Twilight_Scribe
patreon
Chapter 40: House Hunting
🕑 Added 2025-06-08 09:56:12 +0000 UTC
When Henry first landed in this world, he figured his standards for housing would be rock-bottom. A roof, four walls, and running water—what more could a Kryptonian in exile ask for?
Turns out, quite a lot.
The more places he toured, the more he realized: every apartment had something wrong with it. Some were too loud, others too damp, too dark, too sketchy. In hindsight, it made sense—if a place was actually decent, it wouldn’t have landed in Fabio’s lower-tier real estate listings.
Fabio, for all his charm and salesmanship, wasn’t exactly operating at the top of the L.A. real estate food chain. He specialized in helping broke twenty-somethings chase pipe dreams in Hollywood. Henry, on the other hand, had a little cash stashed away… and more importantly, secrets that made shared living a potential nightmare.
So while he kept saying “I’m not picky,” the truth was: he was extremely picky. Not unlike those overly selective dating app users who claimed to be chill—until they met someone who wasn’t six-foot-two with a law degree and a pet-friendly landlord.
The good news? Fabio was a pro. He’d seen all kinds—starving artists, down-on-their-luck dreamers, borderline fugitives. So taking a few extra days to drive Henry all over L.A. didn’t faze him.
In the end, Henry settled on an older apartment building on the fringe of a Portuguese neighborhood. It wasn’t high-end, but it had a few things going for it: the surrounding streets were quiet, there weren’t any obvious drug dealers or working girls on the corners, and the place had a certain low-key charm.
That said, areas dense with one ethnic group often came with an unspoken rule: if you weren’t part of the tribe, you were on your own. But Henry’s Kryptonian status gave him the confidence to ignore those politics. He just needed somewhere safe and semi-private.
The landlord, as it turned out, lived on the ground floor. He insisted on meeting every tenant personally. No exceptions. If he didn’t like your vibe, you didn’t get the keys. Simple as that.
Fabio gave Henry the rundown on the drive over. The landlord wasn’t Portuguese—he was a long-time L.A. native whose family had been here since Hollywood’s golden age. But now, he was all that remained. Divorced, child in custody with grandma, and apparently halfway into his “post-societal norms” phase of life.
When Henry met him, he immediately understood why Fabio had sounded... hesitant.
The guy was bald, short, well into his sixties—and wearing lipstick and eyeliner.
Fabulous.
Henry instantly understood why the landlord's kid preferred grandma.
He tensed slightly, already mentally warming up his Kryptonian right hook, just in case this guy mistook him for someone interested in a different kind of lease.
But to his surprise, the man—Gary—was all performance, no predation. His campy aesthetic didn’t come with any sleazy undertones. No predatory leers. No awkward brushes. Just a man living his best life, consequences be damned.
Henry had seen weirder stuff back home, and that was before he woke up on this Earth with Superman’s DNA.
“Fabio, darling!” Gary greeted the Italian with a cheek-kiss-adjacent hug. “You brought me another bright-eyed hopeful. Let me guess: actor? Filmmaker? Failed magician seeking a second chance?”
Henry stayed cool. “Just… looking to see what the big city’s about. If I don’t like it, I’ll go back to Alaska.”
That wasn’t a line. It was the honest truth. The moment life in L.A. got too crazy—what with mutants, metahumans, and the occasional cosmic death god—Henry had zero shame about retreating to the Alaskan wilderness and making money mining gold with his heat vision.
“Alaska,” Gary repeated, circling Henry like he was sizing up a mannequin. “Hmm… you from the west?”
Henry caught the real meaning behind the question. “West” was Cold War code for “Did you defect from the Soviet Union recently?”
Technically… sort of? But Henry wasn’t about to explain interdimensional body-hijacking from a Russian black site. So he just shook his head. “Just Alaska.”
Gary seemed satisfied. “Alright then, Mr. Alaska. If you’re serious about renting, come take a look.”
He grabbed a ring of keys off his belt and opened the stairwell door.
Fabio gave Henry a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. Gary’s cool. A little... eccentric, but harmless.”
Henry smirked. As long as he’s not trying to convert me into a drag show understudy, I think we’ll be fine.
He followed them up to the third floor. The unit was on a corner, which meant two windows, decent lighting, and just enough space for someone who didn’t want to go full hermit but still valued privacy.
Kitchen, fridge, bed, desk, closet, washer, and dryer—check. Clean, well-kept, fully furnished. Everything a superhuman masquerading as a broke twenty-something could ask for.
Gary stood by the door, arms crossed dramatically. “You’ve probably already heard the basics from Fabio, but let me make this clear: No pets. Guests are fine, but this isn’t a rave den. No blasting music, no drugs, no chaos. If you get high and start banging on doors, I will evict you. Personally. And unceremoniously.”
“Sounds fair,” Henry said with a nod. “No arguments from me.”
