[u][b]New York March, 21ST, 2005 4AM[/b][/u] The landing floor creaked like an old time galleon, while the front door squealed open like a stuck pig. Ted couldn't remember them ever making a noise like that before, but then he'd never had to sneak into his own house before. Last time he'd been an urban vigilante he'd been an extremely eligible bachelor, now he was an old man who shared his home with a teenager. Back in the good ol' days he could come and go as he pleased, whatever time of night, and only have to worry about passers-by on the street noticing how much time Wildcat spent in and round Ted Grant's place. Now he had to worry about waking Tommy and giving the game away, every whisper of noise as conspicuous as rolling thunder. All those worries combined still couldn't wipe the smile off his face though, not after the night's good work. Not after he'd discovered that he still had it. That Wildcat was still the biggest badass going. (Suck on that Batman, ya young pretender). By a real stroke of luck it had transpired that Campagna actually worked for Moretti, and had started singing like an eager-to-please canary, feeding Ted all the information he could have possibly needed, and more. Ted almost felt bad for dropping the Weed and the junkie trio off with the cops after how helpful they were. . . Almost. The former champion padded through to his bedroom, unwinding his fistwraps and peeling off his sweat-soiled costume. Damn, but he felt good. Like top-of-the-world good. Like how he imagined Superman-felt good. And all he had to do was put the mask back on. He shoulda have done it years ago. The landing floor creaked like an old time galleon, while the front door squealed open like a stuck pig. Ted ears pricked, whole body tense. What the hell could that be, at this hour? Surely Moretti couldn't have found him, not so quickly. His neck broke out in a cold sweat. What would they do to Tommy? He heard stealthy footsteps making their way through the apartment. One set of footsteps. That wasn't right, Moretti wouldn't be stupid enough to send one man, because unless the guy could tangle with Iron-Man then he wasn't gonna be nearly enough. Ted crept behind his bedroom door, ready to leap out and throttle the intruder, soon as he sounded close enough to grab. Closer and closer the steps got. Ted's fists started to itch. Closer still. The intruder yawned. With a thunderous sigh Ted pushed opened his door and stepped into the hall. "You just get in Tommy?" "Nah, just got up to get some water." Tommy lied. Even if he hadn't been caught in the act it would have been easy to call his bluff. His shoulder length dark hair was clumped in greasy rat-tails, bags as big as suitcases had formed under his red veined eyes, and he was still dressed in shirt and jeans. The stench of smoke and alcohol hung heavy in the air around the boy, a potent reminder of Ted's own misspent youth. Worse still was the fact that Tommy was too young to be either drinking or smoking, especially on a school night. This was the sort of thing a father had to stamp out quick and hard, before it became a habit. . . Only problem there was that Ted didn't really feel like a father. He hadn't been there for Tommy, hadn't even known about him until a year ago, his mother had seen to that. She had kept the secret of Tommy's birth, and she was probably right to. Ted hadn't been father material, a hard drinking, modern day gladiator who picked men apart with his fists for money. He'd been on a path of self-destruction, good for a one night stand, but not for raising a family. Only reason he and Tommy ever met was because the mother had passed, and that small fact didn't make Ted a father. It just made him a man trying, and most likely failing, to make up for lost time with a boy who shared his blood. Still, he felt he should try to steer the boy onto the straight and narrow. "Tommy, tell me the truth now. Did you just get in?" Ted did his best approximation of a stern but fair father face. Truth was he wasn't quite sure how it was supposed to look. When he was training a fighter he just growled or screamed at em. He didn't think that would pass as good fathering. Tommy still didn't look all that receptive, his stance locking up defensively as he screwed up his nose, annoyed at being called out. "No, I told you, I. . . " The boy tailed off as his nostrils flared, and he sniffed at the air. His face softened a fraction. "Wait, did you just get in?" He asked. Ted stiffened. "What, no! Don't change. . . " "You smell like sweat. . . And is that blood? What the hell have you been doing?" Damn that boy had a good nose. Must get it from the mothers side. "Nothing, I was sleeping!" Protested Ted, taking a step back towards his room. "Really, because I swear I can smell. . . " "Forget it. Just go to bed Tommy. You've got school in the morning." "Fair enough. 'Night Ted." "Night." Ted pulled the bedroom door closed behind him, marveling at how quickly that had gone south. Who woulda figured fatherhood for being so difficult.