The Faint Flutter

The Thunderman house hadn’t changed much. Still the same squeaky third step. Still the scorch mark on the kitchen ceiling from when Billy tried to teleport and ended up setting the place on fire. Still that stack of takeout menus in the drawer Nora swore she’d organize tomorrow, every day for the last two years. But the air felt different now. Charged, like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for something heroic to happen. And Max—sitting on the couch with a bag of chips and a textbook he was only pretending to read—felt like a dead battery in a room full of live wires.

He was eighteen. Eighteen and powerless by choice, working part-time at a comic book shop, trying to fade into the background of Hiddenville like a normal person. Mostly, his family had accepted it. Phoebe still gave him that look—I know you’re hiding something—but she’d learned to bite her tongue. Billy thought he was nuts for giving up the coolest birthright in the universe. Nora offered to “fix” him with a potion she found on some sketchy website. Chloe just seemed confused that anyone wouldn’t want to fly.

But Max had his reasons. And right now, sitting in the dark of his room at 2 AM, those reasons were screaming at him from inside his skull.

The party had been a mistake. He knew that the second he walked in, felt the bass thumping through his chest, saw the familiar faces of kids he’d gone to school with—kids who didn’t know he could shoot lightning from his fingertips, kids who just saw a lanky guy with a sarcastic smile and a fake ID. He’d wanted to prove he could be normal. That he could have what they had: a beer, a laugh, a hand in his.

Marcus had promised to meet him there. Marcus, with his easy grin and his careful compliments, always telling Max how much he loved that he was “just a guy,” no powers, no drama. Marcus, who had texted him two hours ago saying he was running late.

Max waited. Nursed a drink until the ice melted, then another. Watched the door. And when he finally saw Marcus walk in, it wasn’t alone.

She was pretty. Blonde, athletic, the kind of girl who laughed at everything Marcus said. Max watched them from across the room, his stomach dropping. He saw Marcus lean in, whisper something in her ear. Saw her smile. Saw his hand slide to the small of her back.

He didn’t remember leaving. Didn’t remember the walk home, or how he ended up on the porch steps, or how many times he’d thrown up in the hydrangeas. What he remembered was the weight in his chest, the hollow ache that had been growing for months, and the sound of his own voice cracking as he tried to hold back tears.

Phoebe found him there at 3 AM, still in her hero suit, smelling like ozone and street dust. She’d been patrolling. She always was.

“Max?” Her voice was soft, careful, like she was approaching a wounded animal. “What happened?”

He tried to wave her off. “Nothing. Go away.”

But he couldn’t stand. His legs were jelly, head spinning, and when Phoebe crouched beside him, he didn’t have the strength to push her away. She smelled the alcohol on him, saw the tear tracks on his cheeks, and her face shifted from concern to something sharper.

“Who did this to you?”

“No one. I’m fine.” He hiccupped. “I’m fine, okay?”

She didn’t buy it. She never did. But instead of pushing, she sat down next to him on the cold concrete, her cape pooling around her like a blanket. They stayed like that for a long time, the night air thick with things neither of them said.

And then it all came out.

It spilled from him like a tide he couldn’t hold back—the months of skipping meals because Marcus liked him “leaner,” the way he’d stopped using his powers because Marcus said they were “weird,” the text messages he’d found on Marcus’s phone, the girl at the party. He sobbed through it, ugly and raw, face buried in his hands.

“He wanted me to be normal,” Max choked out. “And I tried. I tried so hard. But I’m not normal, Phoebe. I never was. And now I’m nothing.”

Phoebe wrapped her arms around him, and for once, he let her. Let himself be held, let himself break, let the tears soak into her suit. She didn’t say I told you so. Didn’t say you should have used your powers. She just held him, and that was more than he deserved.

“You’re not nothing,” she whispered. “You’re Max. That’s enough.”

But it didn’t feel like enough. It felt like a lie he’d been telling himself for years.

---

For two weeks, Max shuffled through life like a ghost. Went to work, came home, ate just enough to keep his mother from asking questions, and spent the rest of his time staring at the ceiling. His family circled him like worried planets, offering food, conversation, distraction. He turned them all down.

“I’m fine,” he said, so many times the words lost meaning. “I just need space.”

But he wasn’t fine. He knew it, even if he wouldn’t admit it. The hollow feeling in his chest had spread to his body, a strange heaviness that settled in his bones. He was tired all the time, sleeping ten hours a night and still waking up groggy. The smell of breakfast made his stomach lurch. And his chest—his chest ached, a tender soreness that made him wince when he rolled over in bed.

He chalked it up to stress. Grief. Heartbreak. His body was just catching up with his mind. It would pass.

It didn’t pass.

Three weeks after the party, Chloe found him hunched over the kitchen sink, gagging. She was eight now, all big eyes and boundless curiosity, and she watched him with the same clinical detachment she used for dissecting frogs in her science kit.

“Are you sick?” she asked.

“No.” He spat into the sink. “Go away.”

“You have symptoms,” she said, ticking them off on her fingers. “Nausea, fatigue, breast tenderness. You might be pregnant.”

Max froze. The joke hung in the air, absurd and impossible, and he wanted to laugh it off. But something cold ran down his spine, a warning he couldn’t name.

“That’s not funny, Chloe.”

“I’m not trying to be funny. You should see a doctor.”

He dismissed her, of course. Dismissed everyone. But the thought stayed with him, burrowing into the back of his mind like a splinter. And when the symptoms didn’t fade—when the tenderness turned into swelling, when the nausea became a daily visitor—he found himself standing outside a clinic downtown, hands shaking.

The doctor was a kind woman with silver hair and a no-nonsense demeanor. She ran tests, asked questions, and when she came back with the results, her face was carefully neutral.

“Max, I need you to listen carefully. We found something unexpected.”

He waited.

“You’re pregnant.”

The world tilted. The room went quiet, the hum of the fluorescent lights fading to a distant buzz. He heard the words, but they didn’t make sense. They couldn’t. He was a guy. He didn’t have the right parts. He’d never—

“That’s impossible,” he said. “I’m a man.”

The doctor nodded, slowly. “Ordinarily, yes. But your bloodwork shows traces of an unusual energy signature. It appears your body has a latent ability—something triggered by emotional trauma. It… created a womb. And that womb is sustaining a pregnancy.”

Max stared at her. The words felt like a foreign language. His powers. His stupid, useless powers that he’d tried to bury. They had done this. They had turned him into a science experiment, a freak show, a—

“I can’t be pregnant,” he whispered. “I can’t.”

But the ultrasound screen flickered to life, and there it was. A tiny, pulsing blip. A heartbeat.

He didn’t remember leaving the clinic. Didn’t remember the bus ride home, or how he ended up on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He just lay there, one hand pressed to his stomach, feeling the phantom weight of something he didn’t ask for, didn’t want, didn’t know how to handle.

Phoebe found him there three hours later. She’d come home early from patrol, and the moment she saw his face, she knew something was wrong.

“Max? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He tried to say I’m fine. The words wouldn’t come. Instead, he lurched up, ran to the bathroom, and threw up everything he’d eaten in the last two days.

Phoebe was there when he came out, her hand on his back, her eyes searching his. “Talk to me.”

And he did. He told her everything—the doctor, the pregnancy, the power he didn’t even know he had. By the end, his voice was raw, his eyes red, his whole body trembling.

“I can’t do this,” he said. “I’m not a hero. I’m not even a normal person. I’m just… a mess. And now I’m a mess with a baby. How am I supposed to take care of someone else when I can’t even take care of myself?”

Phoebe didn’t have an answer. But she held him, and that was enough for now.

---

The family meeting was chaos.

Nora squealed with delight. “Oh my gosh, a baby! I’m going to be an aunt! Can I teach it to fly? Please, please, please—”

“Nora, calm down.” Phoebe shot her a look. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I’m not joking! I’m excited!”

Billy scratched his head, squinting at Max like he was a math problem. “Wait, so, like… you have a baby in your stomach? How does that even work? Does it have powers? Is it going to come out shooting laser beams?”

“I don’t know, Billy.” Max’s voice was flat. “I didn’t exactly get a manual.”

Chloe, ever the scientist, had already pulled out a tablet and was taking notes. “Fascinating. The pregnancy is sustained by your powers, but you’ve suppressed them. That could explain the symptoms. If you reconnected with your abilities, the strain on your body might decrease.”

“No.” Max’s voice was sharp. “I’m not using my powers. I’m done with that.”

Hank and Barb were called back from a mission in South America. They landed in the backyard, still in their hero suits, and the moment Barb saw Max’s face, she pulled him into a hug so tight he thought his ribs might crack.

“Oh, honey,” she murmured. “We’re going to figure this out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out,” Max mumbled into her shoulder. “I’m handling it.”

But he wasn’t. The next few weeks were a blur of doctor’s appointments, morning sickness, and the slow, creeping realization that his body was fighting itself. Without his powers to stabilize the pregnancy, his health deteriorated. He lost weight he couldn’t afford to lose. The fatigue became a constant companion, dragging at his limbs, clouding his thoughts.

Marcus showed up one afternoon, looking sheepish and apologetic. He stood on the front porch, holding a bouquet of flowers that were already wilting.

“Max, I’m so sorry. I was stupid. I miss you. Please, let’s talk.”

Max looked at him—at the familiar face, the easy smile, the hands that had held him and hurt him. And for a moment, he felt the old pull, the desperate need to be wanted.

Then he felt the flutter in his stomach, light as a moth’s wing. The baby. Their baby.

“No,” he said. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to walk away and come back when it’s convenient. I deserve better than that.”

Marcus’s face crumbled. “Max—”

“Goodbye.”

He closed the door. Leaned against it. Let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. And for the first time in weeks, he felt a sliver of strength.

---

It didn’t last.

The collapse came on a Tuesday afternoon. Max had been trying to cook himself something simple—toast, maybe, or soup—but the smell of the bread made him dizzy, and the next thing he knew, the floor was rushing up to meet him.

He woke to chaos. Phoebe’s voice, sharp and frantic. Nora’s squeal. Billy shouting for help. And then the weight of his father’s arms lifting him, carrying him, laying him on the couch.

“Get the car,” Hank said. “We’re going to the hospital.”

At the hospital, the doctors moved quickly. Monitors beeped. IVs were inserted. Words like “dehydrated” and “malnourished” and “high-risk” floated through the air like poison darts.

And then the real diagnosis came: the pregnancy was putting too much strain on his body. Without his powers to compensate, his organs were struggling. If things didn’t change, he could lose the baby—or worse.

Phoebe stood in the corner of the room, fists clenched, jaw tight. She could feel the electricity crackling under her skin, ready to be used. One bolt of bio-energy, carefully directed, could stabilize his system. Could save him. Could save the baby.

But Max had been clear. He didn’t want powers. He didn’t want shortcuts. He wanted to do this the normal way, even if it killed him.

And that was the question, wasn’t it? How far did his autonomy go? How much did his family’s love for him outweigh his own choices?

Phoebe stepped forward, reaching out a hand. Her fingers sparked.

“Don’t.”

Max’s voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the room like a blade. His eyes were open, hazy but determined. “Please, Phoebe. Don’t use your powers on me.”

“Max, you’re dying.”

“I’m not. I’m just… tired. Let me do this. Please.”

She looked at him—at his pale face, his trembling hands, the fierce, stubborn light in his eyes that she hadn’t seen in months. And she made a decision.

She lowered her hand.

“Okay,” she said, her voice cracking. “Okay. But you’re not doing it alone.”

---

The recovery was slow. Days turned into weeks, and Max spent most of them in bed, surrounded by pillows, blankets, and the constant presence of his family. Phoebe brought him soup. Nora read aloud from pregnancy books, complete with enthusiastic sound effects. Billy tried to teach him to meditate, which ended with both of them laughing so hard the nurses told them to keep it down. Chloe monitored his vitals with a tablet and reported her findings in a dry, clinical tone that reminded Max of a tiny Vulcan.

His parents stayed too. Hank cooked, badly, and Barb told stories about Max’s own babyhood—about the first time he’d accidentally short-circuited the toaster, about the time he’d flown into a ceiling fan. Max groaned at the memories, but he smiled too.

The baby grew. By the time the first trimester passed, his belly had a noticeable curve, and he found himself resting a hand on it without thinking. The little kick that came back made his breath catch.

He was still scared. Still didn’t know how to be a parent. Still felt like a fraud, a normal kid playing dress-up, pretending he had his life together. But he wasn’t alone anymore. He didn’t have to be.

One evening, about a month after his collapse, Max stood in front of the window in his room, watching the sun set over Hiddenville. The sky was streaked with pink and gold, and the rooftops were quiet. Normal. Peaceful.

Phoebe knocked on the doorframe. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah.” He turned, and for the first time in a long time, the word didn’t feel like a lie. “I think I am.”

She walked over, stood beside him, and looked out at the same sky. “You know, you’re going to be a good dad.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. You’re stubborn. You’re loyal. You’re sarcastic enough to teach your kid how to roll their eyes at authority figures. That’s basically the whole parenting guide right there.”

He laughed, a startled, genuine sound. “I don’t even know if I’m keeping it.”

“You are.” She said it like a fact. “I can tell.”

He didn’t argue. Because she was right. Deep down, where the fears and doubts lived, there was something else too. A quiet certainty. A hope he hadn’t felt in years.

He put his hand on his belly, felt the faint flutter of movement, and smiled.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

Behind him, the door creaked, and Nora’s head poked through. “Are we doing a group hug? Because I feel like we’re doing a group hug.”

“Nora, not now—”

But she’d already flung herself at them, and Billy followed, and Chloe, and Hank and Barb, and suddenly Max was in the middle of a pile of Thundermans, laughing and trying to breathe.

He didn’t push them away.

He didn’t want to.

For the first time in a long time, he let himself be held. He let himself be loved. And he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he was exactly where he was supposed to be.