Will hated late shifts. Not because he hated his work—he loved being a nurse—or because they took place at night—though they had taught Will he was definitely not a night owl—but because he then had to walk home. The streets weren't safe even in broad daylight, and it was even worse at night. It was a miracle he hadn't been mugged yet after two months of internship.

No matter how much he tried to stick to populous areas, if he wanted to get home, he had to go through a few particularly creepy alleyways. He tried his best not to linger, keeping his pace just below a run and his face hidden under a hood. It gave him a feeling of blending in, barely reassuring against the dark and the omnipresent silence.

This night had been another lucky run…until he reached his apartment building, that is.

There were two bodies on the ground. One was covered in blood that was pooling around his head; the other wasn't bloody, but its neck was bent at an awkward angle—broken, most likely. Dead, both of them.

Will felt his heart racing, his mind blanking out, his body freezing in place, as he stared at the bodies in front of him. Then, along the second body's hand, he saw a trail of sparks, like an electrical current running across the skin. He'd heard of people with those marks: thugs, working for the Olympian gang in exchange for pseudo-superpowers. Cecil had had a few run-ins with them, Will knew, and he wasn't the only one. They were never good news.

And yet, these two were dead. That could only mean one thing.

Will's stream of thought was interrupted by a noise—a barely audible groan, more heavy breathing than actual sound. Before he could properly think about it, Will's feet were leading him to the source of that noise. A few paces away from the bodies, tucked in the shadows between two dumpsters, a slight figure was slumped against the brick wall, completely covered in a dark blue costume—half armor, half suit, made of a supple, yet mostly rigid material.

Will recognized the mask, its angular lines evoking a helmet: rumors of this vigilante had first started around two months ago, when Will was starting his internship at the hospital. People generally called him 'the Ghost of New York City', though the moniker wasn't exactly official yet. Actually, nothing was official: people had no idea what gender the Ghost was, nor what their allegiances and intentions were. The only thing people did know was that the Ghost was a super.

Seeing the Ghost in front of him was almost anticlimactic to Will. The frail figure, shorter than Will by a foot at least and definitely broken, did not match the fearsome super he'd heard of. And yet, if the dead thugs were any indication, there had to be something fearsome about the Ghost.

"Are you even conscious?" Will said—out loud, though he guessed it was a pointless question to ask. The Ghost hadn't reacted to his presence yet, and that was all the answer Will needed. He reached out to the Ghost, gently trying to wake them. Still no reaction. The only indication Will had that the Ghost wasn't dead too was the faint, raspy sound of breathing coming form under that mask.

Will had no idea why he did what he did next: he reached out, delicately, and lifted the Ghost in his arms. His nurse training said he shouldn't move an injured patient without identifying what was wrong with them, but his common sense told him that he couldn't help anyone when they were stuck between two dumpsters, with two dead bodies close by, and in a place where could be mugged at any time. Whatever was wrong with the Ghost, it would be easier to treat from the relative safety of Will's apartment.

He lived on the second floor, and the Ghost's body was light in his arm: he could get them there easily. The most difficult part was fumbling with his apartment keys without letting go of the Ghost—even if he'd decided to move them, Will still wanted to be as stable as possible. But finally, Will was inside, laid the Ghost on his couch, and rushed to his bathroom for the first aid kit he kept there.

As he knelt next to the Ghost's inanimate figure, he paused briefly. There was no obvious bleeding or broken limbs; if he wanted to know what was wrong, Will would have to remove the costume, and he felt reluctant about it. Supers were notorious about keeping their identity a secret; how would the Ghost react to Will finding out?

He shook the thoughts away. Too late for that; he'd already brought them inside his apartment. He took the scissors out of the first aid kit, trying to cut away the Ghost's jacket, but he couldn't manage to make the slightest damage to he strange fabric.

"Guess it is made for combat," he muttered, sighing. He'd have to remove it, which meant moving the Ghost's body around even more, and he didn't like that. "Why in hell and I even doing this?"

Regardless, he struggled with the Ghost's costume until he found where the jacket opened—because of course it was hidden, probably so it wasn't a liability in battle—and gently tugged it off, revealing pale skin underneath. His—definitely male, Will saw now—body was just as frail as it had felt in Will's arms, and the Ghost's chest was marred with bruises and scars. In several places, his skin was singed, probably by the thugs' electrical abilities; three of them ran across his entire chest, like claw marks, reaching up under his mask and down to his lower body.

These three wounds weren't just burns, Will noticed as he examined them. They were bleeding, too, gashing through the skin in a deep, thin incision, stopping barely above raw muscle. While the Ghost's jacket had seemingly contained the bleeding, it hadn't stopped it entirely. The attack, whatever it had been, had clearly been intended to work around the protection of the Ghost's suit.

Will treated the central burn first, delicately washing the blood away, applying disinfectant to the gash, and burn ointment all around it. He'd rather not have to stitch it, since the skin was burned, but it was still seeping blood, and Will doubted it was a good idea to leave it open.

Stitching across the Ghost's entire chest took several crucial, nerve-wracking minutes, and Will was starting to worry at his lack of reaction. No cry of pain, no jerking motions, nothing. If he didn't hear his pained breathing, Will would have wondered if he wasn't dead.

Finally, he was done with the first burn, reapplying disinfectant and bandaging it. He considered the other two, reaching under the rest of the Ghost's costume, and hesitated briefly. Baring the super's chest was one thing, but removing his mask meant seeing his face, and removing his pants…well, Will just felt plain uncomfortable at that.

But if he left those two wounds untreated, he might as well not have done anything at all. "I've come so far," he said, mostly to himself.

He pulled the Ghost's mask off first, slowly, almost reverently, revealing his face: fine features twisted in pain, revulsed eyes, dark hair sticking to his face with sweat. He was beautiful, but Will's rush of adrenaline had nothing to do with that and everything to do with fear of what the Ghost could do if he knew Will had seen this face.

Will took a deep breath, wrestling his nerves back under control, and worked on the second wound, which reached across the Ghost's jaw. There were a couple bruises on his face, too, and he applied balm to them and the ones on his chest, before he stitched the main gash closed. Bandaging it was a little complicated, and Will had to use two different strips of gauze—one across the Ghost's chest, and another that he stuck across his neck and jaw with tape. It was rough work, but it was the best Will could manage.

That left the third and final wound. Will gulped as he trailed it down the Ghost's body—his mind idly wondering at how smooth it was. The thought of a super shaving his body hair felt preposterous, and yet, here he was, picturing just that.

His fingers had trailed down to the Ghost's waistband without Will even noticing, and he let out a nervous chuckle at his ridiculous train of thought. Sure, there was something attractive about the super on his couch, and he was about to undress him—but this was really not the right time to think about this.

He pulled the Ghost's pants down, delicately, sighed in uncontrollable relief at the sight of his briefs, then winced when he saw the gash reached under them, down the Ghost's right thigh. He took a deep breath, and brought his scissors to them, cutting up the leg. Enough to give Will access to the wound while preserving the Ghost's modesty. Well, so to speak.

Will worked on the wound faster, his movements more secure after treating the other two and his barely-out-of-teenage-years brain on overdrive at the idea that his patient was basically naked on his couch. Bandaging the wound was the most awkward part of the process, but he managed it eventually.

He'd done everything he could for the wounds he could see on the Ghost's body. He'd felt it enough to be pretty sure no bone was broken, and there were no signs of internal bleeding. Suddenly, Will was at a loss for what to do: he stood up, awkwardly standing by the Ghost's unconscious form.

Should he call the police for the dead bodies outside? They'd ask questions, especially with the Ghost's blood now on Will's hands and clothes, and Will wasn't sure he could lie about it even if he managed to clean it off completely. An ambulance, for the Ghost? He might have missed something, or they might know better what to do, but Will guessed involving more people would only make the super even more angry than he would already be when he woke up.

For all the drama supers made about hiding their face, seeing the Ghost without his mask didn't really help all that much. He had no idea who he was, who Will could call for help—even after he'd searched the Ghost's discarded suit, which unsurprisingly gave no further clues.

He guessed the best thing he could do at this point was just wait. The Ghost couldn't remain out for that much longer—if he did, it would mean he'd suffered brain damage, and Will doubted it would be treatable after this long. When he woke up, he could tell Will what to do.

Will went to his bedroom to grab a spare comforter, and laid it over the Ghost's body, carefully testing his bandages as he tucked him in. Then he went back to the bathroom, to wash his hands—and splash water on his face, too, for good measure. It was starting to be a long night.

It only took a few more minutes of waiting after he came back to his living room for the Ghost to stir, which Will greeted with a sigh of relief. The Ghost, however, didn't seem as happy as he was: he jolted in surprise under the comforter, tried to sit up, and cried out in pain.

Will bolted from his chair. "Hey, it's okay, you're okay," he said, placing his hands on the Ghost's shoulders. "Lie back; you're wounded pretty badly."

The Ghost struggled weakly against Will's grip, gave up, and set his gaze on Will. His dark eyes were hazy, confused, and a little scared, but mostly angry. "Who the hell are you?" His voice was too weak to carry any real anger or threat. "Where am I?"

"I found you in the alleyway. Carried you inside, and patched you up. I'm a nurse," Will said, as if being a nurse explained anything. "Do you remember what happened to you? The thugs?"

The Ghost was silent for a moment, breathing deeply, slowly. Then, he nodded—hesitantly. "If you saw them, why did you help me? You must have figured out I killed them."

Will shrugged. "Hippocratic oath," he said, trying to sound casual.

"I thought that was only for doctors."

"Well—I know the kind of people these thugs are. I'm not a fan of killing, but—judging by what they did to you, you didn't have much of a choice."

The Ghost pushed the comforter back a little, glancing down his own chest. "That wasn't them. That was their boss." He looked back up at Will. "Did you really need to remove my mask and get me naked? What are you, some kind of a fetishist?"

Will scoffed—the super was a lot more manageable while he was unconscious. "Well, sorry for trying to save your life. Next time I'll leave you in an alleyway to bleed to death," he said, pulling away and crossing his arms. He had no idea where that bout of defiance came from—for all he knew, the Ghost could very well kill him too, even weak as he was.

To Will's surprise, the Ghost just sighed. "You did save my life, didn't you? I'm sorry. Though I—I really wish you hadn't seen my face."

"If it's any consolation, I still have no idea who you are. Your identity's safe with me."

The Ghost gave a brief chuckle, which ended in a wince of pain. "How reassuring."

"So…are we good?"

"What exactly did you expect? That I'd kill you for seeing my face?" He glanced at Will's face, and attempted another chuckle. "Oh, Gods. You totally did, didn't you?"

"Well—there are some pretty crazy rumors about you."

"I'm just trying to help people. Not my fault that sometimes involves brutalizing someone who deserves it. But I'm not going to hurt you after you saved my life. Besides, I don't think I could do much right now."

"You'll need to rest. You can sleep here, if you want."

The Ghost looked away, briefly. "I'm not sure it'd be such a good idea. The Bolt could come back anytime to finish the job, and when he sees I'm gone, he'll be looking for me."

"The 'Bolt'?"

"The Olympian Bolt. Jupiter Grace? Leader of the Olympian gang?" Noticing Will's blank expression, the Ghost chuckled. "Do you even read the papers?"

"I know who Jupiter Grace is, I just didn't know—"

"Well, yeah, he's not going to advertise that." He paused, then sat up again, wincing as he did. "I really should leave."

He was on his feet before Will could react, clutching the comforter around him. However, he'd barely taken a step that he staggered, and tipped forward to the floor—until Will caught him. "I don't think you're in any state to move right now," he said.

The Ghost looked up at him. "You're in danger as long as I'm here."

Will knew he was right. He'd already guessed that the two thugs hadn't been alone, and that others would be looking for the Ghost. Perhaps he'd been lucky when he'd chosen not to call the police. And yet he couldn't just leave him alone when he could barely walk.

"I'm already in danger for helping you, aren't I? I don't think one night can hurt any more."

He observed the Ghost's reaction, meeting his conflicted stare with a grin as he gently led the super back to the couch.

"Fine," the Ghost finally said. "One night. After that, I don't care how much my wounds have healed, I'll be out of here."

"Good enough for me," Will said. "Lie down; I'll get you some clothes to sleep in. They'll be too big for you, but I guess it's better than nothing, right?"

"Right," the Ghost said as he sat down.

Will hurried to get old pajamas, but by the time he was back, the Ghost was already sound asleep on his couch, and he didn't feel like he should wake him up. Instead, he just tucked him in, taking a cushion from his chair and placing it under his head.

He headed to bed, more because he had no idea what else to do. Watch over him all night? Probably pointless—he was certain the Ghost was out of danger now—and a little creepy. Sleep was slow to come, with the thought of a super—the Ghost of New York City—in his living room, but eventually, exhaustion took over, and Will fell asleep.

Will was too used to getting up at sunrise, though: even when he'd gone to sleep only a few hours before, he was still up in the early morning. He got up to his usual morning routine, hazy from the lack of sleep and, for a moment, having completely forgotten about the night's events.

It was only when he was out of his bedroom, still in his underwear, that he noticed the bundled cover on his couch, and froze, panicking at the thought of how embarrassing this might be if the Ghost woke up now.

His fear was for nothing, though: he quickly realized there was no one under the comforter. The costume was gone too, as were a few of Will's old clothes that had been strewn around the room in his usual mess. The pajamas he'd left were still there, though, neatly folded and with a note on top of them.

Couldn't stay here—it wasn't safe for either of us. Sorry about the clothes. Couldn't walk back in my costume in broad daylight. I'll make it up to you. -NA

Will couldn't help but feel a hint of disappointment that he was gone already, before Will even got to say goodbye—or check his wounds again first. And what was that 'NA' standing for?

He shrugged, and went back to his routine. Maybe it was best to move on from that night—though he probably shouldn't forget. If the Ghost was right, someone might look around. Notice that there's a nurse living nearby. Will had to be ready…to do what? He was too tired to think about it.

All morning he thought about the Ghost, when he was at the gym and when he showered, when he met Cecil for lunch, and when he headed to the hospital for his shift. Yet, over the course of the afternoon, his work took up most of his attention, finally shifting his thoughts away from the Ghost.

A couple days later, another intern in the hospital came to see him near the end of his shift. "Will? Your name is Will Solace, right?"

Will blinked at her—she'd barely started working here, and he didn't know her. "Yeah, why?"

"There's a patient who wanted to see you. Said he had some stitches to get removed?"

"What?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. That's all he said—and he was very adamant about you removing them."

Intrigued, Will followed her to a nearby room. Thankfully, she didn't follow him inside, because when he saw who the patient was, he froze in place.

"Holy shit." Standing right there was the Ghost of New York City, a faint smirk on his lips.