Charming only wandered briefly before determining that the breezy, crowded streets of Manhattan would not yield the exact type of couch or table that Jemma has requested. He saw many couches lying on outer curbs, but only big tan monstrosities spilling white foam into the street. It was like this particular April afternoon, every person who’d ever owned a couch between the shades of ivory and ochre had decided to knife it, fling it onto the sidewalk, and break a few legs. And he saw several tables — rickety plywood tables, and a plastic card table, and a thick, sturdy white table with a lot of ketchup stains on it. But no round tables.

There were a lot of other interesting things on the sidewalk, but Jemma had only asked for a couch and a table. He saw a full set of dining room chairs, only lightly scuffed. A giant television with a crack in it. The mottled gray blanket and mountain of stuffed plastic bags that meant a person slept in that spot. 

If Charming ever retired from fighting crime, he would turn his myriad talents to fighting homelessness. He dug into his pockets for change, found that he had none, and looked around for the nearest cafe or chain restaurant to buy the man a sandwich. The uncomfortable feeling he got in his stomach sometimes, like a bunch of snakes, had come back. What would he do if he did buy a sandwich? Encroach on the man’s space and put it next to him? 

Feeling incredibly cowardly, he turned away and started walking back toward his apartment. He would tell Jemma there wasn’t anything available on the sidewalk. He would say he couldn’t afford to buy anything either, sorry. She might try to kick him out but his name was on the lease too. 

He made his way home, too absorbed in his own thoughts to respond with his usual enthusiasm when people recognized him. He waved halfheartedly a few times, but it seemed like walking had changed in the city that never sleeps — so many people pressed against storefronts to let him through that he didn’t have to elbow anyone out of the way.

It was nice to finally get the respect that a superhero deserved, but that still didn’t put any money in his bank account. He needed to find a job.

He turned into his building, and grabbed the metal handle of the staircase door. He felt it crunch beneath his fingers and winced. Hopefully no one would notice for a while. A forty-five floor stair climb might help him relieve some stress.

As he pounded up the stairs, he thought about what he would say to Jemma. I didn’t find anything, maybe. That was concise. Or I think we should consider an alternative option. That sounded smart.

But when he got into the apartment, he didn’t feel like saying any of those things. His bed sat forlorn in its corner, pressed up against the wall of windows and the wall of wall. The empty kitchen gleamed. The whole apartment looked a bit sad. 

“Are you back already?” Jemma called from the bedroom. Her door opened and she walked out into the hallway. 

She cocked her head at him, her right eyebrow lifting. “You don’t have any stuff.”

He leaned against the wall and shut his eyes. “There weren’t any blue couches,” he said. “Just tan ones.”

She sighed. “Look, I—” But she stopped. 

“What?” he asked, sounding more surly than he’d intended. He looked at her.

“Nothing. Thank you for looking.” She was rubbing her left forearm with her right hand. 

He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “What now?”

“I guess we could go to IKEA,” she said doubtfully.

He felt that weird sick stomach feeling he had been feeling so much recently. “I don’t have any money,” he blurted out. “My parents cut me off. And I don’t have a job. And my action figures aren’t selling. And I got an advance for my book but I haven’t written the book yet.”

Jemma blinked at him. She had eyelashes like spider legs and brown eyes. 

He slid down the wall onto the floor. “I don’t even own a towel,” he said miserably.

“Right. Well, I’m not going to do any emotional labor for you,” she said briskly, “so don’t bother looking pathetic. But you do need to make money somehow. What have you tried?” She crossed the floor and sat down next to him.

“What do you mean, what have I tried?”

“Well, have you, like, applied for jobs?” she prompted.

He frowned. “No?”

“Have you networked with anyone?”

He shook his head.

“Filed for unemployment?”

“What’s that?” Charming put his head in his hands. Jemma was making him tired.

“Ooookay. Well, do you have an Instagram account? You could try to be an influencer.”

He looked back up at her. An influencer. He hadn’t thought of that.

“I haven’t tried to be an influencer,” he said. “That’s a good idea.”

She sighed. “Great, you can try to make some money that way. In the meantime, let’s go to IKEA. I will buy the furniture, but you have to carry it.”

It was hard to tell, because her face was so severe, but he thought she might be smiling a bit.

Without looking at him again, she unfolded herself and pushed back up the wall. She patted her pockets—he assumed checking for keys—and then opened the front door. “Coming?”

He stood up too, feeling buffeted by the winds of fate and forlorn as an autumn leaf in a rainstorm. 

“There’s an IKEA in the Bronx, I think,” she said, pulling out her cell phone as she led the way down the hall to the elevator. 

Charming tried his best to close the front door without touching it, but when his fingertips brushed the door handle, it groaned unhappily. He winced and followed Jemma.

“Okay, we’ll take the One,” she said as she pounded the “down” button impatiently. If Charming had done that, he would have a thumbful of metal and a gaping hole in the wall. 

“Yes, the One,” he repeated numbly. 

“You aren’t as fun as I expected,” she observed. 

“Well that’s not very nice.”

But he did not know what else to say. They rode down in silence and left the building side by side. Though she was much shorter than him, Jemma had no problem keeping stride. 

They made it into the subway station without incident, except that people seemed a bit more in awe of him than usual. When the One careened into the station, screeching like a pterodactyl, Jemma stepped back uneasily but Charming stayed firmly on the yellow strip that you weren’t supposed to stand on. 

The doors opened and a crowd of people pushed for the exit. He heard the beginnings of the usual muttering (who stands in front of the doors? Really?) but they trailed off quickly. People parted around him like the sea around Moses. 

Charming gestured for Jemma to go in, and then followed her. He leaned against one of the poles next to the train car door. 

Suddenly, a little kid toddled in—probably not even three. Charming looked down in surprise. The kid was in that stage where “walking” meant “swaying in a direction” and had a huge head for their tiny body. 

The train doors slammed shut behind it, and Charming looked at the window, where a frantic woman was screaming and pounding on the glass. He frowned and looked back at the kid. 

The train conductor was giving his “step away from the platform, train moving” speech. Charming thought quickly. He grabbed the kid in a football hold in his left arm and slammed his right shoulder into the car doors. They bent almost in half, and the right door fell off of the car, nearly hitting the mother. She jumped back, still screaming, and unbalanced. She fell onto the platform on her back. The train had begun to move—apparently the conductor hadn’t noticed anything odd. Charming aimed carefully and lobbed the child out of the car. They giggled in the air and landed on their mother’s stomach.

When Charming turned around, the entire train car was gaping at him. 

He frowned. He’d expected applause.

The train continued to pick up speed, the open door collecting air and flinging it into the car. They were coming up on the far end of the station. 

The front half of the car was immersed in darkness. And then, a second later, with a horrifying clang, the other side of the train door was disconnected from its mooring.