavored kiss to Matt's forehead. "We're keeping them."

But as he sat back up, Simon's eyes drifted toward the main hotel building. The sun was beginning to set, casting long, dark shadows across the resort. Somewhere in that building, in Room 402, an anxious Mothman and a gargoyle were plotting the downfall of the island.