Let me start this off by saying, I researched for like two hours trying to figure out how the Canadian legal system works, but I cannot figure it out for the life of me. The internet doesn't explain things easy enough sometimes. And I only known bits and pieces of how the US legal system works. So, this takes place in an AU universe of some unknown city in some unknown place in a made-up country with some kind of made up, kind of real legal system with the terms district attorney and stuff only because I didn't want to make anything else up. So enjoy. (ps if you know how the Canadian legal system works, possibly in a comparison chart to the US and want to explain it, you'd be the bomb diggity)


Meeting him for the first time was a chance encounter. A million to one possibility. It was completely accidental and totally life changing. For the better or worse, neither was sure at the time, but it was life altering nonetheless.

It started in a twenty-four-hour diner. Well, at least that's where it started for Courtney Veras.

She sat in a corner booth, coffee mug placed in front of her along with a case file. The papers inside were bracketed neatly together and Courtney flipped through them for the millionth time that night. She had a case coming up and she needed to be sure she understood everything about it. She needed to memorize every shred of evidence, every second of the timeline, and every possible angle the defense would throw. It might have just been a simple petty theft and trespassing case, but it was her first solo case and she wanted no screw ups.

It had only been a little over six months since she graduated from law school and scored a job at the District Attorney's Office. One of her mentors throughout law school had seen promise in her and had fought tooth and nail, making vouch after vouch, to gain her a job at the DA's Office. Of course, for the past six months she had been on a sort of probation, working under her mentor, not being able to be a full ADA with her own cases and faith and trust bestowed upon her.

But that was going to change and soon. Courtney had been given her first ever case, a solo, you-are-in-charge case, with her mentor only acting as an advisor and a backup if she screwed up.

However, he was going to be completely unnecessary, because Courtney Veras was not planning to fail! She was going to succeed! She was going to prove her worth and show everyone that her mentor had placed his faith in the right person. She was going to be as great as he thought she would be, show everyone that she did have that promise he saw.

Courtney rubbed at her eyes tiredly before reaching out and grabbing her coffee mug. She brought the mug to her lips absentmindedly as she read over a page of the file once again. She let out a heavy sigh when she was not met with the warm caffeine usually promised by coffee but was instead met with nothingness. She set her mug down, reaching out for the coffee pot in front of her, only to discover that it too was empty. Courtney let out a sigh, turning in her booth to wave down her waitress.

"Hi Ida," Courtney greeted when her waitress, her usual waitress, walked up. Ida was an older woman, sweet as can be, and from all of the times Courtney had been there, she could tell that Ida was a motherly person who was anything but a pushover. She was a kind woman in a city of anything but. "Can I have another pot of coffee?"

"You have been here for hours," Ida sighed out, setting Courtney with a motherly stare, "It's one in the morning, don't you think you should be heading home?"

"Ida, I need to make sure everything is perfect and in line, I can't have anything sneaking up on me," Courtney told her, her voice twisting into a childish whine as she gestured to the file folder in front of her. Ida raised a brow at her and Courtney already knew that she was going to lose. Courtney might have been a lawyer, and she might have lived to make arguments since she was a child, but Ida was an anomaly. No matter what Courtney argued, no matter what she was arguing, Ida always seemed to win and get her way. Damn woman should've been a lawyer instead of waitress.

"And you have," Ida promised, "Everything is going to go perfectly the way your OCD has guaranteed, but now you need to go home and rest before you end up twisting up the case in your sleep deprived mind." Courtney rolled her eyes as Ida sent her with a motherly glare, obviously realizing she'd have to pull out the big guns. "I'm cutting you off." Ida reached out and took both the coffee pot and mug from the table, her face twisting into that of no nonsense.

"You can't do that! This isn't a bar, you can't cut me off," Courtney exclaimed in outrage, throwing her hands up as Ida walked away. Of course, this was not the first time that Ida had cut her off, but it still irritated her nonetheless.

"I mostly certainly can and I mostly certainly did," Ida told her sternly, leaving no room for arguing, "Go home and get some sleep." Courtney pouted in her booth, crossing her arms childishly across her chest before letting out a sigh and standing up.

"Fine, I'll go drink coffee and review my case at my apartment," Courtney said as she gathered her things with a huff.

"You do that," Ida spoke up before her voice took on motherly concern, "Are you going to make it home okay?" Courtney paused at that. The city was anything but kind. Littered with gang violence and criminals, there was no good part of town. Only the bad and the worse. Walking down the streets, walking home, much like what Courtney had to do, was dangerous in the day and even more so dangerous at night.

"I'll be fine, Ida. I've made the walk a thousand times and have never had problems. Besides, if this city does anything, it makes people prepared," Courtney told her, gesturing to herself where her case file was tucked under one arm, hand clutched in a death grip on her purse, and her other hand held a can of pepper spray connected to her key ring.

"Okay, stay safe honey. See you next time," Ida said with a wave as Courtney left the diner, hearing a quietened "Get some rest!" as the door shut.

Courtney speed walked her way down the sidewalks, keeping her head low, but her attention always alert. The usual loons and homeless people were out on the streets, but they seemed to mostly ignore her with nothing more than a side glance as she hurried her way home, cutting through sketchy, dimly lit alleys to save her time and get her home quicker. She always walked faster in alleys, never trusting them enough to stroll down them. Alleys were sketchy and dangerous a lot of the time, but with the blocky layout of the city, it was the only route that would get her home quicker and avoid some of the rougher main streets.

It was at the last alley she had to take, the one that would lead her directly to her apartment building, that her whole life changed. For the better or worse, she wasn't sure, it truly depended on the day.

She turned the corner into the beginning of the alley, all of her senses on high alert. Her martial arts training irking forward just in case. Growing up she had taken martial arts and kick boxing classes, finding comfort in not only being able to take care of herself, but also in the ability to relieve every ounce of anger or stress by kicking the shit out of someone. It wasn't until she moved to the city during her law school years that she also began taking self-defense classes. Martial arts and kick boxing had rules, ones she throughly enjoyed following, but in the rough streets of the city there was no rules, no fighting fair. Her martial arts and kick boxing classes gave her strength and taught her how to beat the snot out of people, but her self-defense classes taught her how to fight dirty, how to survive if she was ever attacked in the city. This alley alone made her thankful for taking so many fighting courses. In the numerous times she traveled down the alley route, she'd had a few high alert experiences. It wasn't odd to find homeless people in the alley or the occasional strung out junkie. Both of which were unafraid to walk up to a lone woman and rob her.

She paused when she saw it, well him, only she didn't know it was him at the moment.

In the midpoint of the alley, leaning against the neighboring building's wall, was a figure who seemed to be slumped over, presumably passed out and hurt. One of the person's hands was draped limply across their lap, something Courtney couldn't make out, probably a gun, in their hand, other hand clutching ribs as if in pain.

Courtney knew better than to just going strolling passed or go so eagerly to check for injury. The person could be a slumped over drunk or a higher than life drug addict for all she knew, both of which were dangerous. She realized quickly that it could also be nothing more than a setup, than an extravagant ruse. She would rush over to the seemingly injured or incapacitated person with nothing but good intentions and she would be swiftly robbed for everything on her person or worse. She could turn her way out of the alley and take the long route home, but Courtney knew that the person could have others waiting to attack and block off the alley and any means of escape. She had seen in the news that a similar instance had happened a few blocks down a month or two ago. The damn city was nothing but toxic and crafty. A small part of her also considered the possibility that there was actually an injured person in the alley, someone who needed help. It had certainly happened before.

So, she proceeded with caution, pepper spray held up just in case. She took a few steps closer before stopping making sure the person did not move. Promising, she thought to herself when there wasn't any abrupt movement or a knife to her side.

It wasn't until she was ten feet away from the figure that she was able to see that the man, yes definitely man, was actually unconscious. Courtney took note of the red that bled darkly through the man's jeans, mostly in his left thigh, more than likely where his wound was.

Courtney bent down cautiously, reaching to the man's neck to check for a pulse. It was weak and thready, but it was definitely there. She glanced down to the man's thigh, quickly gathering that his injury was a gunshot wound, probably from some rival gang member if she had to guess. Definitely not life threatening but given the man's bruises and cuts that were visible and the amount of blood the man seemed to have lost, she doubted he would be okay if he was left there without help any longer.

Perfect! I'll just call emergency services about a shooting victim and then be on my merry way with good karma and a clear conscious, Courtney thought to herself, reaching to get her phone from her back pocket. She stopped abruptly when she noticed for the first time what it was the man held limply in his hand. A mask.

Courtney recognized that mask, anyone in the city would recognize that mask. A dark grey, almost black, full faced skull mask, accented only in a war paint style of neon green. That mask belonged to the leader of the city's most notorious gang, the Killer Bass Crew. No one knew the crew leader's true identity, only the alias he went under, the Delinquent. The Delinquent was someone to be feared. The entire Killer Bass Crew was something to be feared. They practically ran the city with the number of heists, hits, and chaos they caused.

Courtney knew she needed to call the police. She was in the presence of a dangerous, known criminal! They'd come and arrest him without second thought, saving the city from its greatest monster. One call and she would be the one to get the notorious Delinquent arrested and into police custody, a thing no one in city's law enforcement ever saw coming. Everyone in the city thought the Killer Bass leader would be killed in action before being taken away by the police to live the rest of his life in prison. Now that would be a boost to her career, to be the one to call in the city's most wanted criminal.

However, as these thoughts came to her and as the hand holding her phone hovered awkwardly by her shoulder, she found herself looking at the dangerous man. The media had labeled the Delinquent as a heartless, psychotic monster, and he was. He was definitely not a good guy, but without the fear invoked by his mask and him leaning unconscious against a wall, Courtney almost felt sorry for him. His features were twisted into an expression of pain, but even with the obvious pain she could make out the softness of them, almost like a gentle kindness. She wasn't sure how someone so intimidating, so powerful, so dangerous, someone who sported a neon green mohawk, could look so small. A bruise, probably a week old she assumed by the coloring, shadowed his cheekbone and the simple mark alone made him look so broken. Here the, arguably, most powerful man in the city was looking fragile and broken.

The way Courtney saw it, she had three options.

She could call the police and get the Delinquent off of the streets for good, probably making the city at least twenty percent safer with the Killer Bass king locked away. Then again, with that option she would more than likely be in danger, well more danger than normal. The Killer Bass Crew weren't going to let their leader be locked away without a fight. They would wreak havoc on the city and devise the most brutal jail break possible, more than likely taking down a lot of people with them. She knew that she would more than likely be one of those causalities. They wouldn't let the person who turned their leader in live, especially not when she was an ADA.

Her second option was to simply just leave him. She could leave the alley and pretend she had never seen the Delinquent, never crossed his broken, bloodied path. She could make it all the way to her apartment and forget that she had ever seen his face. His gentle, angel face. Courtney, as knowledgeable as she was, easily comprehended the fact that if she left him alone in the alley that he would more than likely bleed to death, leaving his sorry, horrible life solely in her hands. Once again, she was at an option that would make the city safer, and more than likely cripple the city's most active gang. However, she realized this option could end just like the first. If the Killer Bass Crew ever found out that she had come across their leader and left him to die, they would murder her or maybe even leave her to bleed out in an alley the way he did.

Her third, gut wrenching, option was to help him. To not call the police or emergency services and instead drag him up to her apartment and save his life, his horrible, awful existence of a life. Courtney fought with that option. Her conscious was completely against it. If she saved his life, sent him on his merry way, she would be responsible for any—no, all—of the havoc he rained down on the city and its people after that. She would be the one who saved his life and didn't turn him in to the authorities. More importantly, if anyone ever found out that she had helped the criminal and hadn't turned him in, it would ruin her career, not to mention it could leave her facing criminal charges of her own. Aiding and abetting a criminal, a most wanted criminal, possible accessory after the fact if the prosecution could stretch it enough, failure to report a crime and criminal, those were the almost guaranteed ones. A million other possibilities flashed through her mind at the thought of the District Attorney's Office stretching the charges to their limits.

There Courtney Veras was. Stuck between getting murdered or losing her entire career and facing criminal charges. The perfectionist had always been a rule follower. She never caused trouble in school, never went through a rebellious phase, never snuck out of the house. She followed every rule that was ever made. Even being in the city, where sometimes a person had to stretch the law to survive the chaos, she never broke a single rule. Yet, here she was with a battered, shot criminal laying at her feet, torn between following the rules and calling the police, resulting in her inevitable murder, or saving his life and breaking many of laws that she swore never to disobey. What the hell is wrong with you Veras? Courtney scolded, Are you seriously pro and conning being murdered or breaking a law, losing your career? You can find a new job, you can get out of jail, you can't get a new life!

Courtney took one last look at the Delinquent, took in those gentle features of his, the face of a killer, of a gang leader, who in that moment looked like the smallest, most broken thing, and her decision was made.


The brunette let out a strained breath as she heaved the insensible man onto her living room couch. She had managed to drag the criminal all the way up to her apartment without being noticeably detected by anyone. The city was a great place to turn a blind eye to a crime or sketchy behavior. She just hoped any blood trail he left behind was outside rather than in her apartment building, leading straight to her door like a treasure map. It was common to see blood stains or trails on the concrete outside, so there was no suspicion there. You're made up of a lot more muscles than you look, Mr. Delinquent, Courtney thought to herself as she tried to catch her breath. She was in relatively good shape, but even she wasn't prepared to carry a grown man.

Courtney regained most of her breath before breaking into action, searching for the med kit she kept. She ripped through her cabinets, searched shelves, and dug through her closets looking for it. She knew she had one. Her mother gave her a new one every Christmas, a strange present, but what more could she expect from her doctor mother. Courtney let out a cry of triumph when she pulled the kit out from the back of her closet. She rushed back to her criminal patient, setting a reminder in the back of her head that she should probably put her med kit in a better place.

She stopped in front of the couch, setting the kit down on the coffee table as she leaned down to examine the green haired man. Real original, Courtney thought to herself with an eyeroll. Seriously, could the man scream bothersome delinquent any more than a neon green mohawk and a face full of piercings?

She reached out to take his pulse again, taking it as a good sign that she could feel his body move slightly as he breathed, it meant he was alive for the time being. His pulse was still there, and from what she could tell, his only serious injury was coming from the bullet wound at his thigh, and even that was beginning to bleed less and less. She pulled out a pair of medical scissors and began cutting at his pant leg to reveal his bloody leg.

Courtney turned away slightly, pretending like she was looking for supplies as if someone could see that she was uncomfortable. Even though she had lived in the dangerous city, where shootings were constant, for a few years now, she had never seen a bullet wound so close up. Seeing a bullet wound for the first time was enough to make anyone queasy, but Courtney was never one to accept weakness. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, setting herself straight. You do not get queasy at the sight of blood. This kind of medical stuff has never bothered you before. You signed up to help this miscreant, so suck it up and get it together, Courtney yelled at herself, her version of a pep talk. She reopened her eyes, her nerves set to steel and her aura projecting nothing but determination. She was not going to let a gang leader die on her couch.

Courtney looked into her kit, taking note of everything she would need. She put on a pair of medical gloves, not even wanting to think about the diseases a mercenary like the Delinquent could have. She examined his leg, deeming the wound to be a through and through when she saw both an entrance and exit wound. Courtney reached out for a pack of gauze sponges, pressing it to the wound to hopefully stop the remaining bleeding.

Courtney took the moment to examine him for any other injuries. She lifted his shirt, finding herself trying to look anywhere but the Delinquent's abs. Why do the criminals and gang members always have to have such great body's? Besides bruises, none of which looked serious enough to cause internal trauma, and few cuts that probably needed nothing more than a few butterfly bandages, he seemed okay enough. Her fingers trailed lightly over his ribs, where a bruise was blooming. He must have been kicked in the ribs when he had gotten shot. There was nothing like a good ole curb stomp after being shot.

"What have you lived through?" she questioned him quietly as her fingers trailed over tattoos and old scars, bullet wounds that have healed, long lines that looked like cuts from knives. "How did you survive this? Why would anyone ever choose this life?"

She turned her attention back to his leg, taking brief note of a tattoo on his calf, a snake weaving its way in, out, and around a skull. Courtney poured a healthy fraction of a bottle of some kind of antiseptic onto his leg before reaching out for a suture kit. There wasn't anything else she could really do besides fight off infection and close the wound. She was no help to him if he had nerve or muscle damage. Closing the wound and making sure he didn't die in her presence was her only real option.

She knew how to suture. What else was her mother going to teach her as a child? Growing up, she would often spend hours of her day suturing fruit, or whatever kind of medical dummy her mother brought home, rather than playing with dolls or watching cartoons. Actually, the cartoons did happen, if Courtney could do anything, it was multi-task.

That was probably one of the many reasons her family was so shocked that she chose becoming a lawyer over being a doctor, why they were so surprised by her want to go to law school rather than medical school.

Courtney sutured quietly and quickly before the mumbling began. At first, the brunette just thought she was just hearing things, making up noises in her sleep deprived state, but it wasn't until the mumbling got loud, and turned into coherent words, that Courtney realized the Delinquent was starting to gain consciousness, or at the very least, feeling.

"Hey, hey," she cooed quietly, hoping to keep the criminal calm, "You're okay, you're safe. I'm helping you." His breathing began to become harsh and he looked as if he was trying to open his eyes but couldn't. His face scrunched up in pain and Courtney paused mid-suture. "Shhh, I know it hurts, but it's going to be okay." She reached out into the kit for a packet of dissolvable Motrin. "Keep this under your tongue," Courtney advised as she put the medicine in his mouth, "It's still going to hurt like a bitch, but it might help a bit." The Delinquent, the most dangerous person in the city, mumbled something incoherent once again, so soft and so broken sounding. "Shhh, it's okay, everything's okay." She pet his hair for a moment, fingers trailing down the side of his face gently before she began suturing again, not wanting to prolong the unpleasant pain.


Courtney sat on her kitchen counter, watching from a distance as the Delinquent slept on her couch. Beside her on the counter was a butcher knife, just in case of the possibility that he woke up ready for murder.

He hadn't woken up the slightest bit since his mumbling and Courtney had already finished aiding to all of his injuries.

Courtney cocked her head to the side as she watched the rise and fall of his chest, making sure that he hadn't kicked the can yet. How could someone so evil, someone so easily labeled monster, look so peaceful, so gentle, sleeping? Her mind rummaged through everything she knew about the skull masked gangster. He was leader of the Killer Bass Crew, led quite a few successful heists, had left many of dead bodies on the city's streets. Courtney remembered from the news and her knowledge of law, that he and his crew faced many of charges if they were ever caught by the police. She tried listing all the charges she could think of (armed robbery, first degree murder, assault and murder of a police officer, grand theft auto, reckless driving) but her list eventually grew too extensive and she quickly lost track.

What had she been thinking—well, other than not wanting to be murdered—bringing a well-rounded criminal into her home? He was a total danger to be around and here she was, a supposed smart lawyer, dragging him into her home and aiding him back to health despite her better judgement. Maybe she could just drag him back down to the alley where she found him. She had stitched up his wounds and taken care of him, he's probably be fine on his own now. He would probably live. Was it too late to call the police? Right as the thought came to her she heard a groan from across the room. She placed her hand on the handle of the knife as she watched the man on her couch wake up and begin to move.

The first thing he noticed was the pain. Everywhere. His entire body felt entirely sore, like he had been hit by a truck, which had happened before, so he knew the feeling was comparable. The next thing he noticed was the even stronger, more intense pain in his left thigh. Now that was a bullet wound if he knew one. Fucking Screaming Gophers Crew, he thought to himself as he reached down to his leg to stop the inevitable bleeding. The third thing he noticed was that all his injuries seemed to be dealt with, sutured and bandaged up nice and neatly. Hell, it was probably the best care he'd gotten in years. Being in the Killer Bass Crew didn't really include having health insurance, and going to the hospital with a gunshot wound would only get the police called. As a result, himself and his crew often had to resort to makeshift fixes and amateur medicine. The next thing he noticed was that he seemed to be in a place he didn't recognize. If he had to guess, he thought it was safe to assume that he was in no real danger considering the nursing he was given and the homey vibe of the apartment. The last thing he noticed was the Hispanic woman sitting on the counter all the way in the kitchen.

She seemed to be watching him intently, trying to track what he would do next. He took note of the ready, yet unthreatening hold she had on a butcher knife and he couldn't blame her. He'd be ready to stab someone like him too.

"You're the one who did this?" he questioned, eyes drifting to his cut pant leg and stitched up wound. She nodded hesitantly, her grip never loosening from her knife.

"I found you in the alley, bleeding out from a bullet wound. You remember how you got that?" she asked confidently, at least as confident as a civilian talking to a gang leader could be. Most people's voices would waver when speaking to him, but this woman seemed to be able to get her words out clear and easy.

"It was a little gift from the Screaming Gopher Crew. They love a good exchange, and it wasn't even a special occasion," he said sarcastically, "Now I don't know how to top them for Christmas." He went to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the couch to get up but was stopped by the woman's panicked voice.

"Don't do that," she ordered, jumping down from the kitchen counter, knife still in hand, "You could mess up your sutures. Quite frankly, they beat the shit out of you. You really need to stay laying down for a while." He rolled his eyes, annoyed that this woman seemed to be wanting to boss him around, and annoyed that she felt the need to point out the Screaming Gophers had gotten an underhand on him. He went to meet her eyes and kindly tell her to fuck off and that he could take care of himself, but his voice refused to leave his throat when he saw the genuine concern on her features. He blinked at her for a second, trying to remember the last time someone, especially a civilian, shows such concern for him and his wellbeing.

"Thanks for the concern, Princess," he said more gently than he had originally planned, "but I have better places to be, you know, a whole crew to run, whole city to bring chaos to. I don't really need to stay up in some—" He paused glancing around the apartment. From the sutures and the many of medical encyclopedias, not to mention the general cleanliness of the apartment, to the level of OCD, he could gather that the lady was some kind of medical personnel. "Kind of doctor's apartment," he finished. The green haired man tried to hoist himself up and stand but felt nothing but a searing pain in his leg.

"Lawyer," the woman mumbled as he glanced back over at her, using her as an excuse to stop trying to stand. Fuck did a bullet wound hurt.

"What?"

"I'm a lawyer, an attorney, not some kind of doctor," she said evenly as his eyebrows knitted in confusion. He surveyed the room again, this time noticing the whole section on her bookshelf devoted to law. He smirked to himself slightly. It had been a long time since he was wrong about an initial survey.

"And my name's Courtney, not Princess," she said with venom as she crossed her arms, knife still clutched in hand. He raised an eyebrow at her, surprised by her boldness. No one ever corrected him, no one was ever brave enough to, and here this woman was doing it twice as if he was nothing to be feared.

"Do you have a name or do I have to call you by that awful alias of yours?" she, Courtney, questioned as she set him with a glare. This girl was something.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he lied smoothly as she rolled her eyes. Her knowing he was more than likely some kind of criminal in a gang was one thing, it was easily expected in this city, but her knowing he was the Delinquent, the leader of the Killer Bass Crew was another.

"Right, of course you don't. You do realize I saved your life, right? Not to mention I didn't call the cops to turn you in or leave you for dead, despite the possibility of me getting charged with aiding and abetting. I think you probably owe me a bit more honesty," Courtney said, grip still on her knife and eyes never wavering from their glare. From the look she was giving him, she looked ready to use her knife. He continued to stare at her with his false, dumbfounded confusion as she let out a sigh. "I saw that damn mask of yours. Everyone in the city knows the Delinquent's skull mask."

Shit, she already knew. She knew that he was the Delinquent. She knew that he led the city's most notorious gang. She knew that she had seen his face, had memorized his true identity. She knew how dangerous he was, how in danger she was by being near him, in the same room as him. Yet, there she was glaring at him like he was nothing more than a fool she met at a coffee shop. She wasn't in the least bit afraid of demanding answers from him. Of course, her bravery could simply be because he was so obviously injured and because she held a big ass knife in her grasp.

He watched her glare at him from across the room with interest. Here he was in some absurdly brave, or stupid, lawyer's apartment after she saved his life, with her glaring at him and practically challenging and threatening him to tell her his real name. Then again, she did save his life and she like she had pointed out, she hadn't called the cops on him, even going as far to risk her career as a lawyer. A fascinating woman indeed.

Despite her knife wielding and her never ending glare that made almost him uncomfortable, he didn't consider Courtney to be any kind of threat. Even with seeing his face behind the mask, he quickly realized it did not matter. She wouldn't ever be able to tell anyone without incriminating herself, and from the way she stood with perfect posture and the way her books were categorized and alphabetized, he highly doubted she would ever sacrifice herself and her career to turn him in.

"Duncan," he told her with a sigh as she raised an eyebrow at him, "My actual name is Duncan." Duncan watched for a moment as Courtney nodded slightly to herself, surprised that he had so willingly told her his name, or maybe it was because he didn't put up as much of a fight as she thought he would.

Duncan looked away from her, letting the reality that she knew the Delinquent's real name settle into her mind as he moved to get off the couch again. Boy, did it fucking hurt. He managed to get to his feet, but right as he did he felt an intense pain in his thigh and could've sworn he heard a pop, almost like the breaking of thread. Duncan let out a pained groan as Courtney abandoned her knife and rushed over to him.

"Told you you'd mess up your stitches," she mumbled as she helped him lay back down on the couch. An unwavering glare and an I told you so all in the same day, Duncan might have just found the woman of his dreams.

Courtney examined his leg, stating that only one of the stitches had broken. Duncan took the time of her examining his leg to get a better look at her. She had beautiful, large onyx-like eyes that seemed to always be reflecting her true emotions. He could see a shimmer of brown whenever she moved her head to a certain angle, but they were mostly black orbs that left him swooning. He counted the freckles on her nose—fourteen—as she glanced back up to his face.

"It really needs that last suture if you want it to heal quickly and avoid infection. Not to mention it's make the scar smaller," she told him, elbows resting on the couch as she looked up at him.

"Do it then."

"I don't think you realize how much that'll hurt. A needle and thread going through your skin without any pain medication or numbing agents. It was a lot easier to deal with when you were knocked out," Courtney said as Duncan shrugged. Her concern was endearing, almost cute, but Duncan had dealt with way more painful situations than she probably realized.

"Been there, done that. Besides, it can't hurt any worse than a bullet wound," he spoke teasingly, giving her a playful smile that she only slightly returned.

"You might be wrong on that one," she mumbled as she got out a new suture kit, pulling on gloves, "Sometimes the healing hurts a hell of a lot worse than the actual injury. Just because you're used to it, doesn't make it hurt any less." My god, Duncan was in love.

The criminal watched as Courtney moved to resuture his gunshot wound, her head tilting in concentration. Duncan let out a wince as the needle met skin and Courtney automatically met his eyes apologetically. He was suddenly overcome with the memory of waking up in pain, of being unable to move, unable to fully speak, his body still in shock of sorts. He remembered soft spoken words of assurance and gentle touches to his head, dragging gently down his skin.

Duncan gave her a look of reassurance, nodding at her to continue. It hurt like a bitch, but it was nothing he had never experienced before. Hell, in the crew he was always needing sutures or giving them. It was an everyday sort of affair. At least Courtney had a sort of professional touch and style and didn't have to improvise on the tools she used.

"So, a lawyer, huh?" Duncan questioned, wanting to get his mind off of the needle in his skin, and also wanting to learn so much more about the strange woman who saved his life despite knowing exactly who he was.

"Yeah," she said absentmindedly, almost as if she had forgotten all about talking to a criminal who she was stitching up, "I work as an ADA at the District Attorney's Office."

"Big girl job for someone so newly out of law school," Duncan commented as Courtney glared up at him, tugging a bit too hard when tying the knot. Duncan fought off a wince, not wanting to give her the satisfaction. "If you're a lawyer and not some kind of doctor, why do you know how to suture and why do you have so many medical books?"

Courtney was quiet for a moment as she relooked over her previous work, making sure Duncan hadn't caused anymore stitches to come out. "I started off as a pre-med student, but I changed it fairly quick. Within my first two years I became a law student."

"How'd you manage that without falling behind?"

"I skipped a few grades growing up, so by last year when I finally graduated law school I was pretty much with the peer group I was originally supposed to be with," she said as she cleaned up. Duncan tracked her movements across the room, and damn, did that woman's hips sway.

"Why'd you switch it?" Duncan inquired. It wasn't often than Duncan questioned someone out of just sheer curiosity. He was normally questioning people to get information, to get the upper hand. Duncan had almost forgotten what it was like to just simply want to get to know someone, how nice it was.

"No one ever mentioned in all those news reports that the Delinquent asked so many questions," Courtney joked, looking over her shoulder to give him a playful grin, "I don't know. My mom always told me I should be a doctor, trained me to be one, and I recognize that I would've been good at it, I am good at it, but my motivations changed when I got to school. We had to review and discuss medical cases a lot, and most of them were the ones from around here. A lot of them were victims of the violence that goes on in this city, not illness or anything like that. I just figured there's so many people that we can't save, no matter how hard we try, but I could, wanted to, get justice for those people. I wanted to try to make this place better, even if it's only defending the innocent deceased."

Duncan's gaze dropped down in...guilt? It felt like someone had taken a knife to his heart, or maybe it was to his gut. Never in his life, never in the years of leading the Killer Bass Crew, did Duncan ever feel guilty about what they did. Of course, there was the occasional innocent civilian caught in the crossfire that left him with a bad taste in his mouth, but nothing like this guilt.

Courtney looked over her shoulder again when he got quiet, asking if he was okay. Duncan nodded as Courtney came back into the living room, sitting on the loveseat diagonal from the couch. He watched as she curled into a ball, hugging a pillow to her chest. Duncan looked out the window to see the sun already risen. She hadn't slept all night and it was obvious by the dark circles forming under her eyes.

"I should really tell my crew that I'm fine," Duncan mumbled as Courtney agreed gesturing to the coffee table where her phone was placed. Duncan reached out for it as carefully as he could, trying not to hurt himself once again.

Once her phone was in his hand, he cautiously watched her before dialing. Courtney, noticing his behavior shift, stood up from the loveseat and went to the kitchen, not very far away, but enough to be considerate. The less she heard about the Killer Bass, the better off she'd be.

"Hey, yeah, it's Duncan. It's a long story, I'll tell you when I get back. Just know I'm fine and that the Screaming Gophers have no idea what's coming to them. Okay. Yeah. Sounds good. See you then," Duncan said into the phone before hanging up, glancing over to the kitchen when he heard the brunette rummaging through cabinets. As he set Courtney's phone back on the coffee table, she returned with a mug of what he figured to be coffee in one hand and a bottle of water and cookie in the other.

"Here," she said, handing him the bottle and cookie before sitting back down on the loveseat, her legs dangling over the armrest.

Duncan watched her for a while, watched the way her fingers tapped on her mug as she stared back at him with a curious interest. She set him with a stern glare, nodding to the things in his hand, urging him to eat the damn cookie. He didn't need water and a cookie, he had dealt with bullet wounds and blood loss plenty of times before. He was practically a pro. Besides, for all Duncan knew, she could have poisoned the water or cookie.

Duncan shifted on the couch, squeezing his eyes shut when he was overcome with lightheadedness. Courtney gave him an amused, look that screamed I-told-you-so before once again gesturing to the water and cookie. He rolled her eyes before examining the bottle and food. The water didn't seem to have any tampering, and it held no cloudiness of any kind of dangerous substance. The cookie also looked to be a normal cookie, and Duncan couldn't smell any detectable poisons from it.

"Would you knock off the everyone's out to kill you act and just eat the damn cookie before I come over there and shove it down your throat?" Courtney snapped, obviously irritated after watching him examine the cookie for an annoyingly long time, "If I wanted to kill you, I would've left you in that alley."

Duncan rolled his eyes before giving in and opening the bottle and taking a bite from the cookie. If she wanted to play doctor so badly, then who was he to deny her a willing patient? Duncan exaggerated moaned about the deliciousness of the cookie as she chuckled lightly, sipping from her mug. He noticed the way she tapped her shoes together, her body practically vibrating. She must be a major caffeine drinker, Duncan concluded as he watched Courtney tilt her head at him, her eyes still bravely trying to analyze...well him.

He hadn't been in her presence long, but Duncan could already tell that she was focused and determined, bravely so. She was probably a great lawyer, especially with how smart he had deemed her. Medical knowledge, lawyer, skipping grades, she had to be smarter than she looked. So, if she was so smart, why did she risk her career to save him, a deadbeat criminal bleeding to death in an alley? She didn't seem like the kind of person who broke rules, ever. She seemed like the person who had a stick so far up her ass that she could never bend to have fun. God, Duncan hated goody two shoes like that. There was something about this woman though that Duncan just could not take his eyes off of. Maybe it was in her glares and how she would seemingly forget that he was something to be feared, not someone to be talking back to. Or perhaps it was in the way she sneered that her name was Courtney, not Princess. Or maybe it was the glint in her eyes, hidden behind all of her good doing, a glint that held the smallest bit of trouble. She seemed like a damn fun person to crease, to irritate to no end, and it would never get boring. A stressed out, over caffeinated, rule abiding lawyer had never seemed so appealing to him. Why the hell did a woman like Courtney save his life?

He asked her as much.

She seemed surprised by the abrupt question, but she quickly recovered and gave a shrug, her grasp tightening on her mug. "I just figured if I didn't, I'd end up dead by the hands of your crew," she told him. Duncan opened his mouth to deny that she would be murdered, but he quickly decided against it, knowing it to be true. If his crew was anything, it was loyal. They would take revenge on anyone involved in his death, without question, no matter how big or small the involvement was. "Besides, you don't really scare me." She met his gaze and Duncan expected to see a challenge reflecting in her eyes, or a teasing glint, but instead he was just met with genuine honesty. Was this chick really not afraid of him? Maybe he had given her too much credit. Maybe she wasn't as intelligent as she seemed.

"Oh really? The leader of the Killer Bass Crew, the Delinquent, doesn't scare you at all?" She saw the look in his eyes. Who knew the Delinquent had such brilliant blue eyes behind that mask? He wanted her to be afraid of him, this whole persona, his whole crew strived off of fear. He had come to expect it. But Courtney did not fear easily. Over her month in the DA's office, she had looked directly into the eyes of so many supposed monsters that she did not let herself be afraid anymore.

"I mean, the Delinquent kind of does. I'm a lot more afraid of the persona than the person, because I know that under that mask and under all the hype the media makes about you, you're human. You're a mere mortal with the same fears and limits as everyone else," Courtney explained, watching as Duncan absorbed her words and analyzed her every move. She gave him a small smile as he continued to watch her, much like she would if she was meeting with a defendant.

Courtney was vicious. She was a competitive, overachiever with a habit of being a bossy, control freak, but no one had to know that. She often, especially at her job, let her kind and easygoing nature take the forefront while her general viciousness worked in the background figuring out ways to best win her case.

"Is that how you deal with your cases? Reminding yourself they're human?"

A wide smile spread across Courtney's face before she asked, "What's your favorite color?" She had really been hoping he'd go down this route.

He gave her a confused look as she repeated the question once again, her eyes pleading with him to just go along with it. "Silver."

"There. You're human," Courtney whispered as if it was some kind of secret between them. Duncan's eyes almost slipped closed at the softness of her voice. "It's hard to see criminals as these unreachable, undefeatable monsters when you know their favorite color. Having a favorite color makes you human. Knowing trivial things about someone makes them seem like less of a bad person."

Duncan's lips twitched up in a smile as he watched her lazily turn her head to look at him. She gave him a smile before turning her head away, focus back on her mug, and god was Duncan screwed.


They sat like that for hours. Duncan sprawled out brokenly on her couch while she dangled out of her love seat. They talked and talked and Duncan had never been so open to anyone outside of his crew in such a long time. He wasn't sure what kind of witchcraft Courtney practiced, but something about her made him feel like he could tell her anything, spill his guts out. He listened to her talk about her most recent case, about her family, about the pressure she had placed on herself to make this city better. He asked her questions about herself and he swore he could listen to her talk forever. More importantly, when she asked about his life, he found himself spewing out words, unable to swallow them down. She asked about more trivial things, about if he had family, the first time he remembered being in love, about who his best friend was when he was twelve. She asked a million different things about his past and his now, but never once did she ask about anything about what he did, about his crew. Even when he inevitably mentioned the Killer Bass Crew in his stories, she did not flinch, she did not waver uncomfortably, nor did she show fear. Lord, Courtney was something else entirely.

"So, of course Geoff decided the best way to deal with the cops coming between us and our getaway car was to throw a grenade at them, right in the direction of our getaway car," Duncan recounted the tale of Geoff, his best friend and right-hand man in the crew, blowing up their getaway car with a laugh.

"He didn't," Courtney cooed out sympathetically between her giggles.

"Oh, he did," Duncan chuckled out as he watched her face fall from full blown giggles to a look on content.

"Can I ask you something personal?" she questioned, her head falling lazily to the side on the armrest.

"You've been asking me personal things," Duncan pointed out with an amused look as she gently glared at him.

"This is different," she said as he let out a sigh, waving for her to continue, "How did you get into all of...well everything? How'd you get into this life? How'd you become the Delinquent?" Duncan was silent for a moment, tapping his now empty water bottle against his abs in thought.

"Took you long enough to ask," he commented drily, "Honestly, I don't remember how it started. I guess you could say I never really had a normal childhood. I grew up a piece of shit kid who broke the law. I did a lot of shit, realized I could get paid big time by doing the things I was already doing for someone else, to keep their hands clean. I did that ever since. My mom died, my father trained me to be a contract killer like him, I did, he died. I did what I had to. Then, I started my own crew that I could control."

"So, essentially you've been the bad guy your whole life? Never the good guy?"

"There are no good guys," he deadpanned at her as her features twisted into one of confusion. She blinked at him for a second, as if she could not comprehend what he just said.

"Of course there are. There's law enforcement, lawyers—"

"All mere mortals," he interrupted.

"And what does that make you? Some kind of god?" she challenged, leaning forward to get a better look at him.

"No, I don't pretend to be something I'm not. I am just a mere mortal who pushes and breaks the law," he told her, hand reaching up to run through his mohawk.

"So, you think humans are inherently bad?" she questioned, leaning off her seat to place her more than likely cold cup of coffee on the table. She gave him her full attention and he could tell that he had caught her interest with this conversation.

"We all lie, we all do what we think is best to protect ourselves and our feelings, we're all selfish to point. Some people are just worse than others," Duncan explained to her, "I know I'm the bad guy, the worst of the bad guys, the monster in the dark. The law though, everyday those guys pretend to be the good guys, but they're not. They're the ones that act as false gods as if they're a higher being, operating on some higher authority, sacrifice, and responsibility. In the end they're mortals, and we're not selfless, so they become corrupt, enact their own revenge schemes when they feel they weren't properly worshiped, they make their own justice and hurt innocence people in the process.

"Their pissing contest with me to rid themselves of their own shame and embarrassment, their need to take down the Killer Bass Crew and prove to all the naysayers that they aren't failures, their need to take us down at all costs even if it means risking innocent lives, it makes them no better than me, makes them one of the bad guys.

"You know, that same outlook is what took out Bonnie and Clyde and a lot of the other greats. A hundred and thirty shots. At least hundred and thirty shots were fired at them. A bit of an overkill if you ask me. It's especially an overkill when you consider the fact that it was a surprise ambush with practically immediate kill shots and not chance for them to even so much as think about firing back. Do you know why they fired over a hundred and thirty shots into that car? It's really simple when you realize there's no good guys. It was because Bonnie and Clyde made the police look like fools and the media picked up on it. It was because they were embarrassed of being made fools of, of getting reprimanded every time Bonnie and Clyde escaped the police. It all comes down to revenge and their own personal gain."

"Bonnie and Clyde were criminals on the run, though," Courtney pointed out as Duncan took a moment to fully appreciate that glint in her eyes. She was a woman who appreciated a good conversation, especially ones that tested her opinions and intellect. Duncan could see that look though, that fire that he had started. She wanted to argue. Damn, no wonder she was a lawyer. Duncan would never tire of that fire.

"It doesn't make it right," he volleyed back, "A hundred and thirty rounds. A definite death sentence from a posse who deemed their vengeance superior. An execution without so much as a fair right to justice, without ever seeing a trial. All because the law thinks they're above the law."

"Don't you think you're above the law?" Courtney questioned quietly as Duncan chuckled lightly.

"No one's truly above the law. I know what I'm doing, I know the wrong I'm doing, and I know one day this life is going to kill me, but I know I'm going down fighting, in a fury of bullets and fire."

"So, you're saying, the law is going to beat you one day?" Courtney questioned teasingly to the Delinquent, the man who seemed so unbeatable.

"The longer you play the bad guy, the more you push the limits of the law, the more you cross the line, the quicker your death will come. To each their own. One day their day will come and the fury will rain down on them," Duncan said, arms crossing across his chest.

"And you're okay with that? You're okay with knowing that one day you're going to die because of this?" Courtney inquired, her eyes soft with sympathy.

"Anyone who does what I do, who's not okay with the risk of dying is in the wrong profession," he told her with a shake of his head. It was stupid to be in a profession and not accept the risk. Courtney opened her mouth to speak, but she was cut off with a yawn. "You've been up all night dealing with me, you should sleep."

"I'm fine," she yawned out.

"As the city's most wanted, most dangerous criminal, you do realize I can threaten you into going to sleep, right?" Duncan joked as Courtney gave him a tired smile.

"Okay, okay," she caved in with a laughter filled sigh, "I wouldn't want to be stabbed by the Delinquent." Duncan frowned at that, feeling the need to assure her that he wouldn't actually hurt her, but the tired, joking smile she gave him made all the tension in his chest dissipate. He returned her gentle smile as she mumbled out, "Tell me a good story, where everything went right."

"As you wish, Princess," he spoke out softly, "In one of our first jobs as a crew, Geoff found this stray kitten, and my god, once DJ saw it, I could not get them to let it go..."

Courtney listened to him talk about his job derailed by a kitten with a gentle smile. Her eyes slowly began to droop at the lullaby of his voice and she was asleep with the sound of his voice still rings in her ears before she knew it.


Courtney woke up with a groan, glancing over at her clock as she rubbed her eye like a small toddler. It was well past noon, and Courtney could not remember the last time she slept in so late. She glanced around the room, surprised to find herself tucked under the covers of her bed. She could've sworn she had fallen asleep in her living room. She stretched her arms out before tossing her legs over the side of the bed, ready to get up. That's when it hit her.

Duncan. The Delinquent. She had saved his life last night. She had talked to him like old friends for hours until he demanded she sleep. She had left him on her couch, still injured.

Courtney got up from her bed, quickly leaving her bedroom to enter her living room. It was empty. No one in slight. Was I really that sleep deprived that I made up some dream about meeting the Delinquent? Courtney questioned herself tiredly as she shook her head and made her way to the kitchen to make coffee. She tried to ignore the pang of disappointment that it had all just been a dream. Why was she upset? She should be happy that she never really crossed paths with that monster. She told herself this over and over as she made and poured herself coffee, but the disappointment still covered her like a blanket and she wasn't completely sure why.

She set down her mug and went to grab her abandoned case file from the counter but paused when she saw a piece of notebook paper beside it. She reached for it cautiously, quickly realizing that it wasn't her handwriting. I didn't make it up, Courtney realized. She shook the thought away as she began to read the note, written in a chicken scratch. His letters were sharp and written out hastily and Courtney briefly wondered if this could be used as evidence against her.

Courtney,

Sorry, I had to leave, my crew needed me and I had places to be. On a side note, don't go near the bank by Fourth Street any time today. I didn't want to wake you up, so I just carried you to your bedroom and left.

Anyways, thanks for the save, Princess, and for the company. Anytime you're in trouble don't hesitate. The Killer Bass owe you one. I owe you one.

Until a hopeful next time, Duncan

P.S. Sorry for getting blood on your couch, I hope you'll forgive me since I was dying at the time.

Marked at the of his name was a quickly drawn skull, similar to one of the tags often seen around the city. Courtney glanced over to her couch to see that there was indeed a large blood stain in the shape of Duncan's leg. She let out a sigh as she tossed the note back on the counter, thrilled to be cleaning that stain up later. She went to grab her coffee again and return back to her bedroom where she could ignore the memories of Duncan being in her home, but she paused when she noticed what was laid beside the note.

In a messy stack, as if it had been thrown without thought onto the counter was four hundred-dollar bills. She stared at them as if they would disappear before grabbing them and examining them to the light. They were real alright. Damn, when Duncan wanted to apologize for getting blood on her couch, he definitely apologized. Courtney tossed the bills back onto the counter, unsure if she was seriously going to take Duncan's more than likely blood money to buy herself a new couch. Instead, she turned her attention to the more interesting object.

Written out on a sticky note was another set of chicken scratched letters.

I have to leave something for you to remember be by other than a blood-soaked couch. So, consider this a souvenir. It's all yours, Princess. -Duncan.

Courtney removed the sticky note to reveal a circular, metal enamel pin that bore the emblem of the Killer Bass Crew. The brunette ran her fingers along the cool metal, feeling the divots and rises of details. She recognized it from the many security photos she had seen on the news. The Killer Bass Crew members each had one, wearing them with pride, membership, and ownership whenever they went on some kind of spree. Seems like Duncan to give someone who saved his life his gang pin as a souvenir.

Then again, Duncan didn't just hand these pins out willy-nilly. Even when new members joined the Killer Bass, they were often not seen with their emblem for a few weeks. Almost as if they had to first earn it. Courtney examined it more closely, purposefully ignoring the red smear on one side of what she was convinced wasn't blood. The pin seems to be hand made, but perfectly so, as if care and consideration was taken into every detail. If it wasn't for it being the emblem of a gang, it would be a beautiful work of art. What the hell was Duncan doing given something so meaningful to his crew, so obviously made with tender care to a random stranger? Courtney reached out for the post it note again, hoping to find some kind of meaning of clues into his words. Instead, she found a p.s. written on the back.

P.S. If you ever get tired of that lawyer job of yours or you ever just need something else, consider this an indefinite open offer.

And just like that the Delinquent was out of her life. He came in a whirlwind of trouble and he was out before she could even fully process. She was clean of his presence and free to believe that she had never met him, had never seen his face, never knew his name. She was free to forget all about him.

Oh god, how she wished that had been true.


Oooh, ominious.

I think I'm going to make this a collection of connecting one shots. I would write it into an actual story but 1. I'm not very disciplined when it comes to writing stories, I need to focus on one at a time, and 2. I don't have an over arc plot idea, just things that work out better as one shots.

Anyways, thanks for reading 3 I hope you enjoyed.

Reviews make me a happy writer :)