His watch read 6:15, but the apartment was dark. A single bulb-less fixture hung from the low ceiling and the small windows were caked with city grime and particles of humanity 5 years perished. Appropriate, he mused. Jessica lived in the darkness anyway.

He walked about the clutter- chairs hidden in piles of scanty clothing, a threadbare sofa, that fantastically sturdy old table- and mused that he had never noticed it all before. Never considered that Jessica was a person with possessions other than a body and a bed. Never wondered where she came from, or why she lived in this black, blighted city.

The old Peter from before, he would have felt guilty. He would have sat her down somewhere pretty and apologized, made her talk about herself and made himself understand her. Then he would have taken her to breakfast and made sure to call again before 3:00.

A grim smile darkened his features. That life, that man, was dead along with half of New York City. Jessica saw him often enough- if she wanted more, she'd have to ask. And she wouldn't ask; Peter was shrewd enough now to see that. She needed him no more than he needed her. Heck, he'd only learned her name last week, and that was by accident.

Peter poked his way back through the room to the tiny kitchen. He shook yesterday's coffee from the pot, let the rust run out of the tap water, and put up the coffee. It was vile stuff, weak and bitter. There was no sugar, real or artificial. Like the world, nothing was sweet anymore.

Oddly though, the ritual warmed something in him. This was their only bond (aside the obvious.) Whoever got up first made the coffee. That was it- no words, no notes, no kisses. Often they didn't even stay for the other to wake up. But it was something- some glint of consideration, generosity, that they never mentioned but that made both their shattered souls just a little more whole.

Of course, it was her coffee.

X

Jessica slept on as Peter dressed. He didn't wonder that she was still asleep, not with all the booze on her breath last night; he did wonder if he would be able to extract his shirt from beneath her without waking her. The black cuff poked out from the crook of her arm, and he knelt close to ease it out.

Without warning, Peter was slammed against the dirty wall by strength beyond imagining. His right arm twisted to the breaking point behind him, and he felt blood seep down into his right eye. Peter's mouth opened reflexively to protest, but before he could process the pain, he was free. The cut on his forehead closed as he turned around, and he winced as strained muscles mended.

"Sorry." Jessica stood with her arms crossed, glaring at him in that way she did, that made him feel so hot and so cold at the same time.

"Forget it," he said. "Next time I'll just leave the shirt."

There was an empty pause while Peter gauged the safety of trying to receive the article again. Jessica smirked and tossed it to him, then turned and began dressing. She didn't see the flash of crumpled paper fall to the floor.

A photograph. Peter picked it up, staring at a kid with brown skin and a wise little smile. Curly brown hair lit by the afternoon. In front of a house- a family kind of house.

"Cute," he said. "Who is he?"

Jessica turned, a lazy question on her face. But her deadly eyes caught the picture before and she didn't say anything. Peter shrugged and tossed the photo on the bed, turning to leave, and thinking of reconsidering this little relationship.

"Micah," she said, and her voice was mechanical. "My son. Died. In the bomb."

The air seemed to leave the tiny room. Bitterness swelled in Peter and made him shrink, like wool in water. Just another, he told himself, wringing the fabric of his guilt. Just one more name. "Sorry," he said. "That's… sorry."

"Yeah," said Jessica. Or she looked like Jessica, but Peter could have sworn it was somehow someone else. "He… I didn't know he was in New York."

Peter watched her.

"Seven," she said. "Seven years old and a genius. He could fix anything. That's… that's why he was here."

Jessica paused, and Peter waited. The seconds ticked by on his watch, which now read 6:30.

"But I got him," she said, and Jessica was back again. "I got that ugly old bastard, his casinos, his empire… ripped it limb from limb and spat in the bloody mud." Her eyes glowed like the death he'd seen flow from his hands five years ago, and she was breathing hard.

"Good," he said.

They stood there until Peter's watch said 6:40. They finished dressing.

Then they drank their coffee together, but neither one said a word.