What does it mean to have a night at home when you don't have a home?
My protagonists have no homes, as far as I can remember. Wait let me check... Yep. No homes. Whenever we meet them they are out in the world, facing down danger, committing acts of bravery and sometimes crimes - usually both depending on whose perspective you have.
But what if they did have a home what would it be like?
Cue the wind chime music and the wavy lines until...
On a quiet suburban street we find a split level colonial home. All looks normal as the sun goes down and then--
A blazing red sports car comes flying around the corner, skidding through the turn and then up the street. As the driver slams on the brakes, tire smoke fills the air.
The car has stopped in front of the split level colonial. The gull wing doors pop up and Hawker and Danielle climb out. He has white button down shirt, a skinny tie and a black suit on. She wears a little black dress, four inch pumps and clutches a small purse just large enough to hold a Walther PPK.
"Do you think we lost them?" he asks.
She looks over her shoulder. "I hope so. I think that last 360 did it. You know I really hate neighbors that want chat your ear off at the supermarket."
He nods. Pops the trunk and then grabs the bags out of the sportscar's trunk. We see see fresh vegetables in one, boxes of cereal in another. "I'll bring this stuff in," he says. "You get the mail."
"Alright," she says Then she looks at him a mischievous look in her eyes. "You know, if you play your cards right there might just be something special for desert."
"That's right. I picked up some cheesecake at the factory earlier."
------Sound of screeching tires and a crash ------------------
This is not working. Hawker and Danielle as domesticated suburbanites. Nope.
Let me try again.
In a modern high rise near lower Manhattan an elevator cruises toward the top floor. Hawker leans against the polished brass wall, his black jacket over his shoulder like a cheesy aftershave model. Danielle presses into him, her hands on his chest.
"It's just me an you tonight," she says. "You think you can handle it?"
He smiles down at her. The elevator is moving faster, racing for the top. "Don't know," he says but I'd love to find out."
Suddenly the elevator slows. They are on the 48th floor. Ten flights below their destination.
The doors open. An old lady stands there, her blue hair in a net. She pushes a small cart with groceries in it. Struggling to get it on board.
"Mrs. Werkelschmidt," Hawker says. "Let me help you with that."
"Get you're damn hands off me, sonny!"
She whacks him with an umbrella.
"I was just trying to help."
"You young whippersnappers - trying to help yourself to my Lactose Free Milk, is what your you're trying to do."
Hawker steps back, smiles at Danielle and shrugs.
"And you," Mrs. Werkelschmidt suddenly barks. "You dress like a hussy. Why in my day I'd have called cops on you thinking you were a --"
You see, this is why my protagonists hop around the globe, defying death ad writing wrongs, its just better that way for them.