Summary: Now, sometimes he has trouble remembering which one is the costume and which is his true identity—sometimes, he feels more like Injustice than he ever feels like Wes Mitchell, that the lawyer is just a suit he puts on so no one will know who he really is. Wesvis. Superhero AU.

Warnings: Superheroes. Giant robots. Superhero clichés. Some violence. Some swearing. Mention of canon off-screen suicide. Platonic male/female friendship. Anxiety. Anxiety attacks. Depression. Self-hate. Self-destructive behaviors. Warped perceptions of self. There's a fine line between villainy and anti-heroism. Wes has unhealthy coping mechanisms. Wesvis.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

I have a weakness for superhero stories. Heavily inspired by Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog.

Title is a play on the song The Only Difference Between Martyrdom And Suicide Is Press Coverage by Panic! At The Disco.

Much love and thanks to autisticwesmitchell who helpfully beta'd the fic and told me it was a good story even when I had doubts. I always appreciate the support, sweetie.

OOOO

The Only Difference Between Villainy And Anti-Heroism Is Press Coverage: Track One

"Nobody is a villain in their own story. We're all the heroes of our own stories."

—George R.R. Martin

XXXX

Every Saturday, between 3:30 and 4:00, Wes goes to the laundromat down the street. It's part of his routine, and Wes is very fond of his routines. In the two years since he'd moved to this apartment, he hasn't missed one Saturday.

Though, if he's being completely honest, his routine isn't the only reason he goes to laundromat every Saturday. It isn't even the main reason.

The main reason is standing behind washer #7. He has dark skin and bright blue eyes, and he always wears a leather jacket that makes him look insufferably cool. Wes doesn't know his name, but when he smiles, Wes sort of feels like he's having a heart attack.

Needless to say, Wes always makes sure to come when there's the highest chance Laundry Guy will be there—that is, on Saturday afternoons between 3:30 and 4:00.

(Kendall always teases him about Laundry Guy. She thinks he should go over, strike up a conversation, at least get the guy's name. Wes will always say he isn't that brave, and then Kendall will scoff and say, "Really, Mr. LA Vigilante?"

"I'm wearing a mask then, so it's hardly the same," Wes will always protest. "If you're so interested in his name, you go ask."

"I'm not the one making googly eyes over the dryers," she'd retort, and that's always the point when Wes revokes her invitation to Laundry Day.)

Laundry Guy glances up from washer #7 as the bell over the door chimes, letting out a long, slow smile that sends tingles through Wes's body and makes his heart clench in his chest. It should be alarming, and in a way it sort of is, but mostly it just makes Wes feel dizzy.

He bites his lip, ducks his head, and goes to the furthest washing machine in the room.

If Kendall were here, she'd poke him with her sharp little elbows and say he was being a coward. "Anyone who dresses in skintight suits and roams the streets at night should be braver than this!" she'd say. "Go talk to him."

Kendall isn't here, and Wes has no intention of talking to him. But…

He glances up, and finds Laundry Guy watching him. When their eyes meet, Laundry Guy grins and winks. Wes flushes, dropping his gaze to his laundry basket. After a few heart-pounding seconds, he darts another quick glance out of the corner of his eye to find that Laundry Guy has gone back to his own clothes.

Wes has no intention of talking to him, but still.

Slowly, he starts to smile.

XXXX

His good mood lasts three-quarters of the way home, right about the time he passes Crispin Electronics. Like most electronic stores, Crispin's has a wall of televisions in the front window, all tuned to the same channel.

Today, the TVs are showing a perky blonde in a baby-blue pantsuit, reporting about Injustice's latest failure against Golden Boy, with plenty of video footage to really drive the humiliation home. Wes can't hear what the perky blonde is saying, but he can imagine how it goes, since so many of these news reports all end up saying the same thing.

"Is Injustice a hero or a villain?" the reporter is probably asking. "He saves people from danger, just like our local heroes do, but he definitely has a grudge against the police and city officials. Why, just last week he was foiled in a dastardly plot against City Hall. If he's a hero, why is he attacking our leaders and protectors? And if he's a villain, why isn't the League doing anything about it?"

Because the League is full of idiot do-gooders with their heads up their asses, Wes thinks sourly, watching as Golden Boy tosses Injustice over his shoulder like nothing. And that one…

On the screen, Golden Boy pauses for the camera, hands on his hips, chest thrust out heroically. He makes a dashing figure, with that strong jaw and those dancing blue eyes. Just seeing him makes Wes's blood boil. His hands tighten on his hamper.

That one's the worst.

He grits his teeth and turns away before he has to endure any more.

XXXX

Wes's power isn't that great. He isn't indestructible like Golden Boy. He can't fly at supersonic speeds like Jetstrike, or phase and turn invisible like Spectre. His power isn't flashy or loud or even very noticeable. Some days, he isn't even sure his power is a power.

Wes is athletic. Not super athletic—he can't jump ten feet in the air or run for hours without tiring. He's flexible and agile and fast, but only at levels just above a normal, non-superpowered human. It meant he'd never failed PE, but it didn't do him much good in his everyday life.

Then…well, then the incident happened two years ago, and everything changed. He got a new job, moved to a new apartment, he was doing what he could, fighting the good fight, and it never felt like enough. He'd work and he'd work and nothing would change.

That was when he donned a mask and went out at night. Maybe he actually thought becoming a vigilante would change things when nothing else had. Or maybe he just wanted to punish himself for what happened, because getting beaten up was all he was doing those first few months.

That was when Kendall found him.

XXXX

She's curled up on the couch when he gets back to the apartment, her tablet in her lap, fingers flying over the screen. She mumbles an absent reply at his greeting, not even looking up. Wes doesn't let it bother him; he's used to her ways. By the time he deposits his laundry on his bed and returns to the living room, she's pulled herself out of her tech-fog and is waiting for him. As soon as he appears, her eyes are pinning him to the spot, a wicked grin crossing her lips.

"So? Was he there?"

Wes pretends not to know what she's talking about. "Who?"

"You know." Her grin gets wider, eyes dancing at the chance to torment him. "Laundry Guy." She draws the words out, makes them a few extra syllables long. La-a-aun-dry Gu-a-aai. Wes isn't quite sure how, but he knows she is ruthlessly teasing him, because she is a horrible person who likes to make him squirm.

"This," he declares, moving into the room and leaning against the back of the couch, "this is why you are no longer invited to Laundry Day." She opens her mouth to retort and he, a little desperately, says, "I thought up a new catchphrase."

It's deflection, pure and simple, but it does what it's supposed to. Kendall drops the subject of Laundry Guy and her eyebrows go up. "Yeah? Hit me."

Wes straightens, puts his hands on his hips and thrusts out his chest, and says, in his best superhero voice, "Justice may be blind, but I'm not!"

There's a long pause. Wes waits.

The pause continues. Wes deflates a little.

"You don't like it."

"I didn't say that." Kendall sits up, scratching the back of her neck. "I mean, it's just kind of…I dunno. Heroic, I guess." She shrugs. "Not exactly the kind of thing a supervillain would say, you know?"

"For the last time, I'm not a supervillain."

"That's not what the news says." She flips her tablet over, revealing the local news channel, which is showing that same footage of Injustice being trounced by Golden Boy. Wes scowls, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Clearly, none of them know what the word anti-hero means."

"I'm not sure you know what the word means."

"I fight crime! So I have a few quirks…"

"I'm really not sure your whole vendetta against the police can really be called a quirk…"

"You're fired." Wes points at her, a sharp, angry jab through the air. "You're no longer my sidekick."

"Yeah right," she scoffs, leaning back on the couch. "You'd be lost without me." Her fingers resume their rapid dance over the touchscreen. "Just give in and become a villain already, it's so much cooler."

Wes throws his hands up in the air and stomps into his room. He can hear her laughing all the way down the hall.

XXXX

She was sitting on the fire escape when he staggered back from yet another piss-poor attempt at vigilantism. He didn't notice her right away, she was sitting in the corner of the platform and he'd been hit upside the head a few times. For a minute, he was torn, because he couldn't exactly go waltzing in through the front door in a blood-covered skintight costume, but there was the little issue of having one of his neighbors know there was a vigilante living on the floor above them.

He ended up standing there dumbly, clutching his side (bruised ribs, at the very least, and one good kick to the stomach that had made him vomit everything he'd eaten all day) and blinking at her. "Um."

"Well," she said, unfurling to a height of five-foot-nothing. She eyed him up and down, a frown tugging at her lips. "I was going to say something witty and pithy, but going from that stunning opening, somehow I'm thinking you're not up for it right now." Her frown deepened, and she leaned closer, staring at the exposed part of his face. They'd gotten in a few lucky punches there, too, so it was probably turning a nice shade of oh god it hurts right about now. "Wow. Okay. Let's take care of that first."

That was when she grabbed his hand and pulled him in through the window to her apartment. She was a little whirlwind of energy, and Wes had been too injured and too concussed to do much more than protest feebly. She ignored it, plunking him down on the couch and disappearing behind a door.

Wes sat on the couch, wondering if he should expend the energy to try and escape to his own apartment. Then he shifted, and pain flared up his side, and he wondered if it would be impolite to curl up and cry on her couch.

"This is actually a really good opportunity," she declared, this redheaded stranger who'd absconded with him, and she bustled back into the room holding the lovechild of an alien probe and a ballpoint pen. "I mean, it's totally because of you that I get to take my designs and actually make a working prototype. So, you know, thanks for that. Now hold still."

She held the alien-probe-thing in front of his face and hit a switch. Colored lights blinked on the side, and Wes felt warmth wash over his jaw, sinking into his skin and taking away the pain. He closed his eyes and made a sound that was a little pornographic in nature, relishing in the soothing absence of pain.

She made a small sound of triumph, pulling the wand thingy away, and taking with it the gentle warmth. Wes almost protested, but then he realized that even without the gentle heat, there was no pain in his face. He reached up, feeling along his jaw, noting the distinct lack of swelling or bruising, and gaped at her.

"What was that? Who are you?"

She grinned, a bright, sunny smile. "I'm just a girl who really, really likes inventing things. And this—" She held up the wand, waggling it between thumb and forefinger, "Is a dermal regenerator. I watched a lot of Star Trek as a kid. Now, if you want me to patch up whatever's going on with your ribs, you're gonna need to take off your top."

Wes almost protested at this point, but then he ran his hand over his jaw again and decided it was a worthwhile sacrifice to be made. With much wincing, he stripped, sitting on her couch in nothing but a pair of skintight pants. He'd never felt so exposed.

She clucked her tongue, moving the wand-probe over the darkest bruises. "You know," she said conversationally, "usually if I've got a guy this undressed, I know his name by now."

Wes bit back a groan of bliss and lifted his arm so she could reach the bruises that wrapped around to his back. He swore he could feel the warmth sinking all the way down to his ribs, curling around the bone and seeping in and oh, it was wonderful. "Wes Mitchell."

"Nice to meetcha. I'm Kendall Zehetner." She beamed at him, eyes alright with, what he would come to later realize, a thousand inventions just waiting to be made. "I think we're going to make a great team. How do you feel about rocket boots?"

That was the start of it, when Injustice went from a guy in a costume getting pummeled in back alleys to someone to pay attention to. Wes knows it's all thanks to Kendall; without her inventions, he'd still be limping home every night and making excuses at work for his many and varied injuries. He couldn't have done any of this without her.

Inadvertently, that means she's also the reason he has a nemesis in the form of the insufferable Golden Boy, but Wes tries not to hold it against her. Too much.

XXXX

At work on Monday, Golden Boy and Injustice are all anyone can talk about. Wes shares a tiny cramped office with Jeff and Laura, and he has to listen to them jabber on and on about the news story and how Golden Boy is the city's most perfect wonderful superhero and how Injustice really needs to be taken out right now.

"I just don't understand why the League doesn't do something about it," Laura says during one of her many, many coffee breaks. (She seems to spend more time on coffee breaks than actually working, leaving Wes to pick up much of the slack.) "He's a villain, the League is supposed to take care of villains, not leave them wandering around for another chance to strike."

"Anti-hero," Wes corrects absently, more of his mind focused on the Ortega file in front of him than the conversation at hand.

It's the silence that pulls him away from the file, absolute silence in a room that is almost constantly filled with one of their chattering. He looks up and finds both of them staring at him—Laura's mouth is hanging open, coffee mug dangling from slack fingers, and Jeff has turned around, eyebrows almost touching his hairline.

Wes, not used to so much focused attention aimed his way, rears back a little. "What?"

"Anti-hero?" Laura repeats.

Jeff frowns a little. "What the hell is an anti-hero?"

Wes curses to himself and totally blames Kendall for this slip. If she didn't insist on calling Injustice a villain all the time, the reflex to correct her wouldn't be there. (It's one of his coping mechanisms, blaming Kendall for things. She always just rolls her eyes and says, "Stop being so emotionally stunted and get over it, Wes, really.")

Before he can come up with a plausible excuse, Laura says, "You don't usually get into the superhero discussions. What is it about this one?" Her face suddenly changes. "Oh, Wes, honey, you're not a villain sympathizer, are you?"

"What? No!"

"Because I understand why you'd feel a connection with a guy who hates the cops, I do. We all understand." Jeff nods eagerly, and Laura continues. "But throwing your lot in with a guy like Injustice is not the way to go."

"He saves people," Wes protests. Injustice saves lives, why do people always overlook that?

"He's also tried to blow up City Hall four times," Jeff chimes in. He's a superhero junkie and has a near-encyclopedic knowledge of all hero and villain shenanigans in the state of California. "He's tried to take out the mayor, police commissioner, and chief of police countless times" (that's a lie, Jeff could easily rattle off the numbers if asked) "and he turned everyone at the League of Superheroes headquarters into animals once."

Wes remembers that. Everyone had been animals for a week until a team from the New York branch could come out and reverse it. "That was kind of funny."

Laura is starting to look concerned. "Wes…"

"Look." He cuts her off before she can go on. "The system is broken. Injustice is just trying to—to take out the old system and put in a new one. Isn't that a good thing?"

They all know the system is broken. It's why they're working here, where they have more pro bono cases than billable ones and can barely pay their bills some months, instead of working across town for five hundred bucks an hour.

But that doesn't matter. Because the media has painted Injustice as a villain, and they buy it, hook, line and sinker. Nothing he says is going to change their minds; he can tell just by looking at their faces.

He grabs his file off his desk and stands, squeezing through the tiny gap between his desk and the wall so he can get to the door. (He's not kidding when he says the room is tiny and cramped. They could barely fit all their desks in there in the first place, and the only other exit is right where Laura is standing.)

"You know what, I'm gonna go to the records room." Also known as the literal broom closet they store their files in. "At least it'll be quiet in there."

Neither of them say anything as he leaves, but he can feel their worried stares on his back.

XXXX

"So," Kendall had asked, only a few weeks into their impromptu partnership. "Why do you have such a hard-on for the police?"

Wes fiddled with the electric gauntlets she'd made, designed to give a hell of a jolt to someone, and said, "None of your damn business. They're a little tight by my elbow."

"Lemme see." She grabbed his arm and a screwdriver, bending over the gauntlet. Her hair swung down over her face, so when she spoke, a few minutes later, he couldn't see what expression she was making.

"It doesn't bother me, you know," she told him, removing a plate on the upper part of the gauntlet. She grabbed a couple more tools and started mucking about with the wire innards—Wes had learned to keep very still when she was doing this sort of thing. "Your little vendetta. I wouldn't be doing this if I had a problem with it."

"Oh." Wes was gratified, a little. She was the closest thing he had to a friend, anymore, so it was good to hear that. "Okay."

"I'm just thinking. If you go full villain, I can make the really cool toys, like—like ray guns and giant robots. So. You know." She replaced the plate on the gauntlet, screwing it back on with deft fingers. "Just let me know. Try it now."

"Anti-hero," he corrected absently, flexing his fingers. There was no pinching by his elbow at all. "It's perfect. Thank you." He leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, and they both knew it was for more than just fixing the gauntlet, but neither of them mentioned it.

XXXX

By Tuesday, Wes is more than fed up with the looks his coworkers keep sending him and the little whispering sessions they have behind his back. "Tell me there's something," he begs Kendall, tossing his briefcase onto the kitchen table. "Something, anything. Something big."

"Okay, let me see…" Kendall types at her tablet, knowing, after all this time, exactly what to look for when he gets like this. "Oh, here's one. A police ball on Friday night."

"What?" Wes stops and stares at her. "Why didn't I know about this?"

"Because you're a dunce and never read the papers?" She shrugs. "It's been all over. It's the big thing of the year."

"That's perfect." Wes grins. "I bet there's going to be all sorts of important people there. This is absolutely perfect." He looks at his sidekick. "Anything you want to recommend?"

She bites her lip, barely hiding her glee. "Well, I've been toying around with ideas for a freeze gun…"

He pauses, frowns. "Don't we have a freeze thing already?"

"We have a freeze bomb," she corrects. "It's a little different. The freeze gun is more direct."

"Huh. Alright, go for it." One of the best parts of doing this isn't helping people, or fulfilling his vendetta against the police, or any of the other reasons people might come up with. It's watching Kendall's eyes light up, hearing her speak so fast she stumbles over her words because her mind is racing.

She was just a girl going to school and dreaming about things she wanted to make until the day she found a vigilante on her fire escape. Now, she gets to make whatever she wants, and Wes doesn't know how he'd do this without her.

He doesn't know how he got so lucky.

XXXX

The rest of the week flies by. Thoughts of freeze guns and police balls keep Wes in a good mood, and it's much easier to ignore his coworkers when he's occupied. Kendall spends most of her free time either at the junkyard down the block, looking for parts, or cooped up in her bedroom-slash-lab. Wes leaves leftovers in the fridge and doesn't bother her.

Friday rolls around. There's an almost palpable sense of excitement in the apartment, the way there always is before one of these big missions. Kendall retreats to her lab to finalize some last-minute details with the freeze gun, and Wes heads into his room to change.

In the corner of his closet is a leather briefcase. It was six hundred dollars, and he used to carry it to work every day when he still worked at his old firm. Now, it sits in the corner of his closet, a reminder of everything he's trying to change. He pulls it out, sets it on the bed, and thumbs open the lock.

Inside, rather than files or papers, is a neatly folded skintight suit. With the reverence of ritual, Wes pulls it out and lays it on the bed; a silver jumpsuit, ocean blue gloves and boots, and a silver cowl with a blue band that covers his eyes and wraps all the way around his head. For a moment, Wes simply stands there, staring down at the suit.

It had been just a whim at first, a stupid idea that maybe he could do something if he got out on the streets, rather than fighting for cases that, more often than not, were decided before he ever stepped into the courtroom. Now…

Now, sometimes he has trouble remembering which one is the costume and which is his true identity—sometimes, he feels more like Injustice than he ever feels like Wes Mitchell, that the lawyer is just a suit he puts on so no one will know who he really is.

The line blurs the more he does this, and some days…

A sharp rap on his door brings him out of his thoughts. "You almost ready?" Kendall hollers, rat-a-tat-tating on the door with her knuckles. "I've got the mods all done, I want you to come look at it."

Wes picks up the cowl, letting the slippery fabric run through his fingers. Now is not the time to have an identity crisis. "I'll be right out."

As she walks back down the hall, he strips out of his clothing, neatly putting them away, in the closet or the hamper as need be. Then he slips into the suit, saving the cowl for last, and as easily as that, Wes Mitchell closes his eyes, and Injustice stands there.

He takes a deep breath and moves towards the door. The police ball won't know what hit it.

XXXX

He staggers in after midnight, knocking a chair over as he falls through the window. He coughs, blood dribbling down his chin onto the floor as he grasps for something to pull himself up. Moving in general makes his entire body, and specifically his shoulder, throb, but he refuses to lie down on the floor and die, no matter how appealing the idea sounds.

The overhead lights flick on, and Wes hisses, flinching back from the glare. Kendall's horrified, "Oh my god, Wes!" just sets a marching band going in his head. He can't help relaxing a little, though. Kendall is here. Everything will be okay now.

She hurries over, in Hello Kitty pajamas and a purple scrunchie that fails to keep her hair from falling into her face. "Jesus, Wes," she mutters, hauling his good arm over her shoulder and helping him to his feet. "You look like you got ran over by a truck."

He does his best, but he ends up leaning more on her than he means. Still, she's a strong girl, and easily holds him up, guiding him towards his room when his feet refuse to cooperate. "Not—truck," he gasps, coughing up more blood. "G-Golden Boy."

"Fuck. I really don't like the way you're wheezing." Her stride lengthens, and she's practically carrying him now. She pushes his door open with her foot and hauls him inside, easing him onto the bed as gently as possible. "I'll be right back, don't move," she orders, racing to her own room with a steady litany of, "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

He obeys, not moving, not even reaching with his good hand to see if he can feel the damage done to his ribs. He wonders if he's punctured something. He's never had a punctured lung before, but the fact that he's spitting up blood with every breath probably isn't a good sign.

Oddly enough, the dislocated shoulder hurts more than whatever is going on in his chest. That's probably not good either.

Kendall scrambles back into the room, holding the bastard child of an iron, a microwave oven, and a hair curler. Wes has never been so happy to see one of her torture devices.

She plugs it into the wall socket and switches it on. "This is going to hurt," she warns him, and without pause holds it over the bloodiest part of his chest.

Dermal Regenerator 1.0 was small, the size of an oversized ballpoint pen, and it only worked on surface stuff. Bruises, abrasions, that sort of thing. It exuded a gentle warmth that seeped into his skin and healed the wounds, restoring him good as new. For a long time, he didn't need anything more.

Then he fought Golden Boy for the first time. The hero was indestructible and had super strength, and he didn't pull his punches. When Wes staggered home with a broken clavicle and three broken ribs, they both realized the original regenerator wouldn't be enough.

Hence Version 2.0, heavier-duty and built to fix the really big, tough problems. Like broken bones or possibly-perforated lungs.

The gentle warmth sinks into his skin, familiar and soothing, wrapping around his hurts and taking them away. Wes exhales a bubbly, bloody breath in relief.

Then the healing begins, and Wes can't help screaming as the machine does its job and yanks his broken rib out of his lung. Version 2.0, unlike the original, isn't painless in the least, probably because it has to move bits of his internal organs around to fix him.

It's almost a relief to pass out. At least there's no pain anymore.

XXXX

It actually started out well, better than some of his plans ever did. He'd arrived at the police ball, hovering in the shadows outside the opulent convention center hosting it this year. He'd watched guest after guest arrive, rich people in black ties and glitzy dresses. He'd waited until everyone had arrived, until all the invitations had been handed over and the doors were closed.

He'd burst in through the window, scattering shards of glass across the floor. It had been quite dramatic, which he'd been rather proud of. People had screamed, which he'd been less proud of, but alas, it was one of the hazards of doing this.

The police commissioner himself had been standing at a podium on the stage at the front of the room, as luck would have it. "Justice may be blind," he'd shouted, raising the freeze gun, "but I'm not!" (He didn't care what Kendall thought, that was a damn good line and he was going to use it.) And he'd pulled the trigger. The gun had worked perfectly, lancing a beam of blue light across the room that hit the commissioner dead on, encasing him in a shell of solid ice.

Really, it had all been going spectacularly well for that first minute or so.

And then Golden Boy showed up, stepping out onto the stage. He didn't say a word, just crossed his arms, those sharp blue eyes flinty even from this distance.

"Oh, come on, seriously?"

Golden Boy went from standstill to a sprint in a second, barreling right towards him. He'd brought the freeze gun up, sent a blast at the hero that might have been a feather for all the good it did.

Then Golden Boy threw a punch, and things got kind of fuzzy after that.

XXXX

"How did he even know you were there?" Kendall asks the next day, once he's woken up and cleaned the dried blood off. "I mean, we literally decided to hit this place like four days ago. How did he know?"

"I don't know." Wes scarfs down the rest of his sandwich and gets up to see what else they have in the fridge. Regeneration uses his own body's energy, and it always leaves him starving. He's already on his third course. "Maybe he just knew it was the sort of target I'd normally go after and was lying in wait."

"I guess." Kendall frowns a little, scrunching her nose. "Doesn't really seem his style, though."

"I don't know about that." Wes pulls out a container of three-day old spaghetti, sniffs it, and starts eating it cold. "Wrecking my plans and almost killing me seems pretty standard."

"Well." She reaches out, pulling her tablet in front of her. "I'm just going to have to come up with something that'll at least incapacitate him for a minute."

"You do that." The spaghetti is good, but there's not much of it, and he's done in two minutes. "Do we have anything with lots of calories?"

"There's ice cream in the freezer," Kendall says vaguely, already absorbed in her puzzle.

Wes grabs a container of double-chocolate-extreme and a spoon. "Perfect."

XXXX

Saturday is Laundry Day, and the thought of seeing Laundry Guy after his failure last night puts a spring in Wes's step. It doesn't quite make up for the crushing defeat at the hands of his most hated nemesis, but he has to take his victories when he can.

Laundry Guy is the only one in the building when he arrives, sitting on a bench and flipping through a motorcycle magazine as the dryer spins. He glances up when the doorbell jingles, and that familiar smile crosses his face, slow and easy. Wes's heart thuds painfully—if he hadn't been put under Version 2.0 last night, he'd have thought something was wrong.

Ducking his head to hide the flush on his cheeks, Wes shuffles to a washing machine and starts sorting his clothes. It's funny, really. He can put on Injustice's costume and go out at all hours of the night, posturing and fighting crime, confident as any superhero, but faced with a cute guy in leather, he gets shy and tongue-tied. If only he had some of Injustice's courage when he was just plain Wes Mitchell, maybe he could go over there and talk to Laundry Guy, like Kendall always pushes him to do.

As it is, Wes just loads his clothes and darts glances out of the corner of his eye, sneaking peeks of someone he'll probably never talk to.

Ah, well. That's just the way it goes sometimes.

He shakes his head and shuts the machine's top, reaching for his detergent. His hand closes on empty air. For a second, all he can do is stare at the empty spot in his hamper. How can he be out of detergent? He has everything else—coins, laundry sheets, his folding board so he can fold them here and not have them get wrinkled on the way home. But no detergent.

"Awesome," he grumbles, grabbing his quarters and crossing the room. Now he has to use the stuff the laundromat supplies. He tried that once, it was off-brand and left his clothes feeling scratchy, but he's reluctant to leave for the corner store to buy more. Laundry Guy might be gone by the time he got back.

I am a besotted idiot, Wes scolds himself, shaking his head as he feeds quarters into the dispenser. Willing to put up with scratchy detergent for the chance to stand silently in the same room as Laundry Guy. What a sad, sad little life.

The quarters clink hollowly into the change slot, and no detergent comes out.

"Oh, wow, really?" What kind of laundromat runs out of detergent? It looks like he's going to have to go to the corner store now, and hope like hell Laundry Guy is still here when he gets back.

Or…

He can almost feel Kendall jabbing her elbow into his side. (Or maybe it's residual pain from the punctured lung. Maybe Version 2.0 didn't actually heal everything...) Go talk to him, she'd say if she were here, go ask if you can borrow his detergent.

Why can't I borrow yours? he'd ask, if she were here.

Because I want you to go talk to him, so there, and then she'd probably stick out her tongue, which is number 42 on the List Of Reasons Kendall Isn't Invited To Laundry Day Anymore.

The thought of actually going over there and talking to Laundry Guy makes Wes's knees weak and gives him heart palpitations. But if he does, if he actually talks to Laundry Guy, then…well, who knows what could happen?

You are Injustice, he tells himself. You have gone up against criminals and the police and fucking Golden Boy. One man in the laundromat is nothing.

He takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and crosses the room before he can think too hard.

Laundry Guy lifts his head on his approach, and up close his eyes are even bluer than Wes realized. Bright and dancing with mirth, endless blue like the ocean, and Wes gets a little bit lost for a second.

Laundry Guy's mouth curls up at the corner. "Can I help you?"

Even his voice is wonderful, rich and smooth like dark chocolate and infinitely amused. A quiver goes through Wes's belly, and he has to lock his knees and swallow before he does or says something utterly embarrassing.

"Um." Wow, Mitchell, great start. "I…uh, I sort of left my detergent at home, and…well, I was wondering if—that is, could I—of course, you can say no, but, uh, I would really appreciate it if I could, uh…"

Laundry Guy is biting his lip a little, which is utterly distracting, and Wes is proud of the sentence he did manage to get out, even if he didn't actually, you know, finish it. He trails off, wringing his hands together and cursing the little Kendall-voice in his head. He'll probably go home and curse at Kendall for real after this, too, just to make himself feel better.

"Do you want to borrow my detergent?" Laundry Guy asks, with a note to his voice that Wes almost recognizes. He knows when people are laughing at him, but this is different than usual, in that there's no malice or mockery. Just sort of a quiet amusement.

"Yes. Yes please." Wes can feel his face flaming, and he thinks if the ground opened up and swallowed him whole, he would just curl into a ball and accept the embrace.

Instead, he reaches out and takes the offered detergent, muttering, "Thank you," and Laundry Guy gives him that slow, sweet smile again and says, "No problem."

Wes shuffles back to his washing machine and feels inordinately proud of himself. Kendall would be smirking triumphantly at him right now, were she here.

Funny, how something so small feels so much greater than anything he's done as Injustice.

He doesn't say anything else as his laundry is washed, and he resists the urge to keep sneaking glances at Laundry Guy the way he usually does. It would be weird, he thinks, to keep peeking when he's already borrowed the man's detergent. Which is why, when his clothes are done and he finally looks back towards the dryers, he finds the bench empty. Laundry Guy has already slipped out, without Wes even noticing.

His heart plummets pathetically. Biting the inside of his cheek, he tucks the detergent in his hamper and carries his wet clothes to a dryer. It isn't until he's tossed everything inside and sat down himself that he notices the paper.

It's a crumpled receipt on the bench, right where Laundry Guy had been sitting. Wes tries to ignore it. Unfortunately, his finicky nature means he can't just leave it sitting there. With a great sigh, he hauls himself to his feet and picks it up, mentally lamenting the fact that Laundry Guy is, apparently, a litterbug.

He's halfway to the garbage can when he realizes there's writing on the back of the receipt. He stops, smoothes the receipt on the top of a dryer, and stares.

Gimme a call, the note says, and there's a string of seven numbers and a name. Travis.

"Travis," Wes says. He likes the way the syllables roll on his tongue.

He folds the receipt and puts it in his pocket, and when he returns to his seat, he's smiling.

XXXX

"You stole my detergent," he accuses the moment he steps into the apartment.

"I absolutely did," Kendall agrees, which throws him for a second. He was expecting more of a fight. Before he can regain his balance, she sets down her tablet and props her chin on her palms, looking for all the world like an eager little kid. "I thought you could use some cheering up after last night. So? How did it go?"

"I should be pissed at you," Wes grumbles, but the corner of his mouth is twitching and he knows she can see it.

She leaps to her feet, clapping happily. "Ooh, tell me everything. How did it go? Oh my god, did you talk to him?"

"I borrowed his detergent," Wes admits, tilting his hamper to show off the detergent. "And he gave me his number."

"Yes!" Kendall sounds much more delighted at the prospect than Wes personally feels she ought to be. She thrusts out a hand, fingers opening and closing imperiously. "Let me see it, cough it up." Obligingly, he fishes the receipt out of his pocket and hands it over.

She studies the numbers, and really, she's grinning an awful lot over one little phone number. "This is awesome, Wes. So are you gonna call him?"

"Of course I'm going to call him. I have to return his detergent."

"Yeah, but are you gonna call him?"

"I have no idea what that inflection means. What are you doing with your eyebrows? Stop it." He snatches the receipt back from her, smoothing the edges with his fingers.

Kendall puts a finger to her chin and hums thoughtfully, sort of squinting at him. "You know, you're really emotionally stunted." She waves aside his scandalized look. "Oh, don't be so offended, I mean it in a good way."

"How can that possibly be a meant in a good way," Wes mutters, but she's ignoring him.

"I just can't decide whether I want to watch you muddle through this by yourself, or if I should offer you some advice." She taps her chin, all faux-thoughtfulness, and Wes throws his hand in the air.

"What are you talking about?"

Kendall doesn't say anything, just stares at him long enough he begins to feel a little uncomfortable. Finally she shakes her head and says, more to herself than to him, "No, definitely much funnier to watch you figure it out on your own." She turns on her heel, scooping her tablet from the couch. "I'll give you some privacy to make your call. Toodles!"

Wes gapes after her, completely flummoxed. "What the hell?"

Sometimes that girl makes no sense at all.

XXXX

"Hello?"

Hearing Travis's voice melting over the phone lines makes Wes's voice die in his throat. Somehow, he'd half-expected the number to be fake, directing him to a Chinese takeout place or something. But there's no mistaking that velvet-smooth voice.

"Hello?"

You can do this, Mitchell. Wes clutches the phone and swallows hard. Just say hello.

"Look, I'm about two seconds away from hanging up—"

"This is Wes!"

A long pause.

"Wes?" Travis's voice is baffled, and Wes silently curses himself. Of course he doesn't know who Wes is, because Wes never introduced himself while he was stammering a request for detergent. He resists the urge to bang his head against something.

"Um." Wes takes a breath and runs his palm down his pants. He's like a teenage girl in an eighties film, this is ridiculous. "From the laundromat. I borrowed your detergent." Lamely, he adds, "Hello."

"Wes." Hearing his name coming from Travis's mouth is like hearing honey drip, and Wes feels a delighted shiver run down his spine. "Hi. I was hoping you'd call."

"Well." Wes clears his throat, trying not to let on how affected he's feeling. "I'm calling."

"I can see that." Travis's amusement is almost a tangible thing, and Wes wipes his palms on his pants again.

Absurdly, he half-wishes Kendall were here. There's probably a protocol for this sort of thing that he doesn't know, and the whole Injustice thing has eroded what few social skills he ever had. It's safe to say he has no idea what he's doing, and Kendall, who always seems to know what she's doing, would be able to give him some pointers with this, while teasing him mercilessly.

At this point, he'd happily take the teasing.

But no, there's just him, and that has to be enough. Buck up, you're Injustice, you can do this, he orders himself, and he straightens up like he's in court.

"When do you want me to return it?" There, that wasn't so hard.

There's a long pause, and then, "Well, when are you free?"

"Um." Wes's mind goes horribly, terrifyingly blank. "I don't…"

Taking pity on him, Travis interjects. "How about now? If you're not busy."

"Yes." Wes leaps on the idea gratefully, nodding even though Travis can't see it. "Yes, now is fine. Where do you…I mean, I can bring it back to the laundromat if you want?"

"Can you bring it by my place? If it's not too far out of the way?"

"Sure." Wes scrabbles for a pen and paper, phone tucked awkwardly between his ear and his shoulder. "Yeah, that's fine. Um, where do you live?"

Travis rattles off the address, which isn't far away at all, and Wes promises to be there soon.

Then he hangs up, stares at the address, and hyperventilates a little bit. He's going to Travis's house. The place where he lives. Oh god, what was he thinking?

"Are you gonna go, or just sit there freaking out?"

Wes jumps, whirling on Kendall. "How long have you been there?"

She gives him a pitying look. "That entire awkward conversation. You really need to work on your smooth-talk if you're gonna seduce him."

Wes flushes scarlet and stalks past her to his bedroom. "I hate you so much, you don't even know."

She's still laughing when he returns with Travis's detergent. He grabs the address off the table and leaves in a huff, and he just barely refrains from slamming the door behind him.

XXXX

"This can't be right."

Wes looks at the building in front of him, then frowns down at the paper in his hands. He's sure he wrote the address down correctly—he had Travis repeat it twice, just to be on the safe side, but this is…a warehouse.

He'd logically figured Travis must live nearby, since he was frequenting the same laundromat every week, so he wasn't surprised when the address Travis gave him was just a few streets away from his own. But then he'd walked here, and found the building that matched the address given, and…

"This can't be right," Wes says again, turning in a circle in case he missed something. Maybe there's another building that's actually someplace someone might live and he got turned around? But no, this street is nothing but warehouses in every direction, including the one in front of him.

If this is some sort of trick, he's going to be pissed and more than a little upset. He didn't think Travis was the sort of guy who'd randomly prank the guy at the laundromat like this.

Biting his lip, Wes turns in one more circle, trying to figure this out, because if this is the right address, he doesn't want to just leave. But honestly, how could it be—

A door in the building behind him opens, and Travis's voice calls, "Wes! You made it! That was fast."

Wes's heart does a funny little double-thump, and he turns, hands tightening on the bag in his hands. Travis stands in the doorway of the warehouse, beaming at him like it isn't strange at all to be having a casual conversation in the warehouse district.

Wes swallows (some of) his nerves and crosses the distance between them. "I thought I had the wrong address…"

"Nope." Travis slouches against the doorframe, all slinky and perfect and it should be illegal to look so attractive. "This is the right address."

Wes looks up at the building dubiously. "Sorry, you…live here?"

"Yup." The cat's grin on Travis's face just grows, making his eyes crinkle up at the corners. "Wanna come in?"

"You're not going to murder me and bury me in concrete, are you?"

"Promise." Travis turns and disappears inside, waving over his shoulder. "Follow me!"

Hesitantly, Wes follows.

The inside of the warehouse is a pleasant surprise. Instead of being dark and spooky, which is kind of what Wes, who has not been in a multitude of warehouses in his life, expected, it's rather well-lit and clean, as far as warehouses go. The trailer in the center of the wide-open space is strange, he'll admit that, but it's sitting on a patch of Astroturf and festooned with Christmas lights which…actually, Wes can't decide if that makes it stranger or not.

He follows Travis to the center of the warehouse, eyeing the sleek silver trailer. "This is…different." Laundry Guy, it appears, may actually be quite a very odd person.

Travis hooks his thumbs in his jeans and shrugs, all easy and fluid. "I like the freedom of my trailer. I like to move around a lot, and this way, I can just take my stuff with me."

"Makes sense, I suppose." He may be a bit strange, but that doesn't really detract from his attractiveness or his silky smooth voice or the way Wes's heart won't quite settle down. He shifts, trying to come up with something else to say, and the bag at this side rustles, reminding of his original reason for being here. "I have your detergent."

He thrusts his arm straight out in front of him; Travis takes the bag, looking amused, and when their fingers brush, Wes feels tingles race all the way up his spine. He takes his hand back and rubs his fingertips against his pants without trying to look like he's doing that.

"Thanks. For letting me use it. I do appreciate it."

"No problem." Travis shrugs again, the plastic bag crinkling against his leg. "Figured it was the least I could do, since your girlfriend wasn't there for you to borrow hers."

Wes blinks, eyebrows going up. "Girlfriend?"

"Yeah, you know." Travis makes a bunched up motion by the top of his head. "The pretty redhead, always has her hair up? I've seen you with her a few times."

Wes's eyebrows go up even further. "Kendall? You're talking about Kendall? God, no, she's not my girlfriend! She's just my roommate!" It occurs to him that his tone could be construed as mildly offensive to Kendall, but he wants to make it very clear to Travis that there is nothing going on between him and Kendall. Nothing at all. Not even the littlest bit.

The vehement denial seems to have the desired effect, because Travis's face relaxes, eyes crinkling and dimples appearing in his cheeks. "Well, good. I'm…that's good." And Wes isn't quite sure why Travis sounds so relieved at that, but he clearly believes Wes, so Wes relaxes too.

They stand there, and the silence fills the space between them. Wes wonders if he's supposed to say something now. Then he wonders what he's supposed to talk about. Small talk has never been his thing—that's what he has Kendall for, to fill the silence with words he only half-listens to.

Just as he's about ready to panic and start talking about—hell, he doesn't know, the weather or whatever other people talk about, Travis coughs a little and fidgets, rubbing the back of his neck.

"So," he says, dropping his gaze and peering at Wes through his eyelashes, "uh, this might be kind of sudden, but…are you doing anything tomorrow night?"

Wes's plans for tomorrow night consisted of ruminating over Friday's failed Injustice plot and working on a brand new plan that wouldn't end with him being punched full of holes. All rather important in the grand scheme of his vigilantism.

"No," he lies. "I didn't have anything planned."

"Well, in that case..." There's that smile again, the one that bursts like a sunbeam and sends heart palpitations through Wes's chest. "Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow?"

Wes can barely stand here for five minutes and keep up a conversation. He's never had fantastic social skills and downgrading all of his personal relationships to a circle of one has really eroded anything he had left. Look at his relationship with his coworkers for proof—perfectly polite, but nothing beyond that. And anyway, he's only just met Travis properly today, despite more than a year of Saturdays spent together at the laundromat, and Travis lives in a trailer in a warehouse, that's practically a recipe for 'creepy serial killer'. Plus there's the fact that he's secretly an anti-heroic vigilante that roams the streets at night and that's just a recipe for disaster; Wes has read enough comic books to know how this goes.

Really, there's only one thing he can say.

"I'd love to." No, wait, that's not right. "Does seven sound good?" And there he goes again, his mouth running off without any input from his brain.

Travis nods, and smiles, and slouches attractively on thin air. "Seven is perfect."

Really, Wes needs to leave before he does anything foolish. "I'll see you then." He smiles at Travis, turns, and makes his escape.

He can feel Travis watching him until he's through the door.

On the street, he stops, takes a few deep breaths, and wipes his hands on his pants. That was nerve-racking.

You're a vigilante, for god's sake! He can practically hear Kendall shouting at him. He's just a guy. There's nothing to be scared about!

But she's wrong. This is personal, and that's scarier than anything he could ever do in a mask. What was he thinking?

It'll be fine. It's just dinner. He shakes his head and takes a few more breaths to compose himself. It'll all be fine.

He can't quite wipe the goofy grin off his face.

XXXX

Kendall sits up as soon as he walks in, perking up like a hunting dog. "How did it go?"

Wes shuts the door behind him and lines his shoes up in the closet. "Fine. I returned his detergent."

She leans forward, eyes sparkling intently. "And?"

Wandering into the kitchen, Wes leans against the counter. "He's rather strange. He lives in a trailer in a warehouse."

"And?"

It's rather amusing being the inscrutable cryptic one for once. "He had Christmas lights strung up. It was quite festive."

"Wes!"

Wes cracks, a grin crossing his face. "He asked me to dinner."

The sound Kendall makes could shatter glass. She leaps off the couch while he's rubbing his ears and flings herself at him. "That's amazing, Wes! I knew you wouldn't be a social recluse forever!"

He frowns at her, but he doesn't dislodge himself from her grasp. "That's…kind of condescending."

"Oh come on, you barely even talk to anyone other than me." She rolls her eyes, then gives him a big squeeze. "But now you're going on a date with the cute laundry guy!"

Wes, who was about to make a snappy comment about talking to his coworkers, chokes on his words. "What? This—it's not a date, Kendall."

She pulls back, eyeing him dubiously. "He asked you to dinner, Wes. He gave you his number on a box of detergent. That's the most rom-com thing I've ever heard."

"It's not a date."

"How do you know?"

"Because!" Wes throws up his hands like this should be obvious to her, even though she wasn't there. "Because he didn't ask it romantically or anything. It was just a casual invitation to dinner."

She stares at him, not buying his logic for a second. "You wouldn't know romantic if it hit you in the face with a brick."

"Oh, now that's just insulting."

"It's true in every way." She shakes her head. "Wes, I love you, but you have the romantic sense of a goldfish. You should trust me here. He was asking you on a date."

Wes crosses his arms stubbornly. "And I'm telling you, he wasn't." He stomps off before she can say anything else, which technically means he had the last word, which technically means he won.

So there.

XXXX

But the thought that this might be a date makes him so nervous he ends up vomiting twice before he leaves.

As he's brushing his teeth the second time, he stares at his reflection in the mirror and curses himself for a solid minute.

You are so fucked up, Mitchell.

His reflection doesn't argue with him.

He spits, rinses, and goes to get ready.

XXXX

The thing is, he wasn't always like this. He used to be confident, self-assured, and a whole lot less anxious. They called him a force in the courtroom.

Okay, he still wasn't the most well-liked person in the world, because he's always had a sharp tongue, but he knew how to talk to people, could casually socialize with them when he needed to. He was never much for schmoozing and flirting, but he could at least fake it for a little while. He never had many relationships, and they always ended too soon, mostly because he was a workaholic who got absorbed in his cases more than the person he was dating. But he did date, and he never threw up from nerves beforehand, either.

Once upon a time, he was pretty much a normal person.

And then—the incident two years ago happened, and Wes lost it. He became fixated, obsessed. He passed off cases, alienated his coworkers, became a pariah. The golden boy of the firm became the black sheep. And it wasn't just at work, either, it was him. He felt sick at work, sick to his stomach, got the shakes and became dizzy if he spent too much time at the firm. He almost threw up in front of a judge once, and the only reason he didn't spew all over the courtroom floor was because he could pass the case to his junior partner and bolt out of there.

You're experiencing anxiety attacks, the doctors said, take some time away, find your equilibrium again. But he couldn't bring himself to leave, and things only got worse.

Eventually, he left quietly, because it was easier than being fired. He downgraded his life, moved across town to an apartment that didn't even have a laundry machine, and joined a tiny little firm that did mostly pro bono work to try and assuage some of his guilt.

It didn't help much. He hated himself, hated his role in what had happened, hated that he couldn't stop it, and the guilt ate him alive. He started avoiding people, not that he knew much of anyone in this area, and it seemed like everything he'd ever known about how to interact with others dried up and withered away.

The first time the cute guy at the laundromat had smiled at him, Wes stumbled and banged his knee against the side of a dryer.

Kendall says he can't possibly be as oblivious and with people as he seems, or he'd have never been any good in his previous job. She's probably right—anxiety attacks don't just happen out of nowhere, and his anxiety only spikes when he's around other people. It's probably psychosomatic, or traumatic, or some other –ic word from the shock of—of the incident. Maybe he's doing this to himself as punishment, socially crippling himself because he thinks he deserves it.

Maybe.

But even if that is the case, it's not like he knows how to stop it.

The fact of the matter is, none of that changes anything at all.

OOOO