Chapter Text
Billy had run away before. From social services, from the bullies who made his life hell, from the emptiness that followed him like a shadow. He’d run from the world. From himself.
But this time, it was different.
This time, he ran from home. Or what should’ve been.
The court had ruled in favour of his biological mother. It had all seemed like something out of a dream at first — the kind you wake up from reaching for, only to grasp at air. She had his eyes. He saw it right away. And she looked at him like she wanted to make things right. So Billy tried. He really did. He sat at her kitchen table every morning, forcing down cereal that wasn’t his favorite. He smiled through the quiet, answered her small talk with forced optimism, folded the laundry without being asked. They watched TV together — her shows. She laughed at all the wrong moments. He laughed just to keep her company.
But the walls of her house echoed. Every room felt like a reminder of something he was supposed to feel. Her hugs were tentative, hesitant, as though they belonged more to the ghost of a memory than the person standing in front of him. And when he finally gathered the courage to ask if he could visit Rosa, Victor, and the others—his real family—his mother had smiled, soft and sympathetic.
“We need to give this a real shot first, Billy,” she had said. “Let’s not go backwards.”
But backwards was the only direction that had ever felt right.
So, Billy ran.
He ran through the city as dusk melted into night, hoodie pulled over his head, sneakers pounding against concrete. He cut through alleys and across streets, ignoring the cold in his lungs, ignoring the ache in his legs. He didn’t call out with one magic word. Not yet. He didn’t want power. He didn’t want magic. He just wanted to get there—to home.
And finally, he did.
Billy stood across the street, hiding in the shadows like a trespasser outside the house he had once dared to believe was his forever. The porch light glowed softly, yellow and warm, as if daring him to step into it. His heart thudded in his chest, heavy and disoriented, the same way it had on the very first day he’d arrived here. The day he’d finally allowed himself to believe he belonged.
He looked through the window.
Victor and Rosa were at the dinner table, laughing. Tired laughter, worn around the edges — the kind that came from trying to hold it together. They were still trying.
But someone else sat in his chair.
A little boy. Maybe seven. Thin, hunched forward as if trying to make himself smaller. A plate of untouched spaghetti sat in front of him. Clutched tightly to his chest was a familiar plush — It was the Captain Marvel plush, the one Rosa had given him on his first birthday with them. He remembered unwrapping it, pretending he didn’t care, even though he’d clutched it every night that first year.
Now it was clutched by him.
The boy looked nervous, like he was trying to disappear behind a plate of untouched spaghetti. Mary walked into the room holding a stack of scrapbooks — the ones they made together, full of memories, real and messy and perfect.
He stared for so long his breath fogged against the cold glass. His chest twisted sharply with an ache he couldn’t name.
He remembered posing for those pictures with Freddy. Decorating the pages with Darla and Mary. Laughing with Pedro and Eugene. That scrapbook was him. Them.
Billy watched as she crossed the room toward the boy.
Her eyes flicked toward the window. She froze.
The scrapbooks slipped from her hands, hitting the floor with a heavy slap. Her mouth moved, and even though he couldn’t hear it, Billy knew. She had said his name.
“Billy…”
Panic shot through him.
He stepped back from the window like he’d been burned. He hadn’t even realized the ground beneath his feet had begun to tremble faintly, a low hum of power coiling around his boots. Grass withered where he stood. Streetlamps flickered, then burst overhead with an electric pop.
His breathing hitched.
The door flew open.
“Billy!” Mary’s voice cracked with something between disbelief and relief as she ran out, not even grabbing a jacket.
Then came the others.
Freddy, limping quickly out with his crutch. Darla barrelled past him with a cry of his name, arms outstretched like she was ready to tackle him in a hug. Pedro followed behind, eyes scanning Billy like he wasn’t sure if this was real or some cruel dream.
But Billy had already backed away, stumbling a few steps.
“No—don’t.” His voice splintered as it left his throat.
“Billy, wait!” Rosa called, breathless.
Victor came too, hands open at his sides like he wanted to fix it but didn’t know how.
On the porch behind them, the boy stood, confused and frightened, still clutching the plush as he poked out from behind Eugene’s leg
Billy tried to smile, but it broke under the weight of everything.
“I get it,” he said quietly, voice raw. “I left. He deserves a good home.”
Thunder rumbled in the clouds above at his words, deep and mournful.
Mary took another step forward, hands raised gently as if approaching a wounded animal.
“Billy, you belong here. That hasn’t changed.”
“Yes, it has.” His words cut through the cold like glass. “Everything has.”
His voice rose without him meaning to. “I tried. I tried to be what she needed. I tried to be good. And I thought maybe—maybe—I’d still have this. But I messed it all up. I ruined everything.”
“No,” Freddy snapped, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re our family, Billy. That’s never changed.”
“You haven’t messed anything up,” Darla said firmly, even as tears ran down her cheeks.
“I have!” Billy shouted, the wind answering him this time, surging around the house in sudden bursts. “I’ve been gone for three weeks and you already have someone new to replace me!”
“You’re not replaceable!” Pedro shouted back, “Sweetheart, that’s not what this is!” Rosa says, voice cracking.
Then Billy felt it.
Magic.
He looked down and saw sparks flicker along his fingertips — not golden bolts of power, but raw, unstable light, jittering like dying stars. He wasn’t transformed. He wasn’t Captain Marvel.
He wasn’t supposed to have magic like he was like this.
The ground under his feet split slightly. The wind howled louder. Above, the sky flashed crimson for a heartbeat — a pulse, a rift, like reality itself was reacting to the despair in the heart of its champion.
Billy stared in horror.
“I just wanted to come home,” he whispered. “But I can’t even do that without breaking things.”
He looked back at them — the people he loved more than anything.
“You can still be heroes. I know you can. Just… without me.”
Mary reached for him, but it was too late.
Billy lifted his head to the sky, tears mingling with the rain, voice cracking as he called, “SHAZAM!”
The bolt of lightning that struck him shook the block. For a second, daylight returned — white-hot and furious. When it cleared, Captain Marvel stood in his place, cape snapping in the wind, taller, stronger, but hunched with the same grief.
He looked down at the family he loved.
At Mary’s and Pedro's tears. Darla clutching Freddy’s sleeve. Victor holding Rosa’s hand. The new boy, now holding onto Eugene for dear life, head tucked into his chest.
Captain Marvel’s jaw trembled.
And then he turned.
With a crack of thunder and a burst of light, he launched into the sky, a comet of gold and pain tearing through the clouds.
The air shook.
A street sign collapsed. The porch lights blinked out. All around them, the wind died in a heartbeat, and the city went still.
Mary covered her mouth, unable to breathe through her sobs. Rosa’s knees buckled, and Victor caught her. Darla stared at the sky, whispering his name like it might bring him back.
Above, the sky wept.
And somewhere, far beyond the clouds, magic — old, vast, and fragile — began to fray.