She'd insisted on washing the shirt a second time before condescending (hah, it was his shirt) to wear it. It was far too big for her, of course, but the neckline still hid more than her usual outfit did; and she probably wasn't wearing anything under it, he really didn't think it was a good idea to contemplate.

She drove the needle (yeah, that was his too) through the material with quick, shimmering strokes.

"What happened?" he asked her, keeping an eye on the television to watch when the ad break came to an end. It wasn't…like them to have accidents like that.

"Sparx," was all she replied, continuing to piece the rip together. Funny. For how fast her hands were moving, she didn't seem to be getting it done that quickly.

"Didn't know you people had that sort of thing happen to you. Or knew how to sew." It was just as well she hadn't tried to make him do her mending. Heaven knew the Lord was the type to ask that, though if he'd got her chances were Duff Kent'd be free of that particular job. "I mean, it's not like you cook."

"I wear clothes. I don't eat," she said.

"Yeah. Um. Just as well."

She looked up to shoot him a rather patronising stare, and then returned to the sewing.

He looked over at it, and saw the material pieced together neatly, delicate stitches small enough that he could barely see the tear. "Nice," he said. "So, you embroider? My mom once did this sampler, roses and stuff, real pretty…"

"No," she said firmly. "It's impractical."

"Yeah, well, it's ladylike."

She looked up, brown-green eyes in an inhuman face looking at him as though he was a mildly irritating insect. "I'm not. Particularly."


Mark stepped into the Thunder Tower.

"Sparx? Mark and Chuckdude are here," Ace called, stepping away from the transformer.

"Okay. Coming."

She emerged from behind the screen with her jacket and turtleneck bunched up in one hand.

"Uh, Mark…dude…" Chuck nudged him.

She wasn't—wasn't naked, of course—but the white singlet was almost transparent. He could see one of the straps of her sports bra (if that was what you called it; it wasn't like he was an expert in women's underwear, there was only that one time he'd worn the outfit…).

"Chuck.," he whispered. His friend's mouth was starting to hang open, and he didn't want to think about what Sparx' reaction might be.

Luckily, she didn't seem all that self-conscious as she threw the discarded clothing to Ace, who put it on the table.

"Hey, guys," she said. "You wanna play some table tennis?"

"I'll play," Mark said quickly.

"Yeah. I guess I'll just…watch…" Chuck managed.

Mark kicked him in the leg.


"Three-nil! I win again!" She jumped into the air, which caused some rather visible...bouncing.

"Uh, Sparx, about your…clothes…" Mark said.

"Yeah, spider-freak and me got in a fight. Don't worry, I left a few holes in her outfit too."

"Wuggle," Chuck said faintly.

Mark looked at her face. "Um. I'm glad you won."

"Yeah. Hey, Ace, are you going to get it done soon? Only it's getting kinda cold."

"I'll get started," he said resignedly, picking up the turtleneck and looking around on the desk.

"Started what?" Mark asked.

Sparx rolled her eyes. "Mending," she said. "I told you she ripped my clothes up, didn't I?"

Ace picked up a needle, carefully threaded it with thick blue yarn, and started passing it through the rip in the discarded top.

Mark stared. "Isn't it your top?"

"She failed sewing class," Ace said calmly.

Sparx shot him a quick glare. "Shut up. Anyway, if I said I'd do it once I'd always have to do it, because people always think girls are supposed to."

"So Ace does his and yours? That doesn't sound very fair," Chuck said. Mark was impressed at his first coherent sentence since they'd arrived.

"Fair-schmair!" She shook her head. "It works for us. Can you really see me with a needle and thread?"

"Until now, I couldn't see Ace with a needle and thread either," Mark said, looking over at Ace drawing the stitches through the material.

"Superhero sewing," Chuck muttered. "I bet if I told Brett and Wayne about this they'd never believe it."

"It's not hard," Ace said.

Sparx walked over to look at his work. "Do you think you could do the stiches a bit smaller?" she asked. "It doesn't look that good to me."

"It's inside out. It'll be fine the right way around," Ace said, somewhat tetchily.

"Cool work, dude." Chuck wandered over to them. "Hey, can I bring this button my mother's been nagging me about up here?"

"No," Mark said.

"I could teach you," Ace volunteered.

"Nah, I already know how," Chuck said. "I should bring it up here sometime. Like, superhero sewing circle, anyone…?"

"Sounds boring to me," Sparx said. She'd already crossed the room to the tennis table. "Anyone up for another game?"


"And coming up next, the show you've all been waiting for, ladies and gents—the Jerry Limbaugh Quiz Show!" A fanfare blared from the television; Duff stretched back and yawned. A quiet and easy Wednesday at the Carnival, for once. He reached for his own pile of socks that needed darning; maybe he'd join her.

"Wanna help with this?" He gestured to the basket in front of him. "When you're done, I mean.".

"Honestly, mortal. I draw the line at your menial labours." She was nearly finished now, only a small sword-rip remaining in the fabric.

"Hey. Just asking." He raised his arms in the universal gesture of "Don't attack me! I'm a harmless mortal!", but she wasn't even looking at him.

He sighed, and started darning a black sock (which smelled of some impossible combination of pickles and Limburger cheese; he wasn't going to mention that to her). It was almost…homey, with the ads blaring in the background and the definitely-not-comfortable silence between them.

Well. Homey, with a green-skinned alien who seemed to regard him as somewhere between "prey" and "minion' on the evolutionary ladder, inside a rather dim caravan with a whole pile of stuff on the floor that he needed to remember to clean up one of these days.

It still counted. Sort of.

"Oh my. Isn't this cosy."

The voice made him stick the needle into his thumb. He cried out in pain, shoving it into his mouth as she stood up and laid aside the mending.

"My lord," she said, in that husky voice that always reminded him of Greta Garbo in one of those really old movies.

His top was now hers, he noticed, form-fitting red rather than loose off-white. If she didn't remember to morph it back he'd…

…well, he wouldn't be able to do anything about it, and that was one of the many reasons why his life was the pits right now, and for the foreseeable future.

She closed the caravan door behind her with a quiet snap.

Duff sighed, and went back to darning his socks.


"Superhero sewing circle." Chuck sucked the blood from his thumb. "Ouch."

"Careful, Chuck." Mark had one of his shirts laid out in front of him, and still wasn't sure how he'd managed to get himself into this. He carefully threaded his needle for the fifth time.

"Sewing can be fun," Ace said brightly. He was working on Sparx' jacket now, using black thread he'd borrowed from Chuck.

Chuck groaned. "Whatever, dude."

A series of pows came from the television as Sparx mowed down zombies on the videogame.


A/N: Feedback is appreciated.