Nathan saw no need to change into his costume. It wasn't like he was in any shape to be fighting, and if Lunatic felt like attacking anyway, the minimal protection afforded by his suit wouldn't help him much. He left behind his wrist-PDA when he left the office shortly before sunset; if he missed a call, he missed a call, but there shouldn't be any emergencies with him officially on leave. He was more concerned that Tiger and Barnaby, or Sky High — with or without Agnes's approval — would decide to assist him with Lunatic. If there was any chance of getting through to Lunatic, he didn't want to torpedo it that way.

Getting through to Lunatic. To do what? Persuade him to stop killing? Ask him to turn himself in? To concede defeat in their long argument about justice?

The burns on Yuri's left palm and fingers had resisted healing, blistering and weeping and scabbing and cracking wherever his hand bent or flexed, but they were improving, slowly. In an odd way, the heat of his flames through the glove was a comfort, if an irritation as well, like worrying at a wisdom tooth as it emerged or gnawing on a hangnail. He'd have to change the dressing when he got home, as he had to do whenever he put that hand to any use at all. Propelling himself through the night sky, he wondered, not for the first time this month, if he should eliminate these meetings. It took mutual agreement, after all; Nathan Seymour couldn't exercise his urge for self-destruction if Lunatic never showed up. Or never attacked, never defended himself, simply evaded and then departed, but Yuri wasn't entirely sure he trusted his own temper, not when he came equipped for a fight.

And the great danger of NEXTs, the reason they were so feared, was that many of them were always equipped for a fight. Yuri, perhaps, even more than most.

He'd left the crossbow and bolts in his lair, again, but if it came to a fight he still outmatched Seymour, even when they were both uninjured. Don't let it come to that, he'd been chiding himself, remove yourself from the situation. But in the end, Yuri wanted to see Seymour again. Not on false pretenses, this time, but on the grounds they'd established, Lunatic and Fire Emblem.

He wanted to see Seymour again, and yet he felt his heart sink when he spotted a human form silhouetted on the roof. He took in details as he drew closer; no cape, street clothes, more casual than Yuri had yet seen on him. A red hooded sweatshirt and jeans. If not for the pink, high-heeled boots he'd almost pass for one of the young men from the group Yuri had fired at a few weeks ago. Maybe that was deliberate.

"Why?" he demanded, before his feet even touched the roof. His hand throbbed.

"You think I'd give up now?" Seymour asked. There was a smile in his voice, though the hood shadowed his face, making his expression unreadable.

"I wish you had some sense of self-preservation," Yuri said. His voice was low, but he didn't really care if Seymour heard him or not. Under the cloak, he held his left hand in his right. If he found this pain nearly unbearable at times, how much worse... he didn't want to follow that thought to any of its logical sequels.

"And I wish you'd stop burning people to death. We can't always get what we want."

"I had stopped. In practice, if not in principle. If that were enough for you..."

"Maybe it would be."

Yuri drew a step closer, his throbbing hand forgotten, all his attention on Nathan Seymour.

"I never wanted to sit in judgment on anyone. I wanted to fight it out with you, because you made me angry, and I would have liked to beat you at your own game and bring you in. Or just beat you, period." Seymour pushed his hood back, and flashed a smile. "But the longer we talk, the more I feel like I'd have to pass judgment on you just to arrest you. I left behind my PDA to keep any of the others from following me."

This idiot. He had no reason to believe Lunatic didn't want to finish the job. Seymour wasn't a stupid man, so why did he keep acting like he was? "Why are you so reckless?" Yuri demanded before he could stop himself.

Seymour smiled, the pale pink lips quirking in the illumination from the streetlight, or just the ambient light pollution of Stern Bild. "Why do you sound like you're worried about me?"

Because I am. "You once asked me if I ever felt guilt, Nathan Seymour. After our last encounter, I did."

In the half-light, he couldn't read the nuances of the expression on the other man's face, could only make out the general planes of his sharp cheekbones and the light color of his lips. "Was that why you visited me in the hospital?" Seymour asked, finally. "Salving your conscience? Or were you just testing me, pushing the game that much further?"

The world was very still and very slow, yet Yuri couldn't prevent himself from speaking. "How did you—" The one eventuality he hadn't considered. He had contingency plans for his mother's care, his own death, his capture in costume or his arrest in his office, but he'd never braced himself for a face-to-face confrontation. Seymour had the knowledge, and now it was up to Yuri to react. Or rather, it had been, and Yuri had made his move and shown his hand.

It would have made sense for all the heroes to spring out of hiding now, for helicopters to swing into view, but Yuri had absolute faith that Seymour was keeping this between the two of them.

The heartbeat passed, and the pale lips curved into a smile. "I didn't," the hero said. "I didn't know, if that's where you were going. It was a wild guess, even when you stopped deliberately altering your voice when you were in costume. I thought about doing a search of death records, police reports, see if I could substantiate anything... probably would have tried tomorrow, if you'd stonewalled me but let me walk away."

Seymour had considered that option as well. Yuri could kill him, right now, the one witness. He could protect his secret, continue his mission, and leave Seymour's friends to mourn him. Because, of course, that would be justice. He could kill Seymour, and regret it for the rest of his life, or he could take off his mask and destroy his own life instead.

The tiny latches on either side of his head that held the mask closed were tricky. He needed his nails to open them, at least when his hands were shaking like this, so he had to peel off first one glove, dropping it to the gravelly surface of the roof, and then the other, then fumble at the sides of his mask. Not the dramatic reveal or blaze of glory he might have preferred, if he'd ever imagined this. Finally, though, the faceplate sprung open, and he pulled off his helmet, the weight of the dark stone in his stomach only increasing. He'd been sweating, and the cold night air on his bare skin almost made his teeth chatter, but perhaps that was an emotional reaction rather than a physical one.

Seymour's lips parted slightly, a soundless oh, when Yuri pulled off the first glove, then curved into a smile. He waited until Yuri lifted the helmet, though, to speak. "I wasn't expecting that."

Yet it had seemed to Yuri like the only possible next step. "I was honestly put up to the hospital visit by my admin assistant," Yuri admitted, feeling hysteria bubbling beneath the surface. So polite, as always, and never, ever surprised, even when the herald of Thanatos spoke about office administration and get-well cards. "I couldn't come up with a reason to refuse. Was it the mention of a burn that gave it away?"

"The gloves. And your skin. The mask cracked."

No need to acknowledge the double meaning there. "Are you going to arrest me?"

"Would you let me?" But without waiting for an answer, Seymour continued, "I wish I knew. I was almost hoping you'd call my bluff. Preferably by running, I have to say, not by roasting me on the spot. I had no proof. I kept putting off getting it."

"You had enough to begin an investigation," Yuri said. "To keep me under surveillance. You could have gone to the police the moment you made the connection — the moment you realized I worked in the Justice Department. Or you could have arranged something through Hero TV."

"Hero TV — I suppose I could, but..." Seymour shook his head. "And the police? Knowing you were in the department, it seemed risky. If I made a move, it might alert you. I didn't know if you were a paralegal or a judge, how much pull you had or how much information access. And once I made the real connection—" He broke off with a shrug. "I didn't come totally unprepared, but you don't need all the boring details. I still didn't have proof, but I had plans, you might say."

Plans. More than Yuri could claim under the circumstances. This was the one eventuality he hadn't considered; a discovery of his identity that didn't lead immediately to pursuit or arrest. He was improvising, for the first time in years. He'd taken such pleasure in being the only one in the know, during all of those task force meetings and police debriefings, and now he was entirely in someone else's hands. "And now?"

"Now... I propose we go someplace warmer. Have a cup of coffee someplace we can sit down, because I suspect it's going to be a long night." Seymour looked him up and down. "I don't suppose you fit a change of clothes under that thing? Something less eye-catching?"

Yuri burned away his mantle and spread his arms slightly, as if to bow. "I don't have much room," he said. "I leave my change of clothes in my car." It was the riskiest part of his night; he was well aware of how many cases were finally solved because one person glanced out a window or took a walk at just the right moment, when a criminal thought he was acting in secret.

"Go get them," Seymour suggested. "I'll wait."

An opportunity to run. He knew what he was offering, surely. "I'll try not to be long," he said, checking to be sure his hair was still tucked safely inside his collar before he replaced his helmet. The gloves weren't as important, so he left them on the roof as he propelled himself upward.

A few buildings away, though, he looked back as he changed directions, and saw a smudge of orange flame. Seymour destroying the gloves for him. His mind was already made up as to what he should do, so the sight dispelled no doubts, but it was a different kind of comfort from the force of the flames in his hands.

.

As always, he removed the helmet and immediately destroyed it, a burst of searing heat to burn away the paint and melt the electronics, followed by simply smashing the plaster base and grinding the largest fragments underfoot. The jacket, though designed to resist even extreme heat, was not Lunatic-proof, and he could generate temperatures high enough to burn it to a shriveled, blackened fragment. The acrid smoke was never pleasant, and a risky calling card of his to boot, but better than leaving recognizable evidence of his movements.

He rarely felt the cold, a seeming side-effect of his powers, but he was shivering violently tonight. He hurried into the shirt he'd worn to work that day before he got behind the wheel, and for once turned on the disused heater in his car. He didn't dare risk flying with his face exposed, not while he was wearing half of Lunatic's costume.

Of course he was going to return. Whether he was declining an offer or fulfilling Seymour's trust, he couldn't have said, but he was going to navigate streets he normally only saw from above and return.

Seymour was waiting by an expensive-looking, and, naturally, very red sports car that could not possibly have looked more out of place in the dingy, neglected industrial surroundings. Yuri's own gray luxury sedan looked modest and dowdy next to it, and he felt strangely self-conscious about his disheveled hair and unbuttoned dress shirt. And, as soon as he opened his car door, cold. Seymour unzipped his sweatshirt.

"What—" Yuri began, but Seymour shook his head.

"You're either freezing or going into shock," he said. "You need it more than I do, anyway." He was wearing a distinctly tight black sweater underneath, Yuri noted, as he draped the jacket over Yuri's shoulders. It was warm from his body heat and smelled faintly of some rose-based, spicy scent; Yuri was too grateful for the warmth to object to the unexpected intimacy of the gesture. He slid one arm into a sleeve, then the other. It fit surprisingly well, given that he'd thought of himself as significantly narrower and somewhat shorter than Fire Emblem.

Seymour opened the door for him, almost chivalrous, and Yuri settled himself uncomfortably into the passenger's side. "We're closer in size than I thought," he said, sounding almost thoughtful, before closing the door.

"Why are you doing this?" Yuri asked, when the other man slid gracefully into the driver's seat.

"Why were you worried about me?"

"Mr. Seymour—"

"Just Nathan." He was smiling, again. "I think we've known each other long enough."

"Yuri, then."

"Thank you," Nathan replied. "Your makeup's... you need to do a touch-up?"

Yuri almost smiled — of course he'd notice. "No need," he said. "The mask always rubs it off. I only wear the makeup to cover up the scar so it doesn't disturb strangers or force me to answer questions. You already know the story."

"I really don't," Nathan said, quietly. "But that's up to you." He started the car, an aggressive revving sound Yuri associated more with movies than with real vehicles. He hadn't mingled much in law school, and his network had shrunk further since then. He hadn't kept in touch with any of the classmates whose careers would let them buy this kind of car.

They drove in silence for a time. Yuri had another decision to make, but it wasn't much of a decision. Nathan Seymour knew everything else about how it had happened, after all.

"I told you that my powers manifested and killed my father," Yuri said. "Before he died, while his hand was burning, he left me with this." He approximated a chuckle. "He'd never struck me before. Sometimes he'd throw something at me, or hit the wall or the table, but he never struck me directly. Only my mother. The only time he left a mark on me was with the use of my own powers." Yuri steeled himself for a sidelong glance. The other man was watching the road, though it was possible his jaw had tightened slightly. Yuri looked down at his hand, the burns cracked again and an angry red, before closing it into a loose fist to hide the worst of the damage. "Skin grafts can only do so much, and by the time surgical techniques and my own finances could have done more to repair it, I'd chosen to take it as a badge."

Seymour — Nathan — said nothing for a long time. "I'm placing you around my age. Early 30s?" Yuri nodded. "You've had that half your life." He nodded again. "I suppose that explains..."

"My costume?" Yuri suggested. And much more that he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to discuss, just then. A misstep, perhaps. He was off-balance, disoriented and at a disadvantage. He didn't even know their intended destination. If Nathan wanted to pursue the subject, Yuri certainly couldn't stop him.

But he left it at that, and they drove in silence. Yuri spent most of the ride trying to formulate new ways to ask why? Not all of the questions were aimed at his companion.