Archive of Our Own ^beta

“C’mooooon, pleeeease?”

The sound of Scar, alias HoTGuY, pleading with someone was not an unfamiliar sound to those that worked in the division building, usually aimed at Grian or Etho. But the sight of him draped over Impulse’s shoulder while doing so was a surprise. 

The pyrokinetic paused in writing something on his phone to roll the shoulder Scar was hanging off of before going back to it. At least the archer wasn’t on his dominant arm. 

“Why, exactly, are you so hellbent on having me participate in this? You already got Grian, Jimmy, and Etho to agree, and I’m still not sure how you talked Etho into it. You have enough people for an even division.” 

“I wanted all the male active roster as part of it.”

“Has Deepfrost agreed to it?”

“N-no, no. Not yet.”

“Then you’ve got another person to persuade besides me.” 

“He’d be more willing if you were there!” 

Impulse paused writing the email he had been working on and turned to look Scar in the eye (neither were wearing their visors, though Impulse’s eyes were glowing yellow as usual). Scar didn’t back down. 

“And how, exactly, are you planning to persuade me?”  

Scar’s response was cut off by a third voice. 

“Scar, what’re you doing?” 

Scar’s head whipped to the side to look at Grian, his own head blocking Impulse from looking as well. “Grian! Get over here; I’m talking Impy into doing the calendar!”

The older hero’s muttered “Don’t call me that” got drowned out by Grian’s running footsteps on the cafeteria floor, followed by a grunt as the smaller man threw himself onto Impulse’s other shoulder, and clung to it like a koala so the pyrokinetic couldn’t shake him off easily. 

Not that it stopped the older man from trying, before sighing and saving the email he’d been drafting. Clearly he wasn’t going to be allowed to continue for a bit. 

Scar mentally congratulated himself for choosing this plan of attack when Impulse wasn’t wearing his yellow jacket. Impy couldn’t get rid of them as easily now! 

“Alright, Scar, what’s your pitch?” Impulse finally said, sounding as irritated as he usually was when he was arguing with Joel, which was a frequent occurrence. Scar was pretty sure that the reason Joel hadn’t tried to kick Impulse out of the division was that — setting aside the PR nightmare of firing a member of the Old Guard — Impulse wouldn’t even be out of the building before committing to a vigilante path.

Not that Impulse’s perpetual grumpiness ever fazed Scar. It hadn’t fazed him on his first day of training, when he’d seen the Fiery Avenger pummeling a punching bag with enough force to nearly tear it off its chain and immediately asking to learn to do that too. It hadn’t fazed him when during that training, Impulse had let slip that he was a father: something no one in the roster had known about, if Etho’s shocked reaction had been anything to go by. And it didn’t faze him now. 

Impulse’s bite was something to be wary of, true, but he tended to bark louder in the division building. 

“Look, look, look, Impulse. First of all, it’s a charity project, so it's for a good cause automatically! Secondly, the focus is on us, and I’ve stipulated that the post-team can’t alter our images beyond tweaking the background. We’ve all been injured and scarred by the work we’ve done defending the city.” The silent, implied Unless you’re Joel went unspoken by all of them. “And I want people to see the marks that our work has left behind on us.”

“And you think the best way to showcase this … is with a swimsuit calendar.” 

“Well, psshht, I mean, our suits cover up most of our scars! We’d have to show something!”

A few moments of silence followed, Impulse’s narrowed eyes staring into Scar’s cheerful ones. Grian, still death-gripping the pyrokinetic’s right shoulder, quietly hoped that the cafeteria was still part of Impulse’s ‘don’t use powers’ list. 

Impulse rapped his fingers on the table, then pushed Grian and Scar off his shoulders. “Let me speak to my consul first,” he said, grabbing his phone off the table and walking out of the cafeteria. 

Scar’s grin didn’t falter at all, to Grian’s confusion. “We’ve got him, G!” he whisper-yelled to his partner as the door swung shut.

“How do you know that?”

“He’s calling his wife — and I know she likes collecting the behind the scenes shots from his photoshoots. She’s absolutely gonna tell him to do it!” 

“How do you know that?!”

“Impulse is better at being tight-lipped with reporters and the public than he is with me.”

—

Ruby jolted as the house phone started ringing. She scooped it off its receiver after glancing at the Caller ID. The fact that it said Violett, S . meant it was either her husband or one of their children who were all on the account. “Hey honey,” she said, just to be safe.

“Hi sweetheart,” Stephen said.

“What’s going on?”

The audible deep breath and long, put-upon sigh made her brace herself. For what, she wasn’t entirely sure. “You’re going to laugh at me,” he said.

Tension eased out of her shoulders and she grinned. “That’s a given, considering that sigh. What’s up?”

“HoTGuY is trying to convince me to…” Stephen took another deep breath and cleared his throat. “He wants to do a charity project.”

“Okay. Sounds about right for what you’ve mentioned about him. What’s the project?”

She started to worry that the call had disconnected—the division building had never had the greatest reception to begin with—from how long her husband didn’t answer. Then she heard another sigh, this one with a slight groan of complaint.

“He wants to do a shirtless, swimsuit calendar with the higher-tier male active roster. Including me.”

Ruby burst out laughing, her head falling back. “Ohhh… yeah that also sounds like him, from what you’ve said,” she remarked, leaning against the kitchen counter for support as her laughter made her shake. “Are you going to do it?”

“That’s not up to me,” Stephen said.

“What do you mean?”

“Honey, this is a charity project. The proceeds of the calendar sales go to charity. Meaning it’s going to be sold. And if you don’t want me without my shirt on to be plastered on half the cubicle walls in the city, I won’t do it. If me without a shirt is for your eyes only, then I’m fine with that.”

“Are you using me as an excuse to get out of it?”

“Not necessarily. HoTGuY… he’s made a stipulation for the calendar. No airbrushing. The only edits can be to the backgrounds and maybe if someone has a pimple. The idea is to show… our scars. The marks that our work defending the city have left on us. That much I'm… fine showing off. I know I still look good—at least you think so—”

“I do,” Ruby said appreciatively, smiling.

Stephen chuckled quietly. “Thanks, baby,” he said. “But if you say no, the answer is no.”

“Is Tango doing it?”

“HG hasn’t asked him yet. I think he thinks Frost is gonna be the hardest sell, and HG knows Frost is more likely to do it if I’ve already agreed.”

“So he’s right about something.”

“Sure, yeah.”

“Steve, honey, if you want to do it, you can. You definitely still look hot. I’d be fine with it on three conditions.”

“Name them.”

“The first: I get as many behind-the-scenes photos as you can get for me.”

“As always. Of course. That one can be arranged,” Stephen said with a chuckle.

“The second: I require a copy of the calendar.”

“Honey. I wouldn’t dare not get you one.” He laughed a little harder.

“And the third: you have to do September. That way I get to look at you aaallllll month for my birthday.”

He laughed even harder. “I’ll make HoTGuY let me do September.”

Ruby made a kiss noise into the phone. “You’re a knockout, babe,” she said. “Go get ‘em.”

“Love you too, honey.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

The call disconnected. Ruby went back to laughing. “A shirtless calendar, oh my God…”

—

Tango rubbed the back of his neck. “Mom? Can I ask for some advice?”

Faye looked up from her laptop screen, a window of code in front of her. “What’s up, honey?” she asked.

Tango fidgeted. “HoTGuY reached out to me today. He, uh… he wants to do a swimsuit calendar with the higher-level male active roster,” he said. “Including me.”

Faye raised a gold-blonde brow as a mischievous smile began forming on her face. “And?”

“I don’t know if I want to do it.”

Faye shut her laptop. “Why not?” She set it on the coffee table and turned her whole body to give her son her attention.

“I don’t know. That’s embarrassing and awkward and—” He lifted the hem of his shirt a little to show a long scar poking out from under the waistband of his jeans up the side of his abdomen muscles. “—and my scars from being Deepfrost aren’t exactly sexy.” He huffed. “Which HG said was the point but that doesn’t mean I need everyone to see them. But it’s for a charity fundraiser and I just… I’m conflicted.”

Faye snickered. “Don’t tell Jimmy you don’t think your scars are sexy. I think he’d take offense to that and try to rid you of the notion,” she said.

“Mooooom,” Tango complained softly.

His mom smiled. Soft but with that same impish scheming that Tango’s own smile had. “Tango,” she said. “If you really don’t want to do it, no one can force you. I know you’re a private guy. You like to keep yourself to yourself, especially with Deepfrost stuff. That’s fine. But the price you’ve paid for protecting the city isn’t anything to be ashamed of.” She got off the couch and stood opposite her son, brushing up the sleeve of his T-shirt to reveal another scar that crossed down from his deltoid to his bicep. “Look at what being a hero has made you give.” Her thumb rubbed down the scar. “And you always do and you always will. You will give for this city. For the people you care about here and especially the innocent ones you don’t know. I couldn’t be more proud of the man you’ve grown into, son. You deserve to show the people of the city what you’ve put yourself through for their sake. You don’t have to be perfect and pristine all the time. That’s the mask Deepfrost wears. Never a hair out of place.

“But that’s not who you are. You’re Deepfrost, but you’re Tango Tek too. You’re my beautiful son who is so smart and so passionate and so joyful, and so giving and loving. So much so that you’ve put your own body through hell to protect other people.

“Show them what you’ve done for them. The sexy swimsuit calendar is just the gift wrapping.”

She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close for a hug. He clung to her tight. “Thanks, Mom,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome, hon.” She held the back of his head against the side of her own head. He wasn’t much taller than her.

“I appreciate the thought. I just… the whole city doesn’t need to see me with my shirt off.” He cleared his throat.

Faye loosed a slow breath. “Has your uncle agreed to it?” she asked.

“What?”

“Stephen. Is he doing it as Impulse?”

Tango was quiet for a moment. “Yeah. Aunt Ruby convinced him, apparently.”

Faye snickered. “Sounds about right,” she said. A playfully teasing edge entered her voice. Typical for the Tek household. “Are you really going to let him do it and not join?”

“What do you mean?”

His mother gave him a playful look, her eyes the exact same shade of green as his own, looking just like his. “C’mon, T,” she said with a cheeky grin. “You’re not going to let your uncle show you up, are you?”

He narrowed his eyes. “It’s not a challenge, Mom. It’s for charity.”

Faye raised a brow again, this time with more sarcasm on her face. “You may have believed that before I said what I did. But I know you. The second I made it sound like a challenge, that’s how you took it. And are you really going to let Stephen beat you by being part of the calendar when you’re not?” She began to laugh, but she was trying to be quiet and polite about it.

“He’s not winning some competition by being in a shirtless calendar that I’m not in, Mom,” Tango pointed out.

“If you say so,” Faye replied blithely. She swanned around him and off to the kitchen.

Tango stood there in the living room and stewed for a bit, thinking about what she said. As always, she was right. It really didn’t matter that it wasn’t a competition. Framing it as one was enough to make Tango seethe at the very thought of losing. He wasn’t actually losing at anything but she’d said it like he was and now he wanted to win.

“Dammit, Mom!” Tango shouted, throwing his head back. “Fine! I’m doing it!”

Faye burst out laughing from the other room. “There you go, honey!” she called.

—

“Alright, gentlemen.” JJ glanced between Sheriff, HoTGuY, and CuTeGuY expectantly. “Who’s going first?”

Sheriff felt himself being shoved forward as the other two frantically replied in unison. “Sheriff! I’m not ready!”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself as he gamely stepped forward the rest of the way. A glance over his shoulder showed that the other two had yanked their notebooks of ideas out and were leaning over them, already tuning out the rest of the world to discuss. 

JJ had raised her eyebrows at the action. “Would’ve thought those two would be chomping at the bit to go first.”

“CuTeGuY’s been waffling on what he wants for his May shot for the last week. Spent all of yesterday sweating over the three ideas he’s narrowed it down to.”

“And HoTGuY?”

“Helping CG pick.”

JJ shook her head. “Right. Well, you got your choices sent to me nice and early, so that works for me. Are we doing April or August first?”

“April, I think. Figure we can fiddle with the fake sweat later on.”

“Fake sweat is just tanning oil. It works better and lasts longer than spraying you with normal water under studio lights that will evaporate it.” JJ hefted her camera and slung the strap off to set it on a table. “But I think that’s the right call.” She beckoned her colleagues over. “Help me haul the floor mats over,” she said to them.

“I can help,” Sheriff said.

“You go ahead and go get changed. You’re not a hero today. You’re the talent.” Her eyes sparkled with playfulness. “You don’t have to help with this. We got it.” She waved toward a screen set up at the back of the studio. “Go ahead and get ready.”

Jimmy took his bag to the screen and took off his jeans and T-shirt. Switching into the swim trunks he’d chosen. Red. For Sheriff. And… and for Tango.

His August shot was mostly a throw-away idea. An easy pick for an attractive shot. It didn’t really fit the theme of his Sheriff ‘persona’ well, but him being sweaty and posing with a surfboard would probably be attractive enough to ignore the dissonance. It sounded easier than trying to get a horse into a photo studio.

His April shot, though, he’d put a lot more effort into. It was Tango’s birth month, after all. And while this photo would be publicly seen, he wanted his boyfriend to see the picture and know: it was solely for him.

He made sure his brown leather Sheriff mask was still firmly in place. The tattoo on his right shoulder blade—a gladiolus flower he got not long after his powers manifested—would probably be seen by the photographers (and CuTeGuY and HoTGuY already knew it was there), but it wasn’t going to be visible in the publicly-available photos. That much was going to be okay with him. If the tattoo was in some behind the scenes shots, that’d be fine. No one but people he trusted would see those.

He pulled out his Sheriff badge from his bag. Pinned to two ends of a strap of leather to wear as a necklace. He thought it was kinda silly-looking that way, but CuTeGuY had shoved it into his hands before they left to come to the studio at the division building. If he was going to wear it for the shoot, he’d rather wear it for August, but he was fine letting JJ make that choice and he figured he’d present it as an option.

He stepped out from behind the screen, ready.

The white backdrop that covered one corner of the room had been draped over with a soft sage green cloth, the floor of which had been covered in mats made of fake flowers. Emulating a spring meadow of wildflowers.

JJ smiled when she saw him emerge. “Ready to go?” she asked.

Sheriff nodded. “Yeah, think so.” He approached the backdrop area.

JJ stepped into his way. She was rather small—probably a little shorter than Tango’s cousin (Impulse’s daughter and his own coworker) Gem—and had to tilt up onto her tiptoes to tuck something into the crease between the top of his ear and his skull. He reached up and touched it gently to feel what it was. A fake flower.

She smiled. “Go ahead and take your spot. I’ll adjust you as needed.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She stepped out of the way.

—

Deepfrost stepped into the studio looking more than a little apprehensive, already blue in the hair and eyes. “For the record, these were my idea and I still hate them,” he remarked to his favorite photographer of the three in the room, gesturing with one hand to the skintight, long, black leather trousers he had on.

His favorite photographer gave him a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” she said gently. “Better than wearing a swimsuit, right?”

Deepfrost rolled his eyes. “Much.” He glanced at the plain white backdrop. “Am I going to be washed out against that? I’m pretty pale.” He looked down at his hands.

“We’re not putting you against the white one. That’s leftover from CuTeGuY’s February shoot last week,” his favorite photographer said as she fiddled with a camera setting, raised her lens to see him through the viewfinder, and adjusted again. “The second shot you will be against a white background, but you never seem to appear washed out against your own snow. So long as we get our balance right.” She grinned and checked her viewfinder again. “Are you making the chair or did the division get a prop?”

Deepfrost snorted. “I’m making it.”

“Will it melt against the lights? They’re pretty warm.”

“Not if I keep a hold on it and keep it frozen.” He went to one of the folding chairs with his name pinned to it on a sheet of paper and dumped his bag. “Are we starting with January, then?”

“I believe that’s the plan,” she said.

Deepfrost bounced his eyebrows as he stripped his T-shirt—grey with Come to the Nerd Side, We have Pi plastered across the chest—off and dropped it on the chair. Exposing the pair of black braided leather upper arm bracelets ringing each bicep, each with a silver spike charm dangling off. His Converse hi-tops and socks joined the pile, though they stayed on the floor under the chair. He didn’t mind being barefoot against the cold concrete floor of the studio, but he didn’t love being as exposed as he was either.

“Are we just getting started or do we need to wait for a director?”

“Let us swap out the background for the one we’re gonna be using and then we’ll be ready.” She looked over to the prop table. “Oh, that black piece is for you.”

Deepfrost crossed over to it and scooped up the thick, black velvet cloak. There was dark grey fur across the shoulders and a silver chain fastening. “Ooh,” Deepfrost said, low and appreciative. “This one will be fun.”

He slung it on, slipping his head through the chain. The chain allowed it to hang more openly, exposing more of his chest, but his shoulders were covered. 

“How do I look?” He spread his arms.

His favorite photographer grinned as she checked him in her viewfinder. “Do you want the professional answer or the honest one?”

“How different are they?”

“They’re mostly the same but the levels of politeness are different.”

One of the other photographers pulled a grey curtain over the white wall. Except the curtain wasn’t grey . Not fully, anyway. There were silver threads interwoven through it, giving it a glitter against the bright lights.

“Let’s start with the professional answer.”

“You look nice,” she said.

“Alright. If that sanitized, bland response is the professional one, then what’s the honest one?”

She raised one brow and smiled. “I think you’re going to break some hearts.”

Deepfrost snorted. “Fair enough.” He cracked his knuckles as the other photographer smoothed out the backdrop, making sure the fabric was just taut enough on its rings to be a single plane with no folds, but wasn’t banding either. “Where do you want my prop?”

“How about the middle, right there?” She pointed to the white floor, where the other photographer hadn’t spread the backdrop’s fabric all the way across it so there was space.

“Sounds great.” Deepfrost strolled over casually, trying not to be nervous for this whole thing. The confident hero was all bravado anyway, but especially when dealing with photographers.

A circle of ice formed on the ground with one lazy wave of his hand. He lifted from the elbow and it rose into a plinth. Then he delved into the fun part. His hands and fingers moved, white ice vapor sublimating from his palms and fingers, like he was shaping clay. But he wasn’t touching his ice. It continued crawling up from the ground on its own, following the direction of his power and control. He tried to ignore the three sets of eyes and the one photographer in charge of “behind the scenes” taking pictures. He could hear the camera’s shutter. He did his best to ignore it.

When he was done, he grinned and spun around. “Ta-daaa!”

His favorite photographer smiled. “That’s actually gorgeous,” she said.

The throne he’d constructed from ice was grand and beautiful, jags of icicles spiking up from the top. The rest looked like the picture of luxury. He’d made it from a combination of perfectly clear and cloudy ice so that it wasn’t fully see-through and would be noticeable on the camera against the backdrop. Granted, ice tended to be bluish or whitish even when it was clear, and against the silvery background, it wasn’t just going to disappear.

“I mean. It’d look better if HG or CG made it but—”

“Hey, none of that,” the photographer said. “You’re a much better artist than you give yourself credit for. Every snowflake is a piece of art.”

Deepfrost shrugged. “If you say so.” He rolled his shoulders and adjusted the cloak over them. “Do I need powder or whatever on my face before we start?”

“Oh! Right. Ross will you—”

“On it,” the other photographer who’d been working with the background said, jogging over to the prop table. He handed the palette to Deepfrost’s favorite. She approached him with the sponge.

He dutifully closed his eyes. She added a thin, light coat of powder to his face. He didn’t like makeup in general—apart from the punk rock black eyeliner he wore as Deepfrost that he already had on—and he didn’t like playing nice for cameras. But he tolerated her the best. She was kind and professional, while also being respectful. She didn’t ogle or fangirl or tell him to give her sexy smirks for her photos. So if she was putting a thin layer of powder on his face to stop him from being shiny under the lights, he would oblige. Arctic Fox and (Uncle) Impulse liked her best for the same reasons.

“You been tapped for the Pride Month photoshoot?” he asked as she dusted a little extra on his nose and near his hairline.

“I haven’t been asked yet. But I don’t think any of the usual photographers have been either,” she replied conversationally. “Why?”

He shrugged. “You make it bearable. Like, I’m not embarrassed to be who I am but I’m not HG either. I’m not really the type to wear my flag as a cape.”

“Says the man not only wearing a cape right now, but has the closest thing to a cape any of the active roster currently wears,” she joked.

“My coat is respectable and it makes me look taller,” Deepfrost retorted as she powdered a bit of his neck. She snickered. The fact that she wasn’t intimidated and was willing to banter a little was another reason she was one of the least-insufferable photographers the division usually booked.

“You’re the boss,” she said. They both knew that wasn’t true. He’d pose and play nice for her for the next few hours.

She took a step back and inspected his face.

“Turn toward the light?” she requested. He complied. “Tilt to your left… your right… up… down… good. You’re covered.”

Deepfrost rolled his shoulders. “Where does this start?”

“Let’s start with you face-forward. Like, power posture on the throne. No crossing your legs or arms. Open limbs. You’re the king and you’re in charge and you are not afraid of anything.”

“King, huh? Do I get a crown?” Deepfrost joked.

“There’s one on the table.” She gestured toward the props table. Littered over it was all sorts of stuff. A heart-tipped arrow from CuTeGuY’s Cupid February shoot last week. A fake Jack-O-Lantern from HoTGuY’s October shoot. The boxing gloves that were going to be part of Impulse’s September shoot on Friday.

And a black metal crown that was less of a crown and more a series of spikes.

Deepfrost raised a brow. “You’re the professional,” he said.

She chuckled. “We’ll do some with, some without. How’s that? See what looks best afterward.”

He shrugged. “I’m at your disposal.”

“We both know that’s not true,” she replied. “You could get called out at any minute.”

“If something needs my specific attention, that’s a big emergency. Everyone else can handle anything else that crops up. I’ll do my best to be a model.” That last word was sarcastic. She chuckled.

“Good. Go take your power pose.” She backed up carefully so she didn’t trip, but continued studying the scene. “Ohhh,” she said. “Someone’s got a good eye. You made it so you don’t look too small against the imposing size of the throne.”

Deepfrost smirked. “It’s all about angles, right? It’s always fun when civilians meet me and are like ‘you’re shorter in person!’” The impression was high-pitched and goofy. 

She smiled and raised her camera. “Okay. Can you sit a little straighter? How far back on the chair are you? Is your back against it?”

“Not against it, but just about.”

“Okay. Scoot forward just a smidge.” She refocused her lens. “Right there! Stay right there. Now relax your hands on the arms of the chair. No fists, don’t hold anything. Act like there’s a delicate bird perched on your fingers you’re trying to keep, gently, in your hand… perfect. Okay. Can you relax your face? Don’t smile. Don’t frown—hey, no pouting either. No smirk. Just relax. There! Look over my head with just your eyes. Don’t turn your face. Just the eyes. Good. Hold that.” Her shutter clicked. She moved around a bit, taking more photos at different angles while the second photographer took ones from more dramatic angles and the third took shots of the behind the scenes, probably taking videos too.

Deepfrost didn’t find the ice throne cold, but she was right about the lights being warm. They were bright—nearly as blinding as sunlight on snow, funny enough. The thick cloak helped keep the chill at bay, but cold didn’t register in his brain correctly anyway. It was still cold, it just wasn’t uncomfortable for him like it was for everyone else.

He held his pose, following her continued reminders to keep his face relaxed and her instructions to look where she wanted or tilt his head. He did as instructed when she told him to raise one hand a little, palm up, and let some snowflakes dance over his hand or drift toward the ground. The other photographer fetched the black crown and settled it carefully and aesthetically among the ice-blue spikes of his hair for more of the same pictures but now with a little variation.

“Okay. I think we beat that pose into the ground,” she announced after several minutes. “You can relax for a second.”

He slouched against the throne with a huffy sort of sigh.

“Oh come on, it wasn’t that bad,” she encouraged sweetly.

“It wasn’t. I was just trying not to breathe much.”

“What? Why?”

“I’ve heard motion blur is particularly aggressive on nipples.”

She burst out laughing, throwing her head back, while the other two photographers smiled and tried to keep their own laughter to themselves. “You can breathe normally, Deepfrost. It’s okay.”

Deepfrost grinned. A camera shutter went off. He knew there were precious few photos of him actually smiling as Deepfrost. Despite being a silly, goofy person by nature—his younger cousins called him a cartoon character come to life—Deepfrost often was stern and serious around the public, despite his youth. Most of the behind-the-scenes photos of him smiling weren’t public either. But the photographers always took as many as they could of him smiling. He gave them to his parents and Jimmy.

“Thanks,” he said. “Now what?”

“Take a sec… I’m gonna…” She narrowed her eyes and studied the scene. “Ross, what do you think of the lighting?”

The other photographer looked through his viewfinder. “It’s fine.”

“I think we need something a little more dramatic.” She grabbed the umbrella-shaped light and dragged it down its rail, thought for a moment, and adjusted it again. “Hmm. It was fine for the other shot with him front-and-center but I want to make the ice a little… less reflective.”

“I can do that.” Deepfrost snapped his fingers. A layer of hoarfrost crawled away from him, covering the throne and dulling its shine like an ice cube pulled out of a freezer that was too opaque to see through. “Better?” If the lead photographer was anyone else, he would be less inclined to be helpful.

“Yes. Perfect.” She adjusted the lighting again and looked through her viewfinder. “Oh there we go. Yes. Thank you.”

The corners of Deepfrost’s mouth quirked. Then he shuffled on the throne. “So what’s the surfboard for?”

His favorite photographer was adjusting her focus as she got a little closer. “Sheriff’s August shoot last week.”

Deepfrost raised a brow.

“Oh. Hold that face. Look directly down my lens.”

He obliged. Her shutter clicked.

She looked at her screen. “Damn. That one’s intense,” she said. Then put her hand over her mouth. “Sorry. Language.”

He waved it off. “We’re all adults—I can handle it.”

She showed him the image.

“Oh. Yeah, you’re right. Sorry—I didn’t mean to be that intense.” He chuckled and looked down. A shutter clicked. After a second, he straightened up, lounged against the back of the throne, and threw one leg over the arm of it. “Ain’t it a treat, working with me? Never know what you’re gonna get.”

“Hold that pose right there. Change of plans.” She backed up, looked through her camera, approached and adjusted the cloak, and went back to her spot. “Okay give me that eyebrow again. Be really condescending. You are the king and I am not worthy of being in your presence.”

Deepfrost tried to comply, but started giggling. “Why is the ice king not wearing a shirt? Isn’t that a little silly?”

She snickered. “Maybe. Go ahead and tilt your head back. Yeah, rest it like that. Really look down your nose at me.” She bent a little for a better angle. “Yes. Perfect. Give me that eyebrow again, please.” Her camera kept clicking. “There we go. Relax your mouth a little. That’s it. Look over my head. Back down the lens. Ross, grab the crown?” She worked the new pose, going so far as to hand him a prop dagger and rest it arrogantly in a loose hand.

Deepfrost actually found himself having fun. For the most part he hated photoshoots. But part of him—the nerdy part that Gem teased him for—couldn’t help but feel like he was some DnD character.

The lack of a shirt still made no sense, but the crown and the cloak and the leather pants and all his ice around him made him feel like some actual king of the frozen north somewhere, and the photographers were the bold adventurers seeking his aid—

God, Gem would be laughing her head off if she heard him thinking that. Skizz would too, but in appreciation as a fellow DnD nerd.

Still, if it helped him laugh and have fun, then all the better.

Partway through the pose, he kicked his other leg up onto the same arm of the chair and lounged against the other arm.

“That one is good too. You’re a natural at this when you’re playing nice,” she remarked.

“Hey, this is the closest I’ll get to a fantasy photoshoot. Might as well embrace it.” He relaxed into his position and played with the dagger a little bit. He knew dagger combat. Arctic Fox had taught it to him when he’d first learned how to make blades of ice. He didn’t fiddle with knives where anyone could see, but he idly played with daggers while thinking sometimes. So he fiddled and played while the photographers kept taking pictures. At one point, he traced swirling patterns of glittering frost across its blade. He hid it behind the cloak and made one out of ice for a bit. When that one burst into snow, he trailed a hand lazily up through the air as it filtered between his fingers like sand in a sieve. Maintaining the confident, arrogant, condescending expression the whole time.

The crown went on and then off again.

The lead photographer took a deep breath. “Okay. Time to… hmm. Do we want to do some of you standing next to the throne, leaning on it? Show off all your lines?”

The cameras shuttered as he swung his legs and stood in one fluid, graceful, feline motion. He had no idea what part of his powers made him move with such an eerie smoothness, but it worked to intimidate people sometimes. Not his cousins. The cloak swished around his ankles. He scooped up the prop dagger and moved to the side of the throne and leaned one shoulder against it. “Where do you want my arms?”

“Start with them just down at your sides. Keep your face relaxed. No expression. No eyebrow.”

“Aw dangit,” he said jokingly. She laughed. He schooled his expression into a flat one.

“Just look right down my lens like I’m the gum on the bottom of your favorite shoes.” Click! Click! Click! “Just like that. Hold there. Now raise that dagger and look at the tip of it like you’re considering skewering me with it—no, bring it a little farther away from your face, you’re going cross-eyed— Yesss! Perfect! And can we try you propping your elbow up on the side of the throne so we can see that bracelet really well? Mm. Make sure to relax your hand. And if you can really lean into that arm in a sort of relaxed but confident posture. And can you fix the little charm on the bracelet so it’s hanging toward me instead of falling back? Exactly. Yes—right there. Just like that.” She straightened up. “I think we might be good for January. We have a lot of options.” She glanced at the other two photographers. “What do you think?”

Both of them seemed to agree.

“Alright. Want to get changed for December? There’s a screen over there.” She gestured toward the shadowy corner of the studio where a pair of changing screens made a little square of privacy.

Deepfrost nodded. “Thanks.” He grabbed his bag off the folding chair and took it into the changing area.

The skintight leather trousers were difficult to get off, considering, oh yeah, they were skintight and leather wasn’t exactly known for its stretch. He bit out muffled curses that were mostly unintelligible as he tried—and ultimately failed—not to fall over.

“Everything okay?” the lead photographer called.

“Fine!” Deepfrost replied, a little higher-pitched than he’d like. Oh well.

The black leather trousers were swapped for a proper pair of swim trunks. Pale, icy cyannish-blue. No one had been able to find a pair of trunks (or even fabric) that perfectly matched his hair and eyes. He was fine with that.

Once he was as covered as he was going to get, he went back out into the rest of the studio. The leather trousers and his upper arm bracelets were in his bag and the cloak was returned to the prop table.

“Okay. December. I’m doing snow angels, right?”

The other photographer was moving the silvery backdrop back to where it had been, leaving the corner of the studio that seamless white again.

“Right,” the lead photographer replied as she adjusted the lights.

“Cool.” He snapped his fingers.

The throne burst into a massive pile of snow. Deepfrost waved a hand idly and it flattened out across the white floor.

“Do we need more than that?” he asked. “I can make more.”

“I think that should be enough,” the lead photographer replied. “Let me grab the ladder so we can do top-downs easier.”

“Made that mistake last week didn’t we?” the second photographer muttered.

“Sheriff was a good sport about it,” the lead photographer dismissed.

Sheriff had a top-down shot, noted. Tango and Jimmy hadn’t told each other what their plans for the calendar were. They wanted to keep it a surprise for when the product was finished. “Yeah,” Deepfrost added. “It’s a lucky thing he’s a patient sorta guy, isn’t it?”

“Mmhmm,” the lead photographer said.

The behind-the-scenes photographer came over while the other two set up ladders, showing off some of their shots. “If there are any of these that you want specifically today, just let me know. I can get them sent to your division communication app and you can download them to your phone.”

“Thanks,” Deepfrost said. “Hey, hang on. Go back, please?” The photographer ticked back a few photos. “Right there. That one. Can you send that one to me?”

“Sure. Let me go plug the camera into the laptop for a second.” They wandered off.

—

Jimmy looked down as his phone buzzed on his desk.

New Message
Tango: [Image Attachment]

He tapped the notification. The teeny tiny thumbnail it tried to show him was nowhere near good enough for him to actually see what was going on. Once his phone unlocked, the image pulled up properly.

Jimmy had never actually gotten a nosebleed from seeing Tango looking absurdly attractive—

Though he supposed there was a first time for everything.

The image was Tango—well, Deepfrost actually—without a shirt on. Barefoot. In tight leather trousers. There was a grand black cape with grey fur at the shoulders hanging off him. He was lounging sideways across a throne made of ice, one leg kicked a little higher in the air than the other. Gesturing vaguely with a knife—showing off a black leather upper arm bracelet just below his deltoid—while talking with another photographer. There was confidence and ease in his posture and the mischievous tilt to his grin and gleam in his eyes.

“Holy…” he breathed, barely able to form a complete, coherent thought.

“Whatcha doin’?” a voice asked.

“Nothing!” Jimmy slammed his phone, screen-down, on his desk and covered it with both hands while he hit the power button repeatedly so it was off.

Gem had her eyebrows scrunched and a confused smile on her face. “Clearly it was somethin’, if you’re that desperate for me to not see it.”

“My boyfriend sent me something and it’s none of your business.”

“Your boyfriend… who happens to be my cousin?”

“Exactly.” Jimmy tugged on the collar of his shirt. The office was feeling a lot warmer than usual out of nowhere. “None of your business.”

A playful, knowing grin tilted up the corners of Gem’s mouth. “Ohhhhh. I gotcha.” She winked. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” She went back to her own cubicle.

Tango you can’t be sending me stuff like that while I’m at work! Jimmy thought, panicking but not really.

He checked over his shoulders for Gem snooping and took another peek at the photo.

“Oh… my gosh,” he managed to mutter.

—

“Am I supposed to feel this stupid?” Tango asked. “I’m a grown man making snow angels in a studio.”

The lead photographer shrugged from her spot on the ladder. “Only weird if you make it weird, right?” she replied, zooming in a little more. Which made him smile and he heard camera shutters going off. “Alright. Do you want to smile for this one?”

“Is everyone else doing one serious, one smile?”

“No. Sheriff, CG, and HG are smiling in all of theirs. Arctic Fox… well. We can’t see his smile past his mask so how would we know? And I don’t think Impulse is going to smile in either of his.”

Deepfrost thought for a moment. “How about a small one? Close-lipped. Go for a soft and peaceful vibe in stark contrast to the condescending king from January.”

“That works,” she replied. “Close your eyes, maybe? Since they were such a focus for the other one. Can you make it look like snow is falling?”

Deepfrost snorted. “Buddy. Not only can I make it look like it’s snowing: I can just make it start snowing.” He looked past her toward the ceiling and bounced his eyebrows.

Big, fat snowflakes began drifting down from nowhere, dancing as they fell. He closed his eyes and smiled slightly, relishing in the snow around him like when he was a child and the first snow of winter always made the world—and his scattered, overactive mind—so quiet. Especially when it snowed at night.

“Ooh. Hold right there.” Cameras clicked. “And now put your arms up at the top of the snow angel?” He did so. “There we go. Those are good.”

“JJ,” the other photographer said quietly, “the snow is blurry.”

“My bad,” Deepfrost said. A muscle in his forehead twitched.

All the snow froze, suspended, in the air.

“Try that this time.”

The cameras went back to work.

“Hey Frost,” the lead photographer said quietly. “Open your eyes but look at the camera like you’ve just woken up and something you love is right there.”

“Mmm… coffee…” Deepfrost said with a sarcastic, dreamy tone to his voice. 

She laughed. “That works.”

In truth, Deepfrost was thinking about waking up on the rare lazy Saturday morning with Jimmy right there in bed with him, snuggled up and warm. Relaxed and not caring about anything yet. When the sun was still weak and the world had forgotten about heroes and villains in favor of dreams—

“That’s perfect! Don’t move.”

Deepfrost barely heard her, still remembering the most recent time he and Jimmy had a lazy Saturday morning to themselves. Just smiles and kisses and breakfast and playing with the cat—formerly Jimmy’s cat, now their cat—and snooping on the neighbors when the one across the way started singing as she gardened her window boxes again.

“Okay, Frost. Can you stay relaxed and raise one hand up toward the ceiling? Like you’re reaching for the snow but not too hard?”

He lifted a hand, fingers still slightly curled.

“There you go. Relax that forehead, please. And your jaw. That’s better. Thank you.” Click, click, click! “Could you try resting your other hand over your heart for me? I just want to see how it looks—okay. Yeah. Hold that for just a second.” Click, click! “Go ahead and close your eyes again, with that same sort of calm you had before. Thank you.” Click, click, click! “Are you getting cold? Do you need a break?”

“I’m fine. Cold doesn’t mean much to me,” Deepfrost dismissed. “You’re free to keep going, I won’t start shivering or anything.”

“Okay. Let us know if you need a break.”

“Sure.” He probably wouldn’t. He doubted he’d need a break. A two-hour photoshoot wasn’t exactly physically strenuous compared to a two-hour workout next to Sheriff. He’d done those a few times and those left his lungs ragged.

The rest of the photoshoot passed quickly. The snow angel concept was a lot less versatile and ambiguous than the ice throne, and didn’t require anywhere near as much time.

Before he knew it, Deepfrost was getting rid of all the snow and pulling his T-shirt, socks, and Converse back on. The walk down the stairs of the division building back to the locker room wasn’t long enough to make changing out of the swim trunks necessary, and his comfy normal clothes were there.

He gathered up his things and lingered near the door. “Hey. Thank you. For making this bearable,” he said. “I, uh… I really appreciate it.”

His favorite photographer gave him a friendly smile. “Of course. Thank you for playing nice for the cameras.”

He smirked—all bravado and sarcasm. “Just for you.” With a bounce of one eyebrow, he yanked open the door and left the studio, calling, “Can’t wait to see the end result!” over his shoulder as he did.

—

The doors got pulled and held open, and Impulse carefully pushed his motorcycle inside, glad there wasn’t a random bar in the middle for the handles to get caught on. 

“Where do you want me to put this?” he asked as he kept walking the bike inside.

“Put it to the side of the surfboard for now,” JJ called where she was on a ladder behind a light rig. “Once we get the background in place you can bring it over here.” The light—a bulb that cast its light backward onto the underside of a reflective umbrella to diffuse the directness—shook and squeaked a little. JJ muttered under her breath while she fidgeted with it.

“Do you need a hand?” Impulse asked.

“No thanks. It’s just being stubborn. After Deepfrost’s shoot it got stuck on its rail. Just needs to get unstuck.”

Impulse drew the Pulse Bike even with the surfboard and nudged its kickstand down with his foot. Once the stand was locked in place, he rested the weight of the bike against it and carefully released it.

Getting the Pulse Bike indoors, in Impulse’s mind, felt like more of a pain than a benefit. Though it had beat the other options out by virtue of feeling less … revealing. 

The bike was part of his hero identity; he’d had a version of it for almost as long as he’d been Impulse, and while he wasn’t as tuned-in to the ‘fandom’ as Scar was, he knew he was linked with his motorcycle pretty heavily. Same went with his favored fighting style, though he was fortunate enough that no one had decided to try and track down his civilian identity through the boxing circuit. He’d never been particularly well-known, but there might still be records of Stephen Violett lying around, or people that remembered him. 

But his drumming was something he’d never revealed to the public, so that was a hard no. Though a part of him was curious how good of a shot they would be able to get with him behind a drumkit. 

But if he was honest with himself (and he did his best to be self-aware), Impulse had not picked his intended poses with the public in mind. His boxing picture was intended to be a gift to Ruby for her birthday month, and for the bike, he’d rattled off ideas he’d put together and waited to see which ones made his wife get a dreamy look on her face when they were spoken. 

“JJ, let me give it a shot,” the other photographer who was holding the ladder steady—Randy? Robert? No, his name was… Ross!—said to JJ. “You go ahead and start setting up.”

JJ heaved a sigh and climbed down the ladder. “Fine, fine,” she said before hopping the last rung and giving Impulse a warm smile. “Alright! Do you have everything you need here with you?”

“Yeah.” He nodded at the small sling pack sitting on the Pulse Bike’s seat.

JJ’s smile didn’t change. “Fantastic! Let me get the background in place, and then we’ll set up the bike and then you can get changed.”

Impulse nodded and JJ strode off to one side of the pure white background and grabbed some curtains on a rail toward the ceiling of the studio. She leafed through them, each one revealing a different color of some sort. Mostly neutrals, but also glittering silver and gold. JJ paused on the gold one for a second, biting her lip and narrowing her eyes. She drew some of it up and looked at him and the bike over the top of it and shook her head before letting it drop.

“Ross, I’m thinking we go with the darker grey,” she said. “I think black is a little too dark. Of course, we want the bike and Impulse to pop against the backdrop. And I know we were thinking black. But I think the black might be too much.”

“You’re the boss, JJ,” Ross said, finally unsticking the light from its adjustable rail so it would glide up and down again. He tested it and then climbed down off the ladder.

JJ moved a cool-toned, dark grey background along the rail and started splaying it out. The curtains bunched up on the rail ahead of it got unceremoniously shoved to the far other side of the rail and tucked out of sight. Then the grey one got smoothed out. It was the same sort of dark as a stormcloud.

Impulse approved.

She spread it out across the floor as well. “Alright, Mr. Impulse. Go ahead and bring the bike over. If you can, let’s put it at an angle, not parallel to the walls, with the headlights out toward the studio.” She planted herself on a spot and extended her arms. “Like, riiiiight here?”

Impulse nodded and walked the bike over, careful to sweep it in a long arc to park it right in the angle JJ indicated. “How’s this?”

“Great!” JJ smiled then pointed with two fingers over his shoulder. “There’s a screen over there for you to change, and a chair with your name pinned on it for you to put your bag on.”

“Thanks.” Impulse took his bag off the Pulse Bike and went to change.

Behind the screen, he exhaled quietly before starting to strip down and switch from his suit to a pair of yellow swim trunks.

HG had wanted the project to display the toll of their work on their bodies. And while there was no mirror in the makeshift changing room, he didn’t need it to know that being active for over twenty years had turned his skin into a roadmap, even with the work of Zombie Queen to speed the healing process along, and the march of time making the oldest ones fade. 

In theory Impulse was a mid-range fighter. His powers worked best when he was close enough to see what he was aiming at, and he could stay some distance back. But light and fire couldn’t hurt him, he never suffered the problems of smoke inhalation, and he had been a boxer long before he’d manifested, so he still enjoyed fighting in close quarters. 

That all combined into him being pretty confident he was the most scarred hero in the division. 

Still-living hero, in any case. TFC had been racking them up before his passing, too.

Impulse shook the thought away: no time for mourning his old friend. For all that he thinks the project is embarrassing, he knew the geokinetic would laugh and enjoy it, the younger man ribbing him for his uptight attitude. 

TFC was gone, but he’d been avenged. He’d try to enjoy this like his friend would. 

He forced himself to not think too much about the situation and pulled the little box out of a pocket in his costume jacket. He’d already popped in his blacktoned set of piercings — studs on his lobes, a little hoop in his right helix, the eyebrow piercing that had an onyx set into it — but he’d brought his gold set in case JJ wanted to swap. 

(He only went out of his way like this for JJ. She had earned his trust and respect, so he cooperated with her the best. Any other photographer would just have to deal with whatever he brought with him.)

Also in the box was his old, well-loved pair of leather upper arm bracelets with the silver charms attached. Made for him by Faye Tek back when he was 19, and still fitting his biceps as snugly as they had back then. He didn’t wear them as often as he had back when he was just a drummer and a boxer, but they would look good — he hoped — with the shots being taken.

Left bracelet on first, then his right. A quick glance at his phone camera set to selfie mode, making sure the headpiece that hid his brown hair and made him look like he had a blond faux-hawk instead was still sitting correctly on his head.

Ready as he was going to be.

He stepped out, not paying much attention to the photographers, fidgeting with one of the charms on his bracelet. It got twisted backward. His peripheral vision focused more on navigating the studio. It wasn’t a mess but there were strange props littered around. Though, the giant ice throne Tango had mentioned was a Deepfrost original ice sculpture and only lasted the shoot. So at least there wasn’t a jagged thing of fake-ice sitting somewhere for him to trip on.

“Okay. Where do you want me to start?” he asked as he strode onto the backdrop.

JJ was casing the scene in her viewfinder and turned to look at him. “Let’s have you start in front of…” She trailed off.

He looked up. “What?”

Her eyes were fixed, focused right on him.

A little lower than he liked people other than his wife looking.

Disappointment started to cloud his mind. Tango said JJ had been as professional as ever, not ogling or fangirling. Never making any remarks that could be misconstrued.

His jaw flexed. “Something wrong?” he asked tightly.

She extended a hand, her fingers slightly bent. She never pointed if she could help it. The gesture was directly toward his abs. “Wh… what happened?”

He frowned, following JJ’s gesture until he saw what she was pointing at. 

The scar was faded from age and healing, but still visible. He didn’t remember where exactly he’d gotten it, but he remembered how and who had shot him. 

Doc was never alone, after all. He’d always had some skeleton minions with bows scattered around him, and Impulse’s armor hadn’t been as good back in the early days as it was now.

“It’s a puncture wound. From an arrow,” Impulse said.

The outsides of her eyebrows tilted down in sympathy. “I…” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry. It’s unprofessional to stare. I’ve never seen a scar like that before.” She tore her gaze away and swept her hand toward the bike. “Go ahead and stand in front of it, maybe lean against it.”

“JJ,” Impulse said, voice quiet. She paused where she was fiddling with the settings on her camera. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being a decent human being.”

“Wh… what?” Her brows scrunched. “What do you mean?”

“I appreciate that the staring was at a scar you didn’t recognize rather than something else.”

Her smile was small and appreciative. “Well,” she said jovially, leveling her lens toward him and adjusting, “it’s a matter of professional pride not to ogle my clients. It’s very rude.”

Impulse leaned against the Pulse Bike, crossing his arms. The way he often did in the field.

JJ took a few pictures. “Okay that looks good, but put your arms down and let’s see if that’s… yeah there we go. We want to look open, not closed-off.” She was still grinning. “Okay. Can you try to relax your shoulders just a little? Just looking a little stiff and tense—just like that. Good job.” Her camera shutter clicked a few times. “Still a little stiff but I can work with that.” There was a cheeky smile behind her camera. Which immediately served to make Impulse relax better. For all her professionalism, she was playful and had a knack for relieving tension.

After a few more slight adjustments and snapped photos, she lowered her camera.

“Okay, let’s get you on the bike now.” She chewed the inside of her cheek contemplatively. “Do we want to adjust its angle… no, I think we’re fine for now.”

Impulse raised a brow. “You sure? I can move it.”

JJ had her forefinger and thumb of both hands out in front of her in a rough rectangle framing as she inspected the angles so nothing would reveal the edge of the background. “Mm… no. I think… I think we should be okay. Go ahead and hop on.”

“You’re the boss.” Impulse slung his leg over the bike and pulled on the handles so it wasn’t tilted down on its kickstand.

“Let’s do a head-on shot first just to see how it looks,” JJ said. “But I plan on doing most of these from a side angle to see more of the bike.”

“Uh-huh. The bike. Sure,” Impulse said sarcastically. 

JJ shrugged as she lifted her camera to one eye. “The point of this calendar is to show off scars, isn’t it? They’re not contained to just your torso.”

“Diplomatic answer.”

“Keep giving me that face, actually. Deepfrost’s shoot was full of attitude. I think something similar will serve you just as well.”

Impulse’s slightly raised brow lifted a little higher. “Attitude, huh?”

“Mmhmm.”

A tiny smile began to tug slightly at the corners of Impulse’s mouth and JJ’s camera went crazy. “Not surprising. I’ve known Deepfrost a long time. I’m pretty sure Attitude is his middle name.” His middle name was actually Richard, after his father—the closest person Impulse had to a brother.

JJ snickered. “Oh, I know. The other photographers the division books sometimes have told stories. But if he gives me attitude it’s usually in jest.”

“That’s because he respects you,” Impulse said, “and you’ve definitely earned it.”

“Thanks.” She took another couple pictures. “Okay I’m actually gonna have you turn your head to your left, my right, to show off the helix piercing and circuit on that side, and I want you to try and look focused, but not angry. Think you can give it a shot?”

“I can try.” Impulse turned.

“Try not to twist your torso so much, just your head. I don’t want the angle to be super dramatic, just want to show off that earring and circuit and have you not looking at me. Hey there you go! Not bad!” Click-cli-cli-cli-click! “Okay. I’m gonna direct you around a few small adjustments at this head-on angle and then I’m gonna move to the side a bit, if that’s okay.”

Impulse shrugged dismissively. “You’re the pro,” he said.

He did his best to comply with JJ’s instructions for adjustments of his pose and expression, trying not to feel too foolish or irritated.

She shuffled over to take pictures at an angle to show off more of the Pulse Bike. Not an exact, ninety-degree profile angle. About halfway between head-on and perfect profile. “Would you turn your handlebars toward me just a little and lean the bike just a little toward me like you’re drifting? You can keep your foot on the floor if you need to,” she requested, peering through her viewfinder. “And look over my right shoulder, your left, like you’re looking at something else. Just not the camera.” Impulse complied. The shutter clicked. “Oh yeah. Perfect. That looks fantastic.” She was smiling in satisfaction.

She lowered her camera and considered for a moment.

“How would you feel about using your powers a little?” she asked.

Impulse blinked. “In what way?”

“Well, this is the July image. We were planning on adding fireworks to the background in post. But I’m wondering if we can use your powers for a more dynamic shot and maybe not need the fireworks.” She pinched her chin in thought. “If you’re unsure about using your powers, that’s fine. I just figured it was worth the ask.”

“What did you have in mind?” Impulse tilted his head, moving a lock of blond hair out of his eyes.

“Can you shape your fire into a firework?” JJ asked.

“Let’s find out.”

Impulse lifted his hand and focused. Technically he only needed to think his commands to make his pyrokinesis react, but tying his powers to actions and genuine intent made it unlikely for his powers to react to passing thoughts and whims. 

Golden flames sparked to life on his fingertips and spun in a spiral around his wrist, barely the width of Pearl’s pinkie finger as he thought. What would be the best shape to hold his flames in? 

Probably best to start small, so JJ could balance the glare on her camera. 

The flames spun back up his right wrist and over his open flat palm. Most of the time his fire was shaped in bursts or disks or rings, but now he teased it into a shape similar to a bursting firework, about the size of a basketball. 

JJ fiddled with her settings, raising and lowering her camera over her eye. “Actually… just hold that right there,” she said. “And… start by looking directly into the camera.” Impulse complied. “Can you raise one eyebrow just a little? I’m thinking intense more than anything else, emotion-wise. Oh perfect. Just like that.” Her shutter went off. “Now look over my shoulder again, somewhere between me and Ross.” Impulse’s glowing yellow eyes flicked away. He had a rather stern resting expression, even in his civilian life, and he hoped that was translating into an intense look. “Does curling or flattening your fingers affect your powers?”

“Not really. Why?”

“Can you try and curl your fingers less? They’re covering a bit of the fire.”

Impulse straightened out his fingers some.

“Perfect, just like that.” Her shutter went off. She lowered her camera. “How would you feel about trying something else with your fire?”

“Like what?”

“Not sure, exactly. Something more creative than just a firework.” She thought for a moment. “Something to fill the background a little so I can pull back the zoom a bit, maybe?”

“Hmm,” Impulse hummed thoughtfully.

Something more creative. 

Impulse felt his mind wander, and an idea took shape. Might require a few tries to get it right. 

“I have one, but it might take me a couple attempts to get it where we want it,” he announced. “Give me feedback once I get the basic shape made so we can make it better.”

“Can do.” JJ popped a thumb up, and then re-angled her camera. 

More golden flames erupted from both hands and in his mind’s eye Impulse envisioned the shape he wanted to make them into. He wasn’t artistic, not the way his daughters were, but hopefully he could get the right shape. 

The news had been getting a lot of use out of him being the ‘Fiery Avenger’ in the past decade or so, after the arrest of Mumbo Jumbo. But his ‘heroic’ debut (not counting his self-defense of himself and Ruby that had led them to meeting TFC) had come with a name too, and he was still fond of that title. 

The rough shape of wings took shape, sketched into being by strands of golden fire and being tweaked every other second as he glanced at them.

He might not be able to fly, but if he was going to invoke ‘the Dragon of Cherry Peak’ nickname, he should have some wings to match. 

He heard JJ’s “Ooh!” of delight and excitement. “Oh look at that,” she said with a big smile. “That’s incredible.” She took several steps back and twisted her lens to zoom out enough to get the whole shape of the wings in her shot. “Would you be able to move the right one up a little so it can be seen behind the left one since the left one is closer?” She bent her knees and angled her camera upward.

“Your right or mine?”

“Your right, my left, sorry.”

Impulse nodded. He pursed his lips and focused, making the outline of the right wing rise higher than the left.

JJ’s camera clicked. The other two photographers were also getting their shots.

“That looks badass,” JJ said with a big smile behind her camera. “Oop. Sorry. Language.”

Impulse scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Trust me, I don’t care,” he replied. “I was a boxer, remember? Not exactly family-friendly entertainment. Especially behind-the-scenes.”

She shrugged. “Trying to be professional,” she dismissed. She cleared her throat. “Can you put one hand out like you’re gonna throw some fire but not actually use any fire? Yeah, like that. But can you fix the charm on your bracelet? Thank you. Also, would you bend your elbow and lower your arm at the shoulder just a little bit so I can get more of the wing in… perfect. Just like that. That looks awesome. Just hold those wings. I’m gonna stand up and go to a head-on angle. You just hold that pose for me.” Her camera kept clicking as she moved. “This is one of the coolest shots I’ve ever taken. Unequivocally.”

Impulse couldn’t help the smirk of amusement and pride that played on his mouth. The camera shutters went off again.

“Hold that expression, actually. Can you put a little arrogance in it?”

“Arrogance is confidence that can’t be backed up. I assure you, I always back it up.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” JJ said. “But for the sake of understanding, let’s say arrogance.”

Impulse’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Yes ma’am,” he said. He did his best to pour his confidence into his face. The smile. The tilt of his head. The relaxation in his shoulders. In control, always.

“Oh yes,” JJ said. “This is perfect. Absolutely fantastic.” She moved back to her angled shot, standing and then crouching.

The other two photographers continued to do wider angles and behind the scenes shots.

After a few more directions and repositioning, JJ lowered her camera onto its strap around her neck and set her hands on her hips. “Okay. I think we’ve exhausted July. Why don’t you go ahead and get changed for… September, was it?”

“Yeah.” Impulse slung his leg off his bike and walked the Pulse Bike off the backdrop and parked it near a surfboard. He grabbed his bag and headed for the back of the studio.

Back in the makeshift changing room, Impulse swapped out the yellow swim trunks for black ones, then switched his piercings from the blacktone set to the gold set.  

Finally he pulled the last ‘prop’ he’d brought with him out of his bag. After he’d agreed to the shoot and set up his plans, he’d started properly breaking in a new pair of black handwraps for the shoot. JJ had brought a pair of black boxing gloves but Impulse was pretty sure they wouldn’t be in the picture they picked for the final product. Or at least, they wouldn’t be on his hands. 

He might not be as ‘in-tune’ with the fandom as Scar was (and he’d never liked that terminology to begin with), but he had an inkling that pictures of him with just the handwraps on his fists would look more compelling. 

He spent overall less time changing than before, and exited already starting to unroll one of the wraps, twelve inches of fabric being separated before he popped the loop on his left thumb. The separated fabric went around his left wrist three times, keeping it snug but not constricting. 

“Do you need help, Mr. Impulse?”

He didn’t look up at Ross’ question, keeping his attention on his actions. Wrap once around each finger, with another loop around his wrist between each finger. “Nope. I’ve been wrapping my own hands since I was nine. And I’m not sure what poses I’m going to be doing, but if they involve any action shots where I actually hit something, I’m making sure my hands are supported.”

Three times around his knuckles, then a single wrap around his thumb, then his wrist again. If he was tracking his number of punches, he’d add trackers now, but for a photoshoot that was unlikely. So Impulse had left those behind, and instead finished the wrapping on his wrist and secured it with the Velcro on the end. 

He tested the give for a moment. Nice and taut. Satisfied, he took the other wrap and started unrolling it. 

“If it’s not too much trouble, sir — how does hand-wrapping work, exactly?”

Impulse glanced up to look at the photographer — the youngest of the trio here. Maybe a bit older than Tango, but his use of sir reminded him of Sheriff. Jimmy never did quite outgrow calling him that, no matter how often he tried to get his nephew’s boyfriend to just call him by one of his actual names. 

He didn’t teach hand to hand often at the division — that had always been Fox’s sphere, while his own had been working with fellow elemental types — but he did teach when asked. This wasn’t quite the same, but he’d oblige Ross’ curiosity. 

He adjusted his position so he was leaning against the wall. (He distantly heard the BTS camera click, but ignored it.) 

“Wrapping helps support your bones and joints when you’re striking with them. It also helps keep your gloves clean: you can wash handwraps a lot easier than you can wash gloves,” he added, glancing up at Ross with a small smile. The camera clicked again, but Ross wasn't paying attention to it either. 

“How do you wrap your hands?”

That’s an easy answer for him. Impulse popped the wrap on his right thumb and started the process, talking as he went.

“Always start by wrapping your first foot of the fabric around your wrists. That’s going to be where most of the stability is needed. Afterwards, alternate a loop around each finger, with another wrist loop between them.”

“Does the thumb count?”

“Just the other four. Thumb gets a loop later. Make sure when you wrap, it’s snug but not constricting your blood flow. After the fingers, wrap your knuckles three or four times, depending on the size of your hands.” Impulse took a quick glance at Ross’ hands and mentally compared them to his before continuing. “I think for you, do four wraps. After that, do one loop around the thumb, and then finish off the wrap on your wrist and secure the Velcro.”

He’d heard the camera going a lot during the explanation. Hopefully some of them were good additions for Ruby’s collection. 

JJ was moving a standing punching bag onto the grey background during the explanation. She gestured at him when he caught her eye while she was heading to the prop table. “Whenever you’re ready,” she said. He nodded and pushed off the wall.

“How are we doing this one?” he asked.

She returned from the prop table with the black boxing gloves. Attached to one another by a braid of leather to dangle around his neck, but currently hanging from her bent elbow like a bag. “Couple different ways. We’re gonna start with the bag, and see what we can do from there.” She switched lenses on her camera. “I want to try some actual action shots, if you’re willing.”

“Sure.” Impulse shrugged and adjusted one of the upper arm bracelets to sit more comfortably.

She backed up and adjusted her settings again, along with the lighting. “Okay. Oh, those gold piercings catch this light really well. Nice choice.” She fixed something else on her camera and peered through her viewfinder. “Alright, sir. Go ahead and just. Do your boxing thing. Try to be slow but you can still go for it. Just face the side that will let me see the eyebrow piercing.”

Impulse moved into position, raised his hands, and began to hit the bag. He preferred hanging bags instead of standing bags, but he could make do with either. He focused on the task at hand and tuned out the camera shutters and the shriek of metal as a light was adjusted on a railing. He could see JJ moving around a bit in his periphery—and Ross moving much more—but he ignored them both.

“Okay!” JJ announced after a minute or two. “Let’s give a static shot a try and if it sucks we move on.”

“Meaning what?” Impulse asked, coming to rest.

“You’re just gonna have your hand up against the bag like you hit it, but you’re not going to be moving.” She switched back to the first lens she’d been using.

“You’re the boss,” Impulse said. He hit the bag like he normally would and held the position, instead of recoiling. 

JJ took a picture and flipped through the previous ones to see how it fared against the others. She made a face and showed it to Ross. “I dunno. It doesn’t feel as dynamic as the other shots,” she said. “The other ones have some motion blur but you can feel the movement and power a lot more in them, don’t you think?”

Ross was quiet for a moment. “I see what you’re saying, yeah,” he said. “Maybe we don’t do static action shots then?”

JJ pulled her upper lip between her teeth and bit at it, peeling off some dry skin. “Hmm… let’s do a few just to cover our bases, but not too many. I’d hate to waste Impulse’s time.” She smiled over at him.

“I’m at your disposal,” he remarked.

“We won’t waste too much time on static punch shots,” JJ decided. “But we’ll get a couple.”

“Yes ma’am,” Impulse said casually. Didn’t matter much to him either way.

He followed directions as JJ positioned him in fake action shots around the bag. There weren’t many and they didn’t take long. She added in a couple super tight shots of him punching toward the camera. Neither of them imagined those shots would get chosen since the angle didn’t show off his scars as much, but she was covering her bases.

Then she handed him the pair of black boxing gloves she’d had draped over her elbow. “Put these around your neck, please. And go ahead and lean back against the bag.” Impulse did so. “Let’s try hands on hips first?” He complied. She snapped a photo and looked at it. “Nah. Just rest your arms at your sides.” He did. “There we go. That’s better. Now go like you’re going to hit toward the camera again, but don’t get off the bag. A casual sort of ‘messing around with your buddy’ kinda hit.” Click-cli-cli-click. “Nice, not bad. Could you cross your arms for me? In that way that people do to make their muscles look bigger, if you can? You’re showing off here.”

Impulse huffed a quick laugh out his nose but followed orders. He didn’t exactly mind covering up one of the scars on his chest by crossing his arms.

“Now give me that intense look from before. The one that says ‘I’m the Dragon of Cherry Peak and you, villain, are in deep trouble.’” JJ smiled behind her camera, obviously having a lot of fun with how she delivered her instructions. Which caused Impulse to smile a little, and quickly try to school his expression back into his stern, intense gaze, eyes glowing yellow from a tiny pinprick of light that he’d kept hidden up in the lights JJ was using just to keep his eyes yellow the whole time so no one would see the brown underneath.

The behind-the-scenes camera definitely clicked while he’d been smiling, though.

“That’s exactly it. Hold that.” She took more photos and then straightened up. “Can we put you up against the brick wall?” She looked over at where he’d been leaning to show Ross how to tie the handwraps. “Just for a couple shots?”

“Sure.” He pushed off the bag. It didn’t technically support his weight of being leaned against it so he definitely hadn’t been properly relaxed.

“Ross, will you grab a light stand?” JJ asked.

The two of them took some of the standing umbrella lights on their tripods over to the brick wall to light it up properly. They took more of the same leaned back, casually confident posed photos, Impulse tilting his head up just a little to almost look down his nose as the camera lens, which JJ was delighted with.

She smiled. “I think we’re done. Thank you for your time, Impulse.”

“Thank you for being tolerable,” he replied.

“Go ahead and get changed. We’ll get all the behind-the-scenes photos sent to your division communication app for download.”

“Much obliged.” Ruby was going to have a great day when she saw all of those. More for her collection.

—

“Tango, Tango, Tango!” Scar exclaimed, running across the cafeteria and hauling Tango out of his chair, ignoring the squeal of protest. “Come see, come see, come see!” He dragged Tango out of the cafeteria and into one of the conference rooms.

Laid out across the giant conference table were photos and samples of calendar layouts. Tango had been in here off and on for the last week choosing the ones he wanted for his months. His uncle, Impulse, was already in the room, along with Jimmy and Etho.

Scar proudly handed him a large square of folded glossy paper. “May I present: the calendar!”

Tango raised a brow. On the front was just the division logo and ‘Shirtless Swimsuit Calendar.’

He raised the cover.

And was greeted with himself. Sitting sideways across an ice throne in skintight leather pants and a heavy black cloak with fur shoulders and black upper arm bracelets, black eyeliner serving to make the pale blue of Deepfrost’s eyes more intense. There was a dagger held arrogantly in one hand. He was lounged in such a way that most of his torso scars were exposed, and a decent portion of the ones on his arms. The black spiked crown jutted out of his ice-blue spiky hair.

Jimmy peered over his shoulder. “There’s my Ice King,” he said playfully, planting a kiss on Tango’s cheek, making Tango squawk—and start to flush a little from embarrassment. The calendar boxes were outlined with faint snowflakes.

Tango flipped the page.

CuTeGuY against a pure white background in love-heart swim trunks—white with pink and red hearts—leaping upward into the air with his wings spread wide, his bow drawn back with a red-and-pink heart-shaped-tipped arrow drawn back, smiling big and broad beneath his visor. Grian didn’t have many scars. He was a distance sniper most of the time. He didn’t often get in the thick of combat. His calendar days layout was outlined in hearts.

Tango flipped to the next page.

Etho—Arctic Fox—was only visible from the shoulders up. The backdrop was one of a forest. He had his lower face mask on and his headband tying his silvery-white bangs out of his way. His eyes were closed and he was buried up to his shoulders in clover. None of his scars—apart from the one that cut down his face over his left eye that he’d had since before Tango had ever met him—were visible.

“Etho!” Tango protested. “Come on, man! What kinda pathetic excuse for shirtless is this?” He tsked. “What a disappointment. You’re disappointing, you know that?” He looked up at his friend and mentor, eyes glittering with mirthful teasing.

“It was the only way I could get him to agree!” Scar said.

“I don’t see the need to let the world see my body,” Etho said. “I’m allowed to be private.”

“Well sure, but if you’re gonna agree, you gotta give the people what they want. Not even a nip-slip? Come on, what is this?” Tango teased.

Etho rolled his eyes. “You almost didn’t do it at all,” he retorted.

“Yep. But here I am anyway!” Tango dropped the pages back to January to show off the more fantastical shot of him on the throne. “Looking fully shirtless, I might add.” Jimmy definitely put off more body heat right behind him. Tango knew he was sensitive to temperature, and he could tell when Jimmy was blushing just by how much more body heat he radiated compared to normal. And normal for Jimmy was already much greater than the average, nonpowered person due to his metabolism.

“Mmhmm,” Jimmy agreed, sounding a little squeaky.

“Get a room,” Grian admonished distractedly.

“T… Tango?” Jimmy asked quietly. “Keep looking?”

“Right, right.” He flipped back to March. The boxes were lined in more clovers.

He flipped to April.

Sheriff. Lying on the ground. Upside-down to the viewer’s perspective from a top-down shot with a pair of red swim trunks just barely visible. In a field of flowers. The white mesh had been removed from the eye holes of his mask to show that his eyes were closed. He had a close-lipped smile on his face, both his hands resting gently over his heart. There was a sprig of lily of the valley tucked into his hair over one ear. Clasped between his hands, just over his heart—

A red daisy and a white daisy.

Red trunks, the red daisy—

“Oh Jimmy,” Tango whispered, turning to look at him. “You did this for me, didn’t you? For my birthday?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Maybe.” But he was smiling and not quite meeting Tango’s eyes.

Tango grabbed him with his free hand and gave him a dramatic kiss. Grian pretended to gag.

Tango let go with a “Mwah!” to see Jimmy’s face was bright red. “I love it, cowboy.”

“I’m… I’m glad,” Jimmy said softly.

Tango stared at April for another moment or two with a fond smile on his face—the boxes were lined in flowers—before flipping to the next page.

CuTeGuY again. In a pair of trunks that were red on the right leg, pink on the left. Sitting on a tire swing. Holding onto the rope with one hand to have his other arm and wings splayed out as far as he could stretch them, his legs kicked in the air too. Still smiling big.

“Two questions,” Tango said. “One: how did you get a tire swing in the photo studio?”

“It was already there from last year’s Pride Month shoot,” Scar said.

“Right. And two: what’s with the chicken in the corner?”

“Chicken?” Scar snatched the calendar from Tango’s hand. “G! You said you put it away!”

“How was I supposed to know it was still gonna be in the shot? I’m not the one who framed it!”

“It’s a prop he was messing around with,” Scar grumbled in explanation to Tango. “It’s fake. He kept saying he was gonna wear it on his head like a hat, like the hen was nesting in his hair.”

“He certainly has hair messy enough to pass as a nest,” Tango snarked under his breath.

“Hey!” Grian protested.

Tango took the calendar back from Scar and flipped the page.

To see HoTGuY on a blurry beachy backdrop with a volleyball net on one side. He was up in the air, arched backward to spike the ball. He had on a pair of trunks that were dual-colored like CuTeGuY’s May ones had been. Orange on his right, cyan on his left. With his visor on and all of his scars on full, easy display. Despite also being an archer, Scar tended to accumulate scars like none other.

“Scar, part of your tattoo is showing,” Tango said, tapping the hint of the rose-and-lilac tattoo in the center of his left thigh that was poking out from under the hem of Scar’s trunks with the way he was arched with his legs bent backward. He looked up and met his friend’s green eyes. “Are you okay with that?”

“If I wasn’t, I would have chosen a different picture,” Scar said with an indifferent shrug. “It’s not enough to really figure out what it is if people don’t already know.”

“But it was also the only thing stopping him from wearing a Speedo,” Grian teased.

“Shut up!” Scar retorted. They both dissolved into laughter and Tango and Jimmy snickered while Impulse and Etho exchanged a tired glance.

Tango flipped to July.

“Hot damn, Impy,” he said with a cackle. “Did your wife get a nosebleed?”

Impulse just glowered.

On the page was Impulse at a forty-five-degree angle shot, leaned slightly on his Pulse Bike in yellow trunks with his black lobe, helix, and eyebrow piercings all worn. He had one arm out like he’d just shot a plume of fire while drifting on the bike. And a pair of gold dragon wings outlined by fire spreading from his back. There were fireworks in the background, but they weren’t bright—they were subtle and almost difficult to see. An afterthought. The fire and the lighting made his patchwork of scars glisten.

Aunt Ruby definitely must have appreciated all that.

Gem and Pearl probably didn’t. They didn’t enjoy people thirsting after their dad and Tango didn’t blame them—but as the nephew, he was not above teasing his uncle for it.

The boxes were outlined with fireworks.

Tango nodded in appreciation and flipped the page to August.

Back to Sheriff. Still with his mask on and no mesh over the eyes, but now in a pair of dark navy blue trunks that almost looked like the fake-jeans he wore with his suit. His brass star badge with Sheriff stamped into it was hanging on a leather cord around neck, resting over his sternum. He was standing on the same sort of beachy background HoTGuY had been on. He had one arm around the light tan surfboard he was leaning against. His hazel-brown eyes were sparkling with his happy smile. He was looking off to one side, his hair shining gold and blond in the studio lights, like he had just caught sight of a friend at the beach. His entire torso and shoulders gleamed with ‘sweat.’ There seemed to be more light concentrated on his abs, making them bright, along with his scars. He didn’t scar as much as everyone else. His healing was too powerful for that. His free arm was bent up like he was walking toward his friend. The boxes of the days of August were lined by seashells.

Tango leaned to look up at Jimmy. “Hello handsome,” he said appreciatively. “We’ll be talking about these when we get home, cowboy.”

“Get a room,” Grian complained with a groan. Tango stuck his tongue out at him and flipped to September.

“I don’t know what else I could have expected,” Tango said.

Impulse against a brick background in black trunks. Leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest to make his muscles bigger, showing off his black handwraps, the black boxing gloves dangling around his neck, the braided upper arm bracelets, and the gold piercings through both lobes, his right helix, and his left eyebrow. He had his head tilted back just a little, an arrogant, confident posture.

“Not bad, old man,” Tango said playfully.

Impulse rolled his eyes. Tango giggled.

Tango flipped to October.

HoTGuY in the most violently bright orange swim trunks Tango had ever seen. His bow was resting among all sorts of other props, propped up to be more visible. He was sitting on the floor among carved pumpkins and autumn leaves. He had his knees bent up just a little.

He was snuggling a sleek black cat against his shoulder and face. A very soft, lovable look.

Tango nodded. “I like it, Scar. That's the most you thing I think I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you, Tango.” Scar turned to Grian. “Told you it was a good idea.”

Tango flipped the page.

“Etho—again?” he complained.

Etho was in an autumn cornucopia, buried in the fake vegetables up to his shoulders. Almost identical to the March shot apart from the set dressing.

Etho just shrugged, done defending himself.

Tango rolled his eyes. “You’re such a disappointment,” he joked before flipping the page.

December. Himself. Deepfrost lying in a field of snow, making a snow angel in his cyannish light blue trunks with the upper arm bracelets still on. Blurry snow falling around him. Another soft shot. He had a gentle smile on his face and he looked like he was enjoying himself, eyes half-closed. More snowflakes lined the boxes.

Tango closed the calendar and handed it back to Scar. “I think you nailed it, buddy.”

“Really?” Scar asked, sounding excited.

“Oh hell yeah. That thing is gonna sell out in twenty minutes.”