#keith smith

this scene was BRUTAL. the way he just sat there, taking it in, not wanting to say anything to break up the moment or give himself away. this is what he could have had. this is the life he would have had.

they were able to talk about and share their love so easily. they weren't toxic about it; they were just acting like a regular family. and that's something he never really got to experience

If John Economos had a dime for every time Christopher Smith’s dad tried to kill him, he’d have two dimes by now, which was weird but in the moment, he was grateful he hadn’t been tortured to death. By luck or divine intervention, he had escaped from the grasp of Blue Dragon and Captain Triumph. And now he was running as fast as he possibly could from a ton of Nazi fucks. This was the last time he was ever joining Adebayo through a dimensional portal. He was zigzagging through backyards and gaps in fences, but he wasn’t exactly in the fittest shape and he wasn’t wearing his comfortable shoe inserts to cushion the arches in his feet. He knew he would eventually get caught by them again, but the adrenaline in his body forced him onward to no particular destination. 

He knew Adebayo had been captured and Harcourt was MIA, so if he could just find Adrian goddamn Chase, then maybe he’d have a shot of getting out of this fascist hellscape alive. Maybe. He eventually dived into a gathering of sharp holly bushes bordering the last house on this street he’d wandered into. He quickly adjusted his glasses and what he saw nearly knocked the remaining wind out of his overworked lungs.

It was you.

But not really you.

He knew it wasn’t actually you from his world. Nonetheless, this you was wearing a colorful apron tied around your body with a noticeable bump in your midsection. You were holding a bulging white trash bag in your hand. After depositing it in the trashcan, you were wheeling it around to the back of the house. You initially didn’t see John at first, but the noise of the approaching crowd attracted your attention. You took a few steps towards where he was hiding, and made eye contact with his poorly hidden self.

John saw not-you’s eyes widen, then immediately narrowed and walked back to the garage door. The shouting from the ever-growing crowd increased as he watched you pull the latch up on the garage door. What were you doing? 

“You! Get inside,” you motioned at him. In any other situation, John would have frozen as part of his natural fight-or-flight response, or the fact he was seeing you in the flesh again, but John didn’t need to think twice as he clumsily rolled out of the bushes of the backyard and slid his body under the garage door. You followed after and caught the door with both hands and tugged it down, muffling the noise from outside. He saw you press a few buttons on the home security device, a final beep as it powered down. You turned sharply.

“This way.”

John stumbled after you, his shoes squeaking faintly against the garage floor. He couldn’t place the scents but your home smelled of herbs and slight floral tones. His eyes adjusted to the dim lighting in the cramped garage, then lone ceiling light in the narrow hallway, and finally the interior of the house itself. He was by the main staircase when you stopped short.

“Shit. Quickly, hide here,” and with surprising force from a very pregnant woman, you shoved John into the hallway closet near the front door. You quickly wiped your hands on the apron, adjusted your hair, and braced yourself.

You opened the door before the mystery guest could even knock. The smile you gave him was your usual practiced one, your hands rubbing together as though you were just stepping in from chores. “I thought that was you coming up the driveway. What can I do for Captain Triumph today?”

“You can just call me Keith, you know,” the man said. “We found one of the undesirables outside, and we believe she was accompanied by others. At least two males. One tall and large-bodied, the other one wearing some sort of armored suit. They were sighted around here and might be hiding in backyards and sheds.”

You shrugged, your hands now retying the strings of your apron behind your back. “I don’t believe I’ve seen anything out of the ordinary, Captain. And you know I have the best security system on the block, courtesy of ARGUS. It would have gone off if there was an intruder on my property. But I appreciate the vigilance. I know it’s tireless work keeping all of us safe.”

Keith fully removed his helmet, tucking it under his arm. John watched on through the slats of the closet door. John had only seen a brief glimpse of the very not-dead Keith Smith earlier in the Smith mega-mansion before he had been shoved into the bathroom by Harcourt. But seeing and hearing him this close, near you, nearly made John shit his boxers. 

“Part of my duty to protect Evergreen and her citizens,” Keith smiled. “But I haven’t seen you out in a while. I know things have been hard these past few months, but you don’t have to keep doing this on your own. Any woman who went through what you-,”

Before you could respond, a sudden blur thundered down the stairs. It was a boy about seven or eight years of age brushing past you and standing on the doorstep.

“Johnny!” you yelped. “Be careful!”

“Mom, you know Captain Triumph?” Johnny chirped, his wide eyes taking in the unexpected visitor through thick lenses. “Wow! Is he coming over for dinner?”

Keith bent down, ruffling Johnny’s hair. From the thin slats of the closet door, John saw your body go rigid. Your hand hovered near Johnny’s shoulder like you wanted to pull him back.

“Only if your mom would allow it,” Keith raised his brows. You shook your head slowly.

“Afraid not. I only have enough food for two. Three, if you count my current guest,” and you patted your pregnant belly to indicate your dinner guest. “Perhaps another time.”

“No worries. I’m just checking in on my favorite sidekick,” Keith said, winking at Johnny. “Make sure to take care of your mother, alright? Times are scary right now. Family means everything to me and Peacemaker.”

John bit his tongue to hide the utter groan desperate to escape his mouth and give away his location. More like Captain Cuck. Maybe it was good Keith was dead in their universe if he was this insufferably thirsty for another guy’s obviously pregnant wife. 

You pressed your palm protectively against your stomach. “Johnny, go back inside. I’m sure Captain Triumph is very busy and needs to continue searching for the bad guys.”

Johnny let out a little whine as he moved away from Keith’s hand. He slumped his way back inside the house, impatiently standing on the staircase.

Keith straightened up, hand lingering in the air before it returned to his side. “Think about what I said. I-we would love to see you at church again. Chrisper and I can pick you up this Sunday if we get this whole situation under control by then.”

Your jaw tightened. “Thank you for stopping by, Captain Triumph,” you said with one hand clutching the doorknob, as though your politeness could force him out. “And if I see any unsavory individuals around, I’ll report it to the proper authorities.”

Keith nodded, sliding his helmet back on. “I know you will. Always a pleasure, Mrs. Economos.”

John’s brain short circuited. He really wished he had his inhaler on him right now. Or any cocaine left from Adrian’s secret room to knock him unconscious. Economos? That was his last name, and not-dead Keith had called you Mrs. Economos. Which meant.

Fuck. He was married? Wait, no. Not him. This you was married to not-him. It was going to be awkward to run into his other self and trying to explain all this shit. He barely had a story to explain for other-you.

When the front door finally shut, you lingered there for a moment to see if Keith or anyone else would make another surprise call. After taking a deep breath, you turned toward the stairs to face your son.

“Johnny, why don’t you go upstairs and play in your room? I’ll call you back down when dinner’s ready.”

“Okay!” your son agreed, his footsteps thumping upward with excitement. This noise was followed by his bedroom door shutting close.

“You can come out now,” you whispered to John. “Let’s go to the garage.”

John all but fell forward from the cramped closet, his face blooming red and sweat beading on his forehead. He hated small spaces, and this would definitely contribute to his newly-formed claustrophobia. You gently guided him back to the garage, where you poured a cup of tap water from the standalone sink. You offered the cup to John, but he declined. John was prepared for an interrogation, for you to yell at him or something along those lines, but instead you sat down on an old folding chair and observed him while sipping water.

“Well, you're not my husband,” you muttered, looking him over. “Shapeshifters were all eradicated, so you can’t be a metahuman. But you look so much like him. So you must be one of the ones the Top Trio are looking for.” You tilted your head, searching his expression. “If you’re anything like my John, you’re either a dumbass or extremely brave. Probably both.”

John’s laugh came out strangled. “Oh no. I’m a major pussy. I only got roped into this shit because we came here looking for a friend. Peacemaker, but a different Peacemaker. Not like the one you probably knew, and things got fucked sideways. I’m uh, from another dimension. Shit, talking too much.”

The sound of your laugh startled both John. Small and fragile but very real. 

“Am I as funny here too?” he asked half-seriously. 

Your eyes softened as you reached for another gulp of water. “My John was a scientist at the Center for DNA Control. I won’t bore you with how we met. Not enough time to unpack all this anyway. But he was a good man.”

John blinked. “Was?”

Your shoulders dropped, and that should have been a tell for John to pick up on the truth, but his brain was still grappling with the fact he was in an alternate fucking dimension and that you were in front of him. “Officially, he was one of the casualties of the Center for DNA Control bombing, but…” and you paused here, chewing your lower lip. “My John was working with the Sons of Liberty on the inside. Giving them plans, recordings, old documents. Research trials. Experiments. Things like that. I worked as a secretary in the front office, but John refused to let me get directly involved. He told me to call out sick. That was about six months ago.”

You didn’t have to say it, but John’s stomach lurched at the realization. The room simultaneously spun above and below his feet. He was dead. His other self blew up a whole ass building. He steadied himself by placing a hand on the wall as a surge of bile burned up his throat. The irony of it all.

You held out the small wastebasket before he even asked.

John vomited. A lot. It was bad enough hearing the voice of Chris’s dead older brother and seeing him exist in this backwards-ass universe where hate crimes were legal, actually. Now he was unraveling in front of you, but not actually you. His wife from another dimension. When he finally lifted his head from puking his guts out, he set the wastebasket down and leaned against the washing machine to support his tired body. You handed him a clean hand towel, which he graciously took and wiped down his chin and beard.

“Sorry. I must be a fucking disappointment to you,” John apologized, setting the hand towel on the machine. “But thank you for hiding my ass from Captain Nazi there. What’s with him and you?”

You snorted. “Nothing. Trust me. I’d rather masturbate with a broken chainsaw than go on a date with him. But with my John gone, he’s constantly checking up on me, asking me to attend church or community rallies. I’ve been using the pregnancy excuse, but I can’t use that forever. I have to go on mandatory maternity leave soon, and I’ll be jobless for at least a year. Great country we have here.”

“That’s fucked up,” John absently said, which earned another small chuckle from you. God, he missed your laughter.

“Right? At first, we didn’t want to have children. It didn't seem fair to bring kids into such a hateful world. Makes fighting for the cause easier if you don’t have babies to feed back home,” you continued. “But Johnny happened anyway. I was scared, but you’re such a good father. I couldn’t ask for a better man.”

A momentary beat of silence, then you realized your mistake. “Sorry. I meant my John. It’s true though. I think having kids only strengthened our commitment to the cause. I was planning to tell John that we were expecting again,” your voice trailed off, the unfinished thought hovering between you. 

John opened his mouth, then shut it again. He had no words. None of value or comfort, anyway. It was taking every shred of his entire making to not completely collapse into himself. Here he was, being a fucking coward again. Some things never change, he thought. You would always save him, and he couldn’t repay you enough. Could never show you the gratitude you deserved.

“I’m not sure I should ask this in case I disrupt some time-space continuum shit but…” you finally spoke. “Is there another me? Here? With you?”

John’s chin trembled. He shook his head. “N-no. You’re not here.”

“Thank God. I don’t think I could manage seeing another me. I’m handling all this remarkably well, you know. It’s not every day I run into my dead husband’s doppleganger on the run,” you remarked.

“Yeah,” he croaked. “You are. Way better than me right now.”

You didn’t dwell on this moment too long, and changed the subject. “I’m sure you know I can’t hide you forever, but you can stay until evening. I need to make dinner, and then I can show you the back way around the neighborhood without getting spotted. It’s the same path my John used to take for his Sons meetings.”

“Thank you. Seriously,” John instinctually reached for your arm, but stopped short. He had no right to touch you. “I must be such a fucking disappointment to you.”

“The Earth you’re from...is it better there?” you asked quietly, ignoring his self-deprecating comment. 

John mulled over the answer, a hard ‘pfft’ blown through his sore mouth. “Uh, sort of? There’s still genocide, and dictators, and power hungry assholes who work in cubicle farms, but that’s just part of life. I think hatred is just one of those inanimate forces that just exists no matter what dimension or alternate universe or whatever the fuck this is. It’s not Nazi America. At least not yet.”

You pursed your lips and nodded. “You’re not wrong. Hate is inescapable. But you can say the same about justice or truth. Even love. It’s difficult to imagine, but I know things will change here. Probably not tomorrow or ten years from now. And if not in my lifetime, then for my children and theirs. I can live with that. It’s what my John believed in.”

You closed the door behind you, off to prepare dinner for you and your son. John stayed in the garage, his eyes scanning the many taped-shut cardboard boxes and totes. Out of respect, he didn’t poke around. He was afraid to learn more about the life the alternate you and your John led. A green and black kid’s bicycle, likely Johnny’s, was leaning against a wooden and steel workbench. John was proficient with computers and technology, so his alternate self was probably good with his hands here too. A scientist wasn’t far off from a computer programmer or hacker. Was his other-self sitting here making bombs? Chemical warfare? Planning for a better tomorrow?

His other self died for his beliefs. That the other John knew the consequences of his actions and left behind a wife, a son, and an unborn child. All for some intangible concept that wasn’t even achievable on his own account.

Outside the small garage window, the evening sky faded into violent streaks of pink, orange and deep blue. John knew he had to go soon. He had to find Adebayo, Adrian, Harcourt, and Chris, and then figure out a way home. This wasn’t his world to save. He already did that once, and what had he gotten in return? Jack fucking shit was what. 

The creak of the door cut through his thoughts. It was you again, holding out a large paper plate with tonight’s dinner. It was accompanied by a pair of dinner rolls and a glass of water in your other hand. “I can’t just send you back out on an empty stomach.”

Damn. You were even a fucking talented cook here. He almost couldn’t take it. John sat in the chair you’d been sitting in as he accepted the plate from your hands. “You didn’t have to do any of this,” he said between large bites of food.

“I know, but I think other-me would do the same. My John loved this meal and always asked me to make it.”

John didn’t answer. The minutes on the analog garage clock ticked away as John ate the delicious meal. You didn’t say a word, only watched him with your hands tucked in the front pockets of your apron. When he finished the dinner, you disposed of the paper plate and put the glass in the garage sink. 

“Guess it’s time,” you clicked your tongue. “Before it gets too dark. I have a feeling Captain Mein Kampf is going to stop by again and ask why my top-notch ARGUS security system was disabled for a few hours.”

Whether it was from barely-contained anxiety or because he found it genuinely funny, John barked out a sharp, awkward laugh at the name, and you replied back with a close-lipped smile. “I can’t take credit for that one. You were always so good with derogatory names for those bastards.”

John knew what you meant and didn’t correct you. You opened the garage door, just enough for you and John to crouch down and walk by the side of the house. You pointed to where John could maneuver back to the Smith mansion without being caught by cameras or the neighborhood watch, reiterating how important it was to stay off the road.

“Thank you,” John eked out his gratitude in a low murmur. “I…I’m sorry about-,”

“Don’t be. Please. I’ll be okay,” you promised. "Go before it's too late."

The tiny crinkle around your lips tugged as if you were going to ask something else, but you deemed it unnecessary and the unspoken words died in the evening air. John would never insult your intelligence by asking. Some things were better left unsaid.

As John turned away to face the view of two story houses, grassy backyards, and large trees dotting the unknown future ahead, he heard your voice one last time. 

“I know you’ll do the right thing, John. You always do.”

Growing up with his papou and yiayia, John had, of course, heard the Greek myth of Eurydice and Orpheus. Back then, he wasn't one for romance and hated unhappy endings. He always thought Orpheus was pretty fucking stupid to turn around and look back despite explicitly being told not to. How hard was it to follow just one rule? Those mythological assholes always fell to their own hubris, and he hated that Eurydice got punished for someone else’s actions.

And here, at fifty-odd years old, he finally understood why Orpheus would turn back around and risk everything just to see his loved one’s face one more time. Despite this truth, John marched forward into the evening dark before him, knowing that if he looked back, he wouldn't leave your side. 

All John Economos heard was the faint rustle of wind blowing small swirls of leaves on cracked asphalt. Then the unending chitter of chipmunks and squirrels near an empty gazebo. Small birds hopped from one tree branch to another, trilling nonsensical tweets and chirps. There were no people around, which he preferred when he visited you. John stood awkwardly in front of a solitary, un-ornamented headstone, his hands shoved deep in his heavy jacket pockets. It was unnaturally cold even for autumn. 

"It's your favorite season," John commented. "The forecast calls for light rain later, and of fucking course I forgot my umbrella."

Your name was carved into the granite. He had half-expected to see his last name after yours, though he knew better. His blue eyes landed on the birth and death dates. Your entire life bracketed by those final set of numbers. It had been months since the 11th Street Kids had returned from their unhinged dimension-hopping adventures, miraculously rescuing Chris, Adebayo, and countless others, but he still found his mind unable to comprehend that he had met a version of you. An alive you. 

“You’d probably call me a dumbass for showing up here so late. Tell me to go home and take NyQuil for my shitty cough,” his voice cracked. 

“It’s been a while since we talked. I, uh, wanted to tell you that I met you. Not you-you, but another version of you. And you were living in this crazy fucking Nazi America, and no, you weren’t a Nazi freak. Thank Christ.” His chest heaved as he cleared his throat to no avail.

“Our friends didn’t believe me when I said we were married there. Had kids and everything. Kind of ridiculous, right? What’s really fucked is that I was the dead one in that dimension. I blew myself up for this group called the Sons of Liberty. Makes sense that we both can’t be happy in the same world.”

Your headstone stood timeless in the space between his hoarse apologies and that familiar silence. Rain began to speckle the headstone's curves, the little wet circles disappearing as quickly as they landed, but the droplets fell harder and harder until the headstone darkened entirely. His shoulders hunched as if he could fold in on himself and sink further into the softening graveyard dirt below his feet.

“I could meet a hundred yous in a hundred goddamn dimensions and you'd be the same in every single one.”

He couldn’t bring himself to fully remember that day at Coverdale Ranch. John, with his broken and bloodied leg, had been trying to duck for cover in the frenzy when a Butterfly-possessed cop found him and aimed a gun at his head. He prepared to feel the blast of steel and heat, for his miserable life to finally end, but it never came. Instead you had shown up and fought the cop with your bare hands, but the gun still went off. The alien cop was dead, but the bullet had hit you square in the chest. You fell, and John managed to weakly drag your body over to his.

You were choking on blood and unable to speak. He kept saying hold on, hold on, but you couldn’t. You had looked up at him, weakly mouthing something he couldn’t decipher then, not in that moment of chaos. It wasn’t until he had time to reflect on seeing you in the other world that he realized what you had been trying to verbalize.

You didn’t survive the trip to the hospital, and your death (along with Murn’s) cast a cold shadow on the 11th Street Kids. John was mostly accompanied by Adebayo when visiting your grave site, but occasionally the others would pay their respects. Adrian had even killed a grave robber in broad daylight here, an act John thought distasteful. You probably would have laughed, would have told him it was just Adrian’s way of showing affection. You were always right.

“You saved my pathetic life here, and if that wasn’t enough, your other self rescued me in an alternate dimension.” His words broke, catching in his throat. “Always risking your life when I can’t do the same. So fucking unfair of you to one-up me. You know I can't compete with that.”

The rain mingled with the tears crawling down his face. His beard grew heavy with the droplets and he felt every single one weigh him down. The graying sky crackled with faint thunder above as if to ask him that question other-you held off on asking all that time ago.