AN: General heads up for this fic; it's going to have a pretty heavy OC focus, especially at the beginning, until Heather's presence starts changing up canon events. It's going to be a bit of a snowball effect. The changes will start small, and grow as the story goes on. Hope ya'll enjoy!
Heather sipped at her glass of wine, letting the chatter and warmth of the restaurant wash over her. She didn't remember anymore whose idea these get togethers had been, but they were a wonderful. Once a month she and a couple old friends from college got together and did something fun; they went to a nice place to eat, to see a play, whatever they were in the mood for that month. It was the perfect way to unwind from their busy lives and catch up with each other.
"Okay," Becky said, leaning forward over the table and pointing with her desert spoon, "we've established that Dominique and Peter are still the perfect couple, yay for them, Maria's new boss is a total jerk but the pay is still worth it, and my family should never ever get together for the holidays. The only one we haven't had life updates from is -" she twirled the spoon dramatically " – Heather!"
Heather set her glass down with a smile. "No major updates on my end. Just same old, same old for me."
"Well that's boring!" Becky declared. "Not seeing anyone new? No hot new teachers at your school?"
"Schools don't usually hire in the middle of the school year," Heather said. "And I'm still single, just like I was when you asked two weeks ago."
Maria reached over and patted Heather's shoulder consolingly. "Don't worry; she keeps asking about my love life too. We're just going to have to put up with it for a few months now that she and Ethan are engaged. It'll die down eventually."
Becky sniffed. "Well excuse me for wanting my friends to be happy!"
"Some of us don't need romance to be happy," Maria replied.
Heather lifted her glass. "I'll toast to that!"
Maria grinned, picking up her glass and clinking it against Heather's. Becky made a face. "Killjoys."
Dominique chuckled, brushing a dark curl back from her face. "You know, I seem to remember a certain someone being very against romance back when I got engaged."
Becky waved a hand dismissively. "That's in the past! I was young and foolish!"
"What, and now you're old and wise?" Maria asked over the rim of her glass, brown eyes sparkling with mirth behind her glasses.
Becky made an offended noise at the word 'old', but before she could respond their waiter arrived with the bill. It was the signal to end their evening. The four friends split the check and made their way outside. Heather pulled her coat tighter around herself as the cold air washed over her.
"Anyone need a ride?" Dominique asked.
"I'll take one!" Becky said. She linked arms with the other woman. "Your car is so much more comfortable than a taxi. And cheaper."
"I'll be fine," Maria said. "I'm going to take the subway."
Heather wished she could take Dominique up on the offer given the cold conditions, but Dominique would be going out of her way to drop Heather off. "I'm good, thanks for the offer though."
"If you're sure," Dominique said. "Talk to you ladies soon!"
They split up, going on their ways. Heather shoved her hands in her coat pockets, walking at a brisk pace down the sidewalk. Maybe I should grab a taxi. She lived close enough to the restaurant they'd eaten at that she typically wouldn't even consider it, but with the chill in the air, the thought was tempting. After a moment's contemplation, she shook her head. Even if it was cold, she just didn't feel she could justify the expense for such a short distance.
I'll just walk fast.
Easy to do at the moment. Between the late hour and the low temperatures, the sidewalk was very nearly deserted, so Heather didn't have to worry about anyone getting in her way as she was speed walking down the sidewalk. Heather turned down an alley, knowing it'd cut a good five minutes off her walk. She was so focused on getting home quickly, she didn't notice the figure in the shadows until he grabbed her arm.
Heather's startled cry was cut off when he swung her around face first into the brick wall. Tears sprang to her eyes as her head connected with the wall, but she had no time to dwell on the pain as the man spun her around so her back was pressed against the cold brick. Between her tear blurred vision and the dark shadows of the alleyway, Heather couldn't make out much of the man's features. Only a few things about him jumped out at her: big, white, two teeth missing when he snarled down at her. He grabbed her purse and yanked it, but Heather had slung the strap across her body so her hands would be free to shove in her coat pockets, so she stumbled forward with it.
The mugger grabbed the collar of her jacket and shoved her back roughly, knocking her head against the wall again and making Heather cry out in pain. "Shut it, lady," he snapped. "Hand over your purse now!"
Heather's heart pounded and her hands trembled. "Okay, okay!"
"I said shu-"
A shadow landed on the ground behind him, and suddenly the mugger was flying across the alley to slam into the opposite wall. Heather froze, mouth agape. It was another man, this one dressed in all black, including a mask that hid his face. The masked man didn't give the mugger any time to recover, attacking him before he could even get up off the ground. As the mugger let out a startled cry of pain, Heather's adrenaline kicked in, and she sprinted away, out of the alley.
There was no one else on the sidewalk as she ran, or if there was, Heather's panicked mind didn't register them. She ran all the way to her building, and yanked on the door. It rattled but didn't open, and Heather yanked on it again before remembering that she had to scan her keycard to open it. She dug the keycard out of her purse with shaking hands, scanned it, and then dashed into the lobby of her apartment building, the door falling shut behind her.
The sudden warmth of the building's heater soothed some of the blind panic from Heather. She paused, gasping for breath and finally noticing the strain in her limbs and lungs from her sudden extended sprint. Oh, oh God, I was just attacked. Tears welled up and spilled over her cheeks. Heather pressed her hands over her mouth to hold back a sob. She walked over the elevator and jabbed the up button. It immediately dinged and the doors slid open. Heather went inside and pressed the button for the fourth floor.
As the doors slid shut, she leaned back against the wall. She played the attack over in her head. It had all been so abrupt, so fast, and Heather had been completely helpless. If that masked man hadn't appeared when he did…if he hadn't saved her, then…
Heather stumbled down her hall, managed to get her door unlocked with trembling hands. Once she was inside, she immediately flipped the lock and slid the deadbolt in place. That done, all her remaining strength left her, and Heather slid down to the floor. The sobs finally broke through, and Heather pressed her face into her knees and cried.
Finally, her tears stopped and Heather raised her head to wipe at her cheeks while she sniffled noisily. She felt exhausted and achy. What do I do now? Should I call the cops? She wasn't sure if there was much of a point; Heather doubted if the mugger would still be around for them to catch, and she didn't think she could give them a good enough description of the mugger to make it worth their time. But Heather didn't know what else to do, so she got her cellphone out and dialed 911.
"911, what's your emergency?" a woman's voice said through the speaker.
Heather had to clear her throat. "Yes, um, I need to report an attack."
"Are you currently safe?" the woman asked.
"Yes," Heather said. "Yes, I'm safe, I got away."
"What's your current location?" the woman asked. "I'll have officers on their way over while I stay on the line with you."
Heather recited her address. "Good, a car is on it's way," the operator told her. "Now, what's your name, miss?"
"Heather," she said. "I'm Heather Fisk."
Sergeant Brett Mahoney studied the young woman sitting on the couch in front of him. She was dressed nice, in a richly colored sweater, dark jeans, and ankle boots, her scarf and trench coat discarded over the arm of the couch. Her light brown hair had been pinned up, but much of it had fallen out, probably during the attack. Her arms were curled protectively around her torso. Her brown eyes were wide and voice shaky as she recounted her story for them.
Brett kept his voice gentle when he spoke to her. Heather wasn't quite in shock, but she was still clearly frightened after her experience and needed careful handling. "And you have no idea who that masked man might have been?" He doubted she would, but he had to ask, especially given this wasn't the first time in the past few weeks he'd heard someone mention a man in a black mask.
Heather shook her head. "No, sir. Like I said, it was dark and I couldn't see much. And I – I didn't really stick around to find out. Once I had an opening, I just – I just ran." Something like shame flickered over her face at the last word.
"You did the right thing," Brett said firmly. He hated seeing that, people feeling guilty for protecting themselves. He glanced over his notes, trying to see if there was anything else he needed to ask her or to clarify. There wasn't, so he closed the notebook and slipped it in his pocket. "We'll check out the alley you told us about," he said, "see what we can find." He hesitated just a moment before adding, "Ms. Fisk, do you have family in the area? Maybe someone you can stay with tonight? You're not in any danger, but sometimes after an incident like this it can help to be around other people."
"My brother," she said. She bit her lip and looked at the clock hanging on the wall. The hours were edging into early morning. "It's so late, though, I hate to call him now."
"I don't know your brother," Brett said, "but if I had a sister who'd almost been mugged, I wouldn't care what time it was when she called me. In fact, I'd probably be more upset if she didn't."
Tears brimmed in Heather's eyes, but she blinked them back and offered up a wobbly smile. "That does kind of sound like Wilson, actually. I'll give him a call."
"Good," Brett said. He and his partner – Eddie Phelps – said their goodbyes, and left Heather's apartment.
"I wish people would figure out they shouldn't walk down alleys at night," Eddie grumbled as they climbed into their car. "This is Hell's Kitchen. Anyone with common sense should know that isn't safe."
"It should be," Brett said. No one should have to fear being attacked on their way home, regardless of the time of day.
"Doesn't matter," Eddie shot back. "Reality is what it is, and people should know that by now."
Brett and Eddie had had this discussion more than once, and he didn't feel like engaging in it again tonight, so he didn't say anything as he parked next to the alley where Heather had been attacked.
"Waste of our time to come out here," Eddie muttered. It probably was, but they still had to look.
Brett pulled out his flashlight and clicked it on as they walked down the alley, shining it on the ground as they went. "What are the chances of more than one person running around in a black mask?"
Eddie snorted. "I'd say slim. I'm thinking we've got a vigilante on our hands."
Brett nodded. That's what he'd been thinking too. First, it had been a couple of bottom rung thugs from the Russian mob that had a foot in Hell's Kitchen, found bloodied and broken and claiming a man in a mask had attacked them. Then there was a woman whose boyfriend had decided not to take no for an answer, and she'd screamed in the alley he'd dragged her into and the man in the black mask had showed up. Now there was this.
Once could be chance. Twice, coincidence. But three times? Three was a pattern.
An odd lump caught his eye, and Brett shown his light in that direction, letting out a curse at what it revealed.
It was a man, sprawled out on the ground, his face beaten and bloody. Brett hurried over to him, relieved to find that he was still breathing. Eddie radioed for an ambulance. "Think that's Heather's mugger?" he asked once he was done.
"That'd be my guess," Brett said grimly. Now that he was closer, it was clear that the man had more injuries than just those on his face. "Looks like our masked man worked him over good."
"Can't say as I feel sorry for him," Eddie said.
Brett didn't really feel sorry for him either. Anyone who'd attack a helpless person deserved to get beat. But Brett was worried. Based on what he'd seen of the vigilante's work so far, the guy had training. He was also, judging by the extent of the injuries he'd left in his wake, very angry. Had to be, to inflict the kind of damage that he did.
Trained, angry, and willing to work outside the law. It was a recipe for disaster. So far, he'd only targeted criminals, and he hadn't left anyone dead. But for someone with that much pent up rage? It's only a matter of time.
The ringing of his phone woke Wilson, and irritation flickered through him. It vanished immediately though once he picked it up and saw who was calling. Heather never called him at this time of night. Something must be wrong.
Wilson sat up in bed as he answered the phone. "Heather, are you alright?"
"I'm fine," she said, but Wilson could hear a tremor in her voice. "I'm sorry for calling so late. I must have woken you up."
"You never need to apologize for calling me," Wilson said. "You know that. What do you need?"
"Um, well, I was wondering, I mean, I was." She stopped. Took a breath. "Someone tried to mug me."
Wilson was still. "Are you alright?" he asked again, keeping his voice quiet and controlled.
"I am," she said. "I not hurt. I – not really. I got away. I've already talked to the cops too. I just, I think I'd feel better if maybe I could stay at your place tonight."
"Of course," Wilson said. He was already getting out of bed, heading for his closet. "I'll be over to pick you up in half an hour."
"Thank you, Wilson," Heather said, her voice soft and vulnerable. "I'll see you soon. Love you."
"I love you too," Wilson said. As soon as they hung up, Wilson called Wesley.
"Sir, what can I do for you?"
"Someone attacked Heather," Wilson said, allowing the anger that was boiling inside to show in his voice. The thought of some thug laying hands on Heather, of causing the fear he'd heard in her voice, it burned at Wilson. If he could get in the same room as the man who'd done it, Wilson would rip him apart with his bare hands.
But now wasn't the moment to give in to his anger. Heather needed him.
"Is she alright, sir?" Wesley asked, genuine concern in his voice.
"She will be fine," Wilson said. He dressed as he spoke. "I'm bringing her here for the night. She said she spoke to the police already. I want to know what she told them, and if they have any leads on who might have attacked her. I want him found, Wesley."
"Of course, sir," Wesley said. "I'll take care of it."
Once dressed, Wilson called for his driver, and soon he was one his way to the building Heather lived in. She must have been waiting for him in the lobby, because as soon as his car pulled up she opened the door of the building and jogged towards the vehicle, a small overnight bag in hand.
Wilson reached over and opened the door for her as she got close, and Heather climbed into the backseat, dropping her bag at her feet. "Are you alright?" Wilson asked again as she buckled in.
She smiled at him, but the expression was strained. "I'm okay, Wilson, really."
Wilson studied her. She didn't seem to be injured. Or at least, she had no scrapes or bruises that he could see. As bundled up as she was under a coat, scarf, jeans, and boots, that didn't really mean much.
"Tell me what happened," he said.
Heather recounted the story for him, keeping it brief. "I hope – I hope that masked man didn't get hurt trying to help me," Heather said at the end. She bit her lip and her brows furrowed together. "Maybe I should have stayed, seen if he needed help."
"Of course not," Wilson objected. "That would have only put you at further risk. Running away was the right thing to do. Besides, from what you've told me I doubt he gave the mugger a chance to do him harm."
She didn't look convinced, but she nodded anyway. "I guess you're right." Heather sighed. "I wish there was some way I could thank him." She shivered, rubbing at her arms. "I don't even want to think about what might have happened if he hadn't shown up when he did."
Wilson didn't want to think about it either, but he did. Heather could have been seriously injured tonight. She could have been killed. He made a mental note to tell Wesley to find the masked man. He owed him for saving Heather's life, and Wilson Fisk always paid his debts.