The penthouse overlooked Central Park like a private kingdom suspended forty stories above the chaos of Manhattan. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around three sides of the living space, offering views that made real estate agents weep with envy and probably required significant magical intervention to maintain privacy from paparazzi and satellite surveillance.
Harry had acquired the property through what he vaguely described as "creative applications of interdimensional real estate law" and "possibly some light fraud involving shell corporations that technically don't exist in this dimension." The specifics remained diplomatically vague, which Diana had learned was Harry's way of saying the acquisition story involved enough legal gray areas to give ethics professors nightmares.
The interior was exactly what you'd expect from someone with unlimited resources and centuries of accumulated taste—minimalist without being cold, luxurious without being ostentatious, decorated with artifacts that probably belonged in museums but looked perfectly natural arranged around comfortable furniture designed for actual use rather than aesthetic intimidation.
Diana emerged from the bedroom wearing a simple black dress that somehow managed to be both elegant and devastating, her dark hair loose around her shoulders in a way that made Harry's breath catch despite having seen her in everything from full Amazonian battle armor to absolutely nothing at all.
"You're staring," she observed with amusement, though her smile suggested she was thoroughly pleased by his reaction.
"Guilty as charged," Harry replied, not bothering to hide his appreciation. He'd changed into dark slacks and a charcoal shirt that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, sleeves rolled to his elbows in that casually elegant way that suggested he'd perfected the art of looking effortlessly sophisticated. "Though in my defense, you make staring feel like a moral obligation rather than a character flaw."
Diana moved closer, accepting the wine glass he offered with a smile that carried genuine warmth beneath Amazonian reserve. "Flattery, Mr. Peverell?"
"Honest observation, Princess," he corrected, his emerald eyes warm with affection and something deeper, more intimate. "There's a difference, though I admit the distinction becomes somewhat academic when you're this beautiful."
They settled onto the couch facing the windows, the New York skyline glittering beyond like scattered diamonds, close enough that Diana could feel his warmth without quite touching, maintaining that careful balance between intimacy and independence that characterized their relationship.
"How are you really feeling?" Harry asked quietly, his voice dropping that playful edge to reveal genuine concern beneath the charm. "Not the diplomatic answer you'd give the League or the press. The truth."
Diana considered the question, swirling her wine with practiced grace while she organized thoughts that had been chaotic since the nanomachine attack. "Shaken," she admitted finally, honoring his honesty with her own. "Violated. Angry at whoever orchestrated the attack, angrier at myself for not being strong enough to completely resist their influence."
"Diana—"
"I know," she interrupted gently, "you already told me that holding back matters more than nearly failing. That my fundamental nature as a protector couldn't be entirely overridden. But knowing something intellectually and accepting it emotionally are different processes, particularly when Amazonian honor is involved."
Harry set his wine glass aside and shifted closer, his hand finding hers with the easy familiarity of long intimacy. "Your culture places tremendous emphasis on perfection, on living up to impossible standards of warrior excellence and moral certainty. But even Amazon princesses are allowed to be human occasionally."
"I'm not human," Diana pointed out with gentle irony.
"You know what I mean." His thumb traced patterns on her palm, the touch grounding and reassuring. "You're allowed to have complicated feelings about traumatic experiences. Allowed to process fear and vulnerability without seeing them as fundamental character flaws. Allowed to need comfort and support without it diminishing your strength."
Diana leaned into him slightly, letting her head rest against his shoulder with the kind of trust she offered very few people. "When did you become so wise about emotional processing? I seem to remember meeting a man who dealt with trauma by throwing himself into increasingly dangerous situations and making sarcastic comments until the feelings went away."
"I've had excellent teachers," Harry replied with self-deprecating humor. "One whom is sitting in this penthouse right now, having learned through painful experience that emotional avoidance is exhausting and ultimately counterproductive. Though I maintain that sarcasm remains a perfectly valid coping mechanism when used in moderation."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the city lights twinkle below like earthbound stars, the familiar sounds of Manhattan filtered to pleasant white noise by soundproofing that probably involved both advanced technology and subtle magical wards.
"Actually," Harry said after a moment, his tone shifting to something more serious, "there's something I should mention. In the interest of complete honesty and maintaining the transparent communication we've agreed is essential to this relationship working."
Diana straightened slightly, her divine senses picking up the subtle change in his emotional state—not distress exactly, but the particular tension that came from preparing to discuss something potentially complicated. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened, precisely," Harry clarified quickly, recognizing her protective instincts activating. "But during my time with Billy's family yesterday—before the crisis with Sivana—his foster sister Mary made what could reasonably be interpreted as a romantic proposition."
Diana's eyebrows rose with Amazonian curiosity rather than jealousy, though her eyes sharpened with interest. "The brilliant one who's been studying military strategy and apparently organizing tactical support operations with the efficiency of a seasoned general?"
"That's the one," Harry confirmed with a slight smile at Diana's characterization. "She's remarkably intelligent, strategically minded, genuinely impressive in ways that have nothing to do with her recent acquisition of cosmic-level magical abilities. And she made it fairly clear that she'd be interested in exploring whether there might be room in our unconventional relationship structure for someone who's just discovered she has divine powers and excellent organizational skills."
"And you said?" Diana's tone remained neutral, genuinely curious rather than threatened, which was one of the many reasons their relationship worked despite its complexity.
"I declined," Harry said simply. "Politely, kindly, with genuine appreciation for the compliment implicit in her interest. But definitively."
Diana studied his face with the focused attention of someone trained to read subtle emotional cues and detect deception through millennia of Amazonian warrior intuition. "Because she's too young."
"Because she's eighteen years old," Harry confirmed, his voice carrying conviction that suggested this wasn't a casual decision. "Brilliant, mature beyond her years, possessed of strategic thinking that would impress military professionals with decades of experience. But eighteen. Barely begun exploring who she is as an adult, freshly empowered with abilities that will fundamentally reshape her understanding of herself and her place in the world."
He shifted to face Diana more fully, his expression serious in a way that made it clear this was important to him. "The power dynamic alone would be problematic—I'm older, infinitely more experienced with both magic and the complexities of unconventional relationships, in a position of implicit authority simply by virtue of being your partner and having established relationships with multiple remarkable women. Adding someone that young, that new to everything, would be exploitative regardless of her intelligence or apparent maturity."
Diana listened with the careful attention she brought to matters of ethics and interpersonal complexity, recognizing the genuine moral wrestling beneath his explanation. "You're concerned about her ability to give truly informed consent."
"Exactly," Harry said with obvious relief at her understanding. "She's smart enough to make her own decisions, capable enough to handle complex situations, mature enough to recognize her own feelings and act on them. But she's also young enough that she hasn't fully developed the emotional frameworks necessary to navigate the particular complications that come with loving multiple people simultaneously while maintaining individual relationships that each require significant emotional investment."
He paused, organizing thoughts that were clearly more complex than simple rejection. "Plus, she's riding the high of new powers, new capabilities, the excitement of becoming part of something extraordinary. Her judgment about what she wants in relationships is probably being influenced by factors that have nothing to do with actual compatibility or long-term sustainability."
Diana set her wine glass aside and shifted closer, her divine wisdom recognizing the deeper concerns beneath his practical explanations. "You're worried she'd be making decisions based on infatuation and excitement rather than genuine understanding of what she'd be entering."
"Yes," Harry said simply. "And I've seen enough people enter complicated relationships for the wrong reasons to know that it usually ends badly for everyone involved. The age difference, the power imbalance, her inexperience with both her new abilities and the realities of polyamorous dynamics—all of it adds up to a situation where even with the best intentions, someone would likely get hurt."
Diana studied him with those ancient eyes that had seen empires rise and fall, her expression thoughtful. "But you found her interesting. Attractive."
It wasn't quite a question, more an observation delivered with the confidence of someone who knew him well enough to read between the lines of what he wasn't saying.
Harry met her gaze with characteristic honesty, refusing to diminish Mary's worth or his own reactions through diplomatic evasion. "I'd be lying if I said otherwise. She's brilliant, charismatic, genuinely impressive in ways that transcend her age. The strategic mind alone is fascinating—watching her organize tactical support operations with that level of sophistication was genuinely attractive in the way that competence always is."
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Under different circumstances—if she were older, more experienced, had spent time exploring what she wants in relationships rather than making decisions in the immediate aftermath of gaining divine powers—then yes, I could see the potential for something meaningful. But those circumstances don't exist, and wishing they did doesn't make pursuing her now any less problematic."
Diana absorbed this with Amazonian directness, her next question delivered with the kind of straightforward curiosity that characterized their relationship. "So if she weren't eighteen—if she were, say, twenty-five or thirty, with more life experience and established understanding of herself—would you pursue her then?"
Harry considered the hypothetical with genuine thought rather than dismissive deflection. "Maybe," he admitted carefully. "The intelligence, the strategic thinking, the fundamental compatibility in terms of how we approach problems—those are all genuinely compelling. And watching her coordinate operations yesterday, seeing how naturally she took to leadership and tactical planning, was genuinely impressive."
He shifted slightly, his expression growing more complex. "But by the time she reaches twenty-five or thirty, she'll be a fundamentally different person. The experiences she has between now and then will shape her in ways neither of us can predict. She might develop interests in completely different relationship structures. Might meet someone who offers her exactly what she needs in ways I couldn't. Might decide that polyamory isn't actually what she wants once she's had time to explore it without the intoxicating influence of new powers and cosmic-level abilities."
"So you're leaving the possibility open while being honest about the current impossibility," Diana summarized with the precision she brought to all complex diplomatic situations.
"I'm being honest that she's remarkable, that I recognize her worth, and that different circumstances might lead to different conclusions," Harry clarified. "But I'm not waiting for her to 'grow up' or holding some kind of reserved place in our relationship dynamic. She deserves the freedom to explore who she is without someone decades older hovering around expecting her to eventually fit into predetermined relationship structures."
Diana smiled with genuine warmth, reaching up to cup his face with one hand. "You know what I find most attractive about you? It's not the magic, the power, the accumulated wisdom of centuries. It's this—the ability to recognize someone's worth while still maintaining ethical boundaries. The capacity to be honest about attraction without letting it override moral considerations."
"I'm not sure that's as impressive as you're making it sound," Harry said with self-deprecating humor. "Basic ethical behavior shouldn't be remarkable—it should be the baseline expectation."
"And yet it's rare enough to be remarkable," Diana countered gently. "Particularly in people with significant power who've grown accustomed to having their desires fulfilled without significant resistance. You could pursue Mary despite her age, despite the power dynamics, despite all the valid concerns about her readiness for this kind of relationship. Your feelings matter more than ethical considerations to most people in your position."
She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. "The fact that you're choosing differently, that you're prioritizing her long-term wellbeing over your immediate interest, that you're being honest about your attraction while still maintaining appropriate boundaries—that's what makes you worthy of the love we give you."
Harry pulled back slightly to meet her gaze, his expression soft with affection and something deeper. "You know the other reason I declined her proposition?"
"Tell me."
"Because I already have everything I need right here." His hand moved to cover hers where it still rested against his face. "Six remarkable women who chose to love me despite my numerous flaws, complicated history, and tendency toward making situations more complex than necessary. Adding someone else—particularly someone as young and inexperienced as Mary—wouldn't enhance what we have. It would just introduce unnecessary complications and potentially hurt someone who deserves better than being someone's experimental addition to an already functional relationship structure."
Diana's smile turned mischievous, her divine nature allowing her to shift emotional registers with practiced ease. "That's very sweet and very mature of you. I'm appropriately impressed by your ethical reasoning and commitment to maintaining healthy relationship boundaries."
"I hear a 'but' coming," Harry observed with amusement.
"But," Diana continued with growing mirth, "having thoroughly established that you're morally upstanding and committed to appropriate age-gap considerations, perhaps we could move on to more pressing matters. Such as the fact that we're in a private penthouse with excellent wine, no immediate responsibilities, and approximately eight hours before either of us needs to save anyone from anything."
Harry's grin transformed into something that promised exactly the kind of attention she needed. "I do enjoy your Amazonian directness, Princess. No unnecessary verbal foreplay when you've decided what you want."
"I learned from the best," Diana replied, standing and extending her hand with regal authority that somehow made the gesture both commanding and inviting. "Now, are you going to continue discussing the ethics of age-appropriate relationships, or are you going to remind me why I tolerate sharing you with five other remarkable women despite my occasionally possessive Amazonian instincts?"
Harry took her hand and rose in one fluid motion, pulling her close enough that she could feel his warmth, smell his cologne mixed with the faint ozone that always clung to him after working magic. "Well, when you phrase it like that, the choice becomes remarkably clear. Though I should warn you—I've been missing you terribly, and I have several hours' worth of very thorough attention to lavish on someone who definitely deserves it after the week you've had."
"Promises, promises," Diana murmured, but her smile suggested she had complete faith in his ability to deliver on those promises and then some.
As they moved toward the bedroom with the easy familiarity of long intimacy, the Manhattan skyline glittering beyond the windows like scattered diamonds, Diana felt the weight of Wonder Woman's responsibilities finally beginning to ease. Tomorrow she'd return to being the warrior princess, the protector of innocents, the symbol of truth and justice.
Tonight, she was just Diana—loved, cherished, and about to receive the kind of personal attention that had nothing to do with saving the world and everything to do with reminding her why being human (or demi-goddess, technically) was sometimes even better than being a hero.
The city could wait. The League could wait. Everything else could wait.
Because some things—like love, trust, and the simple pleasure of being thoroughly appreciated by someone who understood all your complexities—were worth protecting just as fiercely as any civilian population or cosmic threat.
And as the bedroom door closed behind them and Harry's hands found her waist with practiced familiarity, Diana allowed herself to stop being Wonder Woman entirely and embrace the simpler, more primal joy of being exactly where she wanted to be—with exactly who she wanted to be with—doing exactly what they both needed.
The world would still be there tomorrow, requiring saving and protecting and heroic intervention.
Tonight belonged to them alone.
—
The Vasquez household had seen its share of unusual evenings—Eugene's robots occasionally achieving sentience and requiring diplomatic negotiations, Darla's soccer trophies spontaneously reorganizing themselves by height rather than chronological order, Freddy's conspiracy theories about why the cafeteria never ran out of mystery meat despite obvious supply chain limitations.
But "the night we all became superheroes with cosmic-level magical abilities" was definitively moving to the top of the list, probably permanently.
Rosa sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee that had gone cold approximately an hour ago, staring at her six foster children with the expression of someone whose understanding of normal parenting had just been comprehensively demolished by reality's sense of humor.
"So," she said carefully, her nurse-trained composure holding by sheer force of will and possibly divine intervention, "let me make absolutely certain I understand what happened tonight. Because I want to be very clear about the facts before I decide whether to ground all of you until you're thirty or nominate you for some kind of civic service award."
Billy—currently himself rather than Shazam, looking every inch the fourteen-year-old foster kid who'd somehow become the family's unofficial leader through circumstances that were mostly his fault—nodded with the kind of careful attention usually reserved for diffusing bombs or explaining to authority figures why property damage wasn't technically his responsibility.
"Dr. Sivana attacked me with a weapon specifically designed to neutralize my powers," Billy began, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone who'd had a very long evening and was really hoping for credit for handling it responsibly. "Harry showed up to provide backup because apparently someone's been systematically attacking Justice League members using stolen contingency plans, and I was next on the list."
"Right," Rosa said, her voice carefully neutral in the way that suggested she was processing information that would normally require extensive therapy. "The interdimensional wizard with excellent manners and expensive taste in pastries showed up to prevent assassination attempts. Standard Tuesday evening activities."
Mary, still wearing the slightly dazed expression of someone who'd recently discovered they could channel divine wisdom and punch through concrete walls, picked up the narrative with her characteristic precision and organizational skills.
"When Sivana's weapon successfully blocked Billy's ability to transform, the Wizard—the ancient magical entity who originally granted Billy his powers, not Harry, different wizard entirely, though the naming conventions are admittedly confusing—reached out to the rest of us," Mary explained with the kind of methodical clarity that suggested she'd been mentally organizing this explanation for the past hour. "He offered us the chance to share Billy's power, to become champions of magic and defenders of justice."
"By saying 'Shazam,'" Eugene added helpfully, practically vibrating with excitement that suggested his caffeine intake had been supplemented by cosmic-level magical abilities and possibly undiagnosed ADHD. "Which triggers a transformation sequence involving lightning, divine intervention, and what I can only describe as the most efficient personal improvement system ever devised by supernatural entities with an aesthetic sense."
Rosa's coffee cup made a soft sound as she set it down with the kind of careful precision that suggested she was fighting the urge to throw things or possibly start drinking something considerably stronger than coffee.
"And you all said yes," Rosa stated, because obviously they had, because her foster children had apparently inherited a collective genetic mutation that made "reasonable caution in the face of cosmic-level magical offers" completely impossible. "Without consulting me. Without discussing the implications. Without considering the potential consequences of accepting divine powers from ancient supernatural entities."
"To be fair," Darla said brightly, bouncing slightly in her chair with the kind of irrepressible energy that suggested she'd either had too much sugar or was still riding the high of discovering she could move faster than most people could process, "Billy was about to die. Like, actually die-die, not just 'in danger' die. So really, we were saving his life, which you've always said was important family behavior."
"Saving your brother's life is definitely important family behavior," Rosa agreed with the kind of dangerous calm that made smart children reconsider their arguments. "But accepting supernatural powers that could fundamentally alter your biology, psychology, and relationship with normal human society might be the kind of decision that benefits from adult supervision and possibly legal consultation."
Pedro, characteristically, cut through the tension with his quiet directness. "Would you have said no?"
Rosa opened her mouth, paused, closed it again. Her expression shifted through several complicated emotions before settling on something that looked like reluctant acceptance mixed with maternal terror and possibly pride.
"No," she admitted finally. "If Billy was dying and supernatural powers were the only way to save him, I wouldn't have said no. But I would have appreciated being consulted before six of you made life-altering decisions about becoming superheroes with cosmic-level abilities."
"We can still be normal kids too," Freddy offered hopefully, though his grin suggested he was thoroughly pleased with recent developments and not particularly interested in being normal ever again. "The transformation is optional. We don't have to be superheroes all the time. Just when someone needs saving or when evil scientists with god complexes try to murder our brother using stolen intelligence and expensive military hardware."
"'Optional transformation' and 'only fighting evil when necessary' are somehow not as reassuring as you seem to think," Rosa replied dryly, though her expression was softening slightly. "But I suppose having six children with magical superpowers is still marginally better than having six children who've been murdered by megalomaniacal scientists."
"That's the spirit," Eugene said enthusiastically, apparently missing the sarcasm entirely or choosing to interpret it as genuine encouragement. "Look on the bright side—now when natural disasters happen or supervillains attack the city or dimensional rifts threaten to consume local reality, you don't have to worry about us being defenseless civilians. We're basically the most over-prepared foster family in American history."
"That is definitely one way to describe the situation," Rosa said, her tone suggesting she could think of several other descriptions that were considerably less optimistic and probably more accurate. "Though I'm not entirely certain 'over-prepared' is the right term for six teenagers with divine powers and questionable judgment about appropriate uses of cosmic-level abilities."
Mary leaned forward with her characteristic analytical intensity, apparently deciding that if they were going to have this conversation, they might as well be thorough about addressing concerns. "I've been researching the implications of our transformation, and I have several preliminary conclusions about how we can maintain normal lives while still fulfilling our responsibilities as champions of magic."
She produced a tablet that was already displaying comprehensive charts, graphs, and what appeared to be a detailed strategic analysis of superhero work-life balance. Because of course Mary had spent the last hour creating tactical assessments instead of processing the fact that she could now channel divine wisdom and strategic brilliance that made military generals look like amateur chess players.
"First," Mary began with the kind of professional presentation style that suggested she'd been preparing for this her entire life, "the transformation is entirely voluntary and can be maintained for extended periods without biological consequences. We don't need to transform to sleep, eat, attend school, or participate in normal family activities."
"Second," she continued, scrolling through her analysis with practiced efficiency, "our enhanced abilities in transformed state don't fundamentally alter our personalities, moral frameworks, or decision-making capabilities. We're still ourselves, just with access to divine wisdom, enhanced physical capabilities, and magical powers that would make theoretical physicists weep."
"Third," Mary said, her voice taking on that particular tone she used when delivering the most important points, "we're not alone. Billy's been doing this for months with Justice League support, mentorship from experienced heroes, and backup from people like Harry who have extensive experience with magical abilities and crisis management. We're not trying to figure this out in isolation."
Rosa listened with the focused attention she brought to complex medical situations, recognizing that Mary's analysis was genuinely thoughtful despite the challenging subject matter. "What about school? Your futures? College applications? The fact that you're all still legally minors with developing brains and incomplete emotional regulation systems?"
"All valid concerns," Mary acknowledged with the kind of respect that suggested she'd anticipated these questions and prepared responses. "Which is why I'm proposing structured guidelines for our superhero activities. Limited engagement unless Billy specifically needs backup or civilian lives are in immediate danger. No solo operations without coordination and communication. Maintaining normal routines, academic responsibilities, and family obligations as absolute priorities."
"Basically," Freddy interjected with his characteristic enthusiasm, "we're the world's most over-qualified backup system. Billy handles regular hero stuff like he's been doing, and we only transform when things get serious enough that one champion of magic isn't sufficient. Which, let's be honest, probably won't be that often because Billy's ridiculously powerful and generally pretty good at the whole 'saving people' thing."
"Pretty good?" Billy protested with mock indignation. "I'm excellent at the whole 'saving people' thing. I've been doing it for months without getting anyone seriously injured or causing too much property damage."
"You turned a city bus into a pretzel last month," Pedro pointed out quietly.
"The people inside were fine," Billy defended. "And it was either pretzel the bus or let it go over the bridge, so really, pretzel bus was the optimal outcome given the circumstances."
Rosa pinched the bridge of her nose with the kind of gesture that suggested she was seriously reconsidering her career choices and possibly her decision to become a foster parent to children who apparently attracted cosmic-level complications like magnets attracted metal filings.
"So let me see if I understand the plan," she said slowly, her voice carrying that dangerous calm that suggested someone was about to receive very clear boundaries and consequences. "Six of you now have the ability to transform into superpowered adults with divine abilities. You're proposing to use these powers 'responsibly' and 'only when necessary,' which in superhero terms usually means 'whenever we think the situation requires intervention, regardless of actual necessity or appropriate adult supervision.'"
"Well when you phrase it like that, it sounds irresponsible," Eugene muttered.
"Because it is irresponsible," Rosa replied firmly. "You're children. All of you. Brilliant, capable, brave children who I love more than anything in this world. But children nonetheless, with incomplete brain development and limited life experience and a tendency toward making decisions based on immediate emotional responses rather than long-term consequence analysis."
She stood up from the table, moving to where she could see all six of them at once, her expression softening despite her obvious concerns. "But you're also my children. And if there's one thing I've learned from raising you, it's that telling you not to do dangerous things is about as effective as telling the sun not to rise. You're going to help people. You're going to put yourselves in danger to protect others. You're going to make me worry and stress and probably develop premature gray hair from wondering whether you're going to come home safely."
Rosa moved around the table, stopping behind Billy to rest her hands on his shoulders with maternal affection that contradicted her stern words. "So here are the rules, and they're non-negotiable. You don't transform unless someone's life is in immediate danger or Billy specifically needs backup. You maintain communication at all times—phones charged, locations shared, check-ins every hour when you're in the field. You attend school, complete your homework, participate in normal family activities, and maintain the routines that keep this household functioning."
She moved to Mary next, squeezing her shoulder with gentle firmness. "You coordinate operations and make sure everyone's being safe and smart about their heroic activities. You're the tactical mind, which means you're responsible for making sure enthusiasm doesn't override common sense."
To Eugene: "You provide technical support and keep everyone connected, but you do it from safe locations with proper security protocols. No running toward danger just because it looks scientifically interesting."
To Darla: "You use your speed to help people and support your siblings, but you remember that being fast doesn't make you invulnerable. You're still ten years old, which means you're still required to listen to your older siblings and follow safety guidelines."
To Freddy: "You've wanted to fly your entire life, and now you can. I'm happy for you. Genuinely. But flying doesn't mean invincible, and being able to help doesn't mean you should help with everything. You still need rest, recovery time, and permission to leave this house."
To Pedro: "You're the steady one, the reliable one. Which means I'm counting on you to be the voice of reason when everyone else gets caught up in superhero excitement. You keep them grounded—metaphorically, since apparently Freddy can't be grounded literally anymore."
She returned to her seat, her expression stern but loving, the look of a parent who'd just accepted that her definition of normal parenting was going to require significant revision. "And all of you—all six of you—remember that being superheroes doesn't make you invincible, infallible, or exempt from family rules. You're still my children first, champions of magic second. That means curfews, chores, homework, and family dinners. That means honest communication about where you're going, what you're doing, and whether you're in over your heads."
"So we can be superheroes?" Darla asked hopefully, apparently having heard the permissions buried within the restrictions.
"You're going to be superheroes regardless of whether I give permission," Rosa said with the kind of resigned acceptance that came from years of parenting children with strong moral compasses and limited self-preservation instincts. "So yes, you can be superheroes. But you're going to be responsible, careful, communicative superheroes who remember that you have a family who loves you and wants you to come home in one piece."
The kitchen erupted into excited chatter as six teenagers who'd just received parental approval for their new superhero careers began talking over each other with enthusiasm and plans and probably terrible ideas that would require extensive revision by people with better judgment.
Rosa watched them with complicated emotions—pride and terror and love and concern all tangled together in the way that characterized parenting teenagers even before they'd gained cosmic-level magical abilities.
"I'm going to need so much therapy," she muttered to herself, reaching for her coffee and grimacing when she remembered it had gone cold. "And probably a much stronger beverage than coffee."
But as she watched her six children planning how to balance school, family life, and saving the world from threats that would make most adults run screaming, she couldn't quite suppress the small smile that suggested she was, despite everything, proud of them.
They were going to be amazing heroes.
They were also going to give her more gray hairs than any foster parent deserved.
But they were hers, and she wouldn't trade them for anything—even a peaceful, normal family life without cosmic-level complications and supernatural emergencies requiring immediate intervention.
Though she was definitely going to schedule that therapy appointment. And possibly look into meditation classes. And maybe take up drinking as a hobby, though her nursing training suggested that was probably not the healthiest coping mechanism for parenting superheroes.
One crisis at a time, she told herself. First, establish ground rules for teenage superhero activities. Then worry about maintaining her own sanity in the face of divine powers and interdimensional complications.
The Vasquez household was about to become the most interesting foster family in American history.
Rosa just hoped they'd all survive the experience with their sense of humor intact and minimal property damage to the house.
---
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