Hm, this chapter had more Smoke and less Bruce than I originally intended. But whatever, this whole situation isn't done yet, so there's definitely more of this to come.

On a unrelated note, I'm considering adding Daredevil, or at least introducing him, sometime in this story. I've already cameoed Matt Murdock in an earlier chapter, and I've been planning on bringing about the Man Without Fear, but I wasn't quite sure how. But since I've watched the new Daredevil Netflix show, I have a better idea how I want the plot to go. If you have any thoughts on that, please let me know :)

Anyways, enjoy!

Chapter Fourteen

Ex Animo

Christmas was right around the corner and I had no idea what I was going to do.

I wish I could just make myself heal faster, so I wouldn't have to feel like trash for missing Christmas with Peter and Aunt May. I had until Friday, thank god, but the question wasn't if I had enough time, but rather if I could actually get to Queens without collapsing. All Aunt May knew was that I had the flu, not suffering from massive blood loss and a spanking new pair of scars.

The Doc didn't seem very concerned with the idea of Christmas or the holidays. There were no decorations in the house, or outside as far as I could see. That wasn't really weird, I suppose; the Doc didn't strike me as a particularly religious guy anyways. In fact, I got the feeling that he was dreading the idea of spending anymore amount of time with me. Aside from the regular check-up, he rarely spoke to me, and never initiated a conversation that didn't directly tie into my recent injuries. My own attempts at conversation were met with rebuttals; he wouldn't even bother to tell me if he liked football or not, even though that seemed to be on the TV all the time.

Maybe he was hoping I'd die of boredom. That'd take care of his problem, wouldn't it?

There was something strange about this house, or at least the living room I had been sleeping in for the past few days. This mystery effect gnawed at me, and had me starting at the ceiling for hours trying to figure out what it was.

I mean, by all standards, this place was completely normal, if a little quiet. There were books on the shelves, a TV with cable, a healthy amount of furniture that appeared lived-in; the street outside, what I could see of it, seemed to be a part of a nice neighborhood. The houses had nice architecture, I could see fancy Christmas lights and wreaths and menorahs in the windows. The apartment across from us had three Christmas trees alone. I couldn't believe they had big enough apartments for that.

Where were we? Tribeca? The Village? A pretty swanky place to live under the radar, that's for sure. I wondered why this guy was afraid of telling me who he was.

I first thought maybe the Doc was one of those weird serial killers that lived in plain sight and was taking advantage of my, or rather Falcon's, vulnerability, like Misery from that Stephen King movie. If he wanted to kill me, he had plenty of opportunities that went wasted, so that couldn't be it. Maybe he wanted something; then why hadn't he asked yet?
But Smoke seemed to trust him. As much as I disliked the thief, Smoke was careful who he allied himself with. I wanted to trust his judgment.

The Doc was older than my mom, yet it seemed as though he lived alone. He received only a sparing number of phone calls. Did he work somewhere? Didn't men his age have a family, or were starting one, by now?

And then it hit me, as I was staring at that wall. There were no pictures.

No frames on the walls, or the shelves, or anywhere. The living room was the prime space in a house to display memories, yet there were none here.

I didn't realize I had said it out loud (ugh, drugs again) until I heard the Doc call from somewhere else in the house. "What was that?"

His head appeared in the doorway to my right. I blinked still trying to catch up with my own thoughts, when I spoke (this time) intentionally. "Uh, you don't have any pictures. I just wondered why."

"Oh, right," He said, not sounding surprised. What, did he make a conscious effort to make sure I didn't see any of his private life whatsoever?

I thought he might give me an explanation, a reasonable answer as to why there seemed to be nothing personal here, but when he didn't I frowned. "Don't you have family? Friends?"

The Doc looked away, at the bare walls and unadorned tables. "Just go back to sleep."

He disappeared behind the threshold again. It was one thing to avoid conversation, but I felt this was important enough to breach that wall. Also, I was pissed he'd actually just ignore me altogether. Miffed, I propped myself up on my good elbow and shouted, "Hey, wait! Come back here!"

I heard a heavy sigh, then soft footsteps as the Doc walked back into the living room. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, still not looking at me. "Does it matter?"

"I don't know. Not really, I guess," I said, frowning to myself. I don't know why I was expecting a different answer, but almost anything would have been better than that. "I just thought you'd be doing something for the holidays."

"I work at the clinic," he replied, his voice entirely flat. It occurred to me then that the Doc's voice sounded familiar, but for the life of me I couldn't place it. Maybe it was the drugs, or maybe he just sounded a lot like someone on TV, I didn't know. "There're a lot of accidents around Christmas, and there's usually a shortage of staff. I try to help when I can."

"That's...nice," I said, wincing a little at my own lameness. Jeez, I couldn't think of anything interesting. Then, because my curiosity couldn't be sated, I asked, "Have we met before?"

Now the Doc looked at me. "No."

Then he left.

OoOoO

If the girl knew he was lying, she didn't let on.

Bruce couldn't stand her questions. This was exactly what he didn't want to happen. Already she knew too much, and he had been hoping she'd be too tired to remember him, but her memory was already working through the analgesics. Would she remember how she was stabbed? Would she remember him?

Even worse, he couldn't distract himself with much else. The radio, the TV, the Internet was filled with that infernal Christmas cheer (and rampant commercialism) that just reminded Bruce that he was very much alone. No presents under the tree, no grand dinner, no family gatherings or shopping or celebrations; no traditions to follow, no enjoyment to be had.

The only bright side to this was that the girl had less school to miss than he first realized. Her school break started tomorrow, and by all accounts her teachers were less likely to believe she was sick, rather than just skipping to an early vacation.

But even that was not a relief. Bruce knew she had a cousin named Peter, who would no doubt want her home for the holidays. The girl shouldn't be stuck here, much less at such an emotionally-charged season. Wasn't she concerned with her extended family (because surely she had that, at least)?

She had been right, in any case, about no one reporting her missing. Not even a bulletin on the local news. Bruce had come to the only possible conclusion; either her parents didn't care, or weren't in the picture at all. He didn't know which one was worse. All he knew was that the girl was on her own, when she definitely shouldn't be.

Maybe Bruce shouldn't be one to pass judgment, but there was a difference to be a full-grown, independent adult on his own (and on the lam, but that's another story), compared to a teenager with questionable life choices. What was she doing, going out and fighting crime on a daily basis? She shouldn't be risking her life, she should be trying to get through school. No doubt her little 'hobby' of hers had a detrimental effect on her life.

Bruce fell into his desk chair, safely hidden within his office. He rubbed his hands over his face, mentally exhausted. Ugh, he was thinking too hard about this. Who cared what the girl did? This was her life, she was free to make her own choices. Her life didn't affect him in any way (except when it did...) and he shouldn't concern himself with things he couldn't change.

Getting too emotionally involved would go against everything he was striving for right now. Seclusion. Anonymity. Independence. Freedom. A life less stressful, and thus no interference from the Other Guy.

Luckily, the big green fellow had nothing to input on what had happened in the last few days. Which was pretty good, in his own opinion. Sometimes the Other Guy got antsy around people he didn't like – especially the aggressive kind. Apparently, the word 'hypocrite' had no meaning for the guy who spoke in the third person.

The man sighed to himself. This was going to be a long week.

OoOoO

"Are you all right in there?" Smoke said through the door.

"You asked me that five minutes ago," I called back, getting irritated. "And nothing's changed! I'm not going to drown."

It was bad enough I couldn't take a shower, but now that I was in the bathtub, I needed a babysitter to make sure I didn't accidentally die. The Doc had assigned Smoke because he preferred not to get involved himself. I suppose it was for the best, but that didn't mean I liked it any more. Smoke was still in a bad mood from the last time he showed up here.

"I know that," Smoke replied from the hall. The door was cracked an inch or two open, and he had his back against the wall, crossed arms and looking away. "What I meant to say is if you're done yet."

"Almost," I said, bowing my head in the water to soak my hair. The bandages weren't allowed to get wet, so I had to be careful washing my hair. "You know, it's not like the Doc's forcing you to do this. You can leave whenever you want."

"I'm the one who brought a half-dead girl into his living room and got blood all over the place. I owe him," he shot back. "You're welcome, by the way."

I bit my tongue, staring at the bubbly water before me. It's been three days since I woke up here and it hadn't occurred to me say thank you. But now I didn't know how to say it with Smoke acting all indignant without coming off as insincere or apologetic.

So I didn't say anything at all, and let an awkward silence fall between us. The bathroom made echoy noises as the sound of water splashing reverberated off the tiles. The Doc seemed to be obsessively clean, and the bathroom was no different; white bathtub, clean windows, no grime on the faucets or drain. Compared to the apartment in Hell's Kitchen, this was practically a five-star hotel.

Through the layer of soap I could see my legs, covered in bruises. They should've healed by now; my skin looked like a child's finger-painting, if that kid only chose to use the colors blue and purple. My arms were in a similar state, and I'm sure the skin on my shoulder would look a lot like that, too, if not worse. The cuts I had accumulated stung when touching the water, even more when I added soap, but eventually it started to fade. There was one across my hairline that was particularly annoying, especially when I kept touching like this.

Rinsing the shampoo from my hair with a cup, I felt like a baby getting a bath in the sink. It was a trick my mom used to keep the soap out of my eyes when even the slightest amount of pain could send me into a crying tantrum, tear-less shampoo or not. At least I didn't need anyone to do it for me, thanks to my one good arm. The other was propped out of the way; it ached to be held up at a ninety degree angle, the muscles in my shoulder protesting and no ice to numb it. My powers, and radar, were still out of commission.

It had been three days. Three days. I didn't know what it was like to be blind, but this felt as though I had lost a critical sense. Most of the time I was too tired to care, but at times like these, when it could be useful, I really noticed.

The first day, obviously, was spent asleep. The second, the bandages were changed. I was through the blood transfusions in roughly the same amount of time. Neither wound was infected, although I still couldn't feel my arm. Even my fingers felt stiff, like I had early-onset arthritis. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't hold anything with that hand. Everything seemed to be healing, but the nerve damage was unanticipated. I wasn't sure if it was something I could overcome.

The Doc seemed less concerned about it than I was. He believed it to be from the drugs, which may be the case, and I didn't really have much to argue against, except for the gut feeling I had that something wasn't right. It would be awhile before I knew for sure.

Smoke dropped by again on the third day, bringing food and extra medical supplies. By that time I was able to stand up and move on my own, if stiffly and at the pace of a dying armadillo.

"How about now?" he asked just as I was putting conditioner in my hair. Maybe it was a luxury, and I didn't really need it – but oh my god, it felt like heaven.

"Ugh, no, stop asking that!" I snapped. "It takes more than ten minutes for a girl to get clean, you know. Especially when one arm doesn't work!"

"Hey, you can always ask for help." I could hear the cheeky smile on his face.

"I'd rather drown myself, thanks."

"Well, then I'd have to pull you out and perform CPR." Smoke added, compounding to my revulsion. Why did he always have a comeback for everything?

"Yeah, like you even know how," what good would a thief have knowing CPR? I had no idea. "

"I can show you, if you'd like."

"On second thought, I think I'll drown you instead," I muttered, earning a snicker from the other side of the door.

After rinsing out my hair for the second time, I pulled myself up out of the water. My legs appeared from beneath the waves of bubbles and my knees trembled under the new effort to stay standing. Using a toe, I pulled the plug and heard a giant sucking sound as the water started to pour down the drain.

"Finally!" I heard Smoke say outside. I rolled my eyes as I gripped the sides of the tub, managing to stay up right as I climbed out and reached for a towel.

"Is it safe?" he asked, turning towards the door.

"Y-yeah," I said, pulling the towel tight under my arms. I didn't realize how freezing it was until I left the water. It was even worse when my feet touched the tile, feeling as cold as the weather outside. "Although I don't k-know why you w-want to come in."

Smoke poked his head through the door, fixing me with a smile. "Just making sure you're not going to die on me, dove."

"Oh, please," I muttered, my hair falling in my face as I looked down and leaned against the sink. In all my life I never thought I'd find myself standing naked in a towel in front of Smoke, the one guy who I found both strikingly attractive and wildly infuriating. "No bathtub can kill me."

"Except for the Chosen One," Smoke said, pushing the door open as I straightened up, watching me with a wry grin. "The one bathtub prophesized to defeat the mighty and terrifying birdgirl and bring peace to the land."

I started laughing, despite myself. Maybe because I thought Smoke was actually funny, but it was easier to chalk it up to drugs. Still, when I looked up, there was a gleam in his eyes that I had never seen before, the widening smile as he got a positive reaction from me. It was almost strange. "What? What is it?"

Smoke blinked, shook his head, saying, "Uh, nothing. I just...I've never heard you laugh before."

I snorted. "You've heard me laugh."

But he shook his head again. "Not like that."

I didn't know what to say to that, because, well, no one's ever said anything like that to me before. Still, I could feel myself starting to blush, and I looked at the floor, wondering what the hell had gotten over me. "Oh."

Thankfully, I didn't have to dwell on it for very long, because my body got to ruin the moment within the next few seconds. Laughing actually hurt my chest, made my stitches pull a little, so I was feeling out of breath and perhaps a little more light-headed than usual. I leaned further onto the counter, feeling the world starting to swim.

Apparently, this was noticeable. Smoke stepped inside, a hand reaching out towards me. "Hey, are you feeling all right?"

"I-I'm fine," I said, even though my throat was starting to lock up. I put on a brave face and pushed off the counter. It was probably a good time to lie down again. "Just a little hungry..."

But my feet were still wet and it turned out my sense of balance also wasn't that great, because my heel slipped on the smooth tile and my legs crumbled beneath me. My hand missed the counter in the attempt to regain balance. "Ah!"

"Hey, be careful!" Smoke jumped forward, catching me at the last moment before I could fall.

My breath lurched in my throat as my footing completely disappeared and I grabbed him for support. My good arm was occupied with keeping the towel on, so my right arm was the one I had to use, which went about as well as you think it would. A jolt of pain went down my back as I slung my elbow over his shoulder. It anchored me, but now I could barely breathe and for two seconds I blacked out.

My vision returned soon enough. I found myself still in the bathroom, the cold tile floor sending shivers up my legs, while I had my face buried in Smoke's chest. I was acutely aware of his arms around me, the hand touching my bare shoulder. Breathing coming in shallow gasps, I would be feeling absolutely mortified right now if I wasn't more worried about the stitches I might've pulled.

"Are you all right?" he asked and I had to close my eyes to keep the world from spinning around me.

"J-just set me down," My voice was shaky and wheezing. As soon as I was put back on my feet, I wobbled. My right hand clenched, gripping at his collar to the best of my ability. My fingers had trouble moving, so I didn't have the same dexterity as before.

Smoke tried to let me go so I could stand on my own, but I wasn't ready for it and clung to him, feeling both pathetic and afraid. "N-no, no, don't let go. I-I can't – I can't –"

"Remember what the doctor said about breathing?" Smoke said with a chuckle, as though I might actually be amused by this. He took a step back, then another, carefully pulling me with him until he could set me down on the toilet seat.

I slumped against the tank, feeling nauseous, although surprisingly not because I had been so close to Smoke (wearing only a towel, no less). Letting my head sink onto my arm, I kept my eyes closed as I caught my breath, still feeling the world rocking beneath me.

When I could finally open my eyes again, Smoke was still there, sitting on the bathroom floor opposite me, watching silently. His expression was unreadable, which seemed even more frustrating in my debilitated state. So I pretended that nothing I did could've warranted his behavior and raised my eyebrows. "What?"

Smoke, for his part, had the decency not to look directly at me, dressed as I was. "Nothing."

"No, what?" I asked, picking my head up to frown at him. "I know that look on your face. What're you thinking?"

Smoke paused. He met my gaze for a second, then back down again, as though embarrassed. "Why do you do that to yourself?"

"What do you mean?" I blinked, confused, before I finally followed his gaze and realized he wasn't looking at the floor, but my leg. Specifically the line of bruises starting from my ankle, traveling up to my knee, and disappearing beneath the folds of the towel.

"Oh." I said eventually.

"You're not going to tell me?"

"Why do you care?" I retorted, wondering why Smoke sounded so reproachful. It wasn't like we were friends or anything. "And besides, you already know why."

"Remind me, then,"

I fixed Smoke with a curious look, but humored him anyways. "Because it's what I do. To protect this city."

"That's not what I was asking," Smoke said, voice flat, like he expected it.

I kind of knew that, but I was hoping he wouldn't notice, or would get a clue and drop the matter. Since he was proving otherwise, I decided to be more direct. "Does it matter? It's not like it affects you anyways."

A look crossed Smoke's face, but it was too fast for me to decipher. Then he got up with a huff, saying, "You're right, why should it? Maybe I am just a stupid thief, like you said."

"When did I say that?" I asked, because I honestly couldn't remember. I mean, it wasn't surprising – I probably said it more than once, since it was the truth. "Wait, where are you going?"

"Relax, dove, I'm not going anywhere," he said, walking out the door and returning a second later with a pile of white clothes in his hands. "Here, something to wear."

"Did you steal these?"

"If I tell you the truth, are you still going to wear them?"

I deliberated on it for a second. As much as I disliked wearing pilfered clothes, it was definitely a better option than wearing my torn up suit, which was grimy and smelly and needed to be burned. So I just sucked it up and said, "Just hand them over before I change my mind."

Smoke made a face and left so I could change. It was an easier ordeal than bathing, and not as much trouble so long as I remained sitting for the most part. The clothes were white, loose-fitting pajama things that belonged in a psych ward, but they were clean and soft and so much nicer to wear than the suit that sometimes cut off circulation.

He was still waiting for me when I finally opened the bathroom door, leaning heavily against the frame. "Don't give me that look."

"What look?" he seemed genuinely puzzled.

"Like you think I'm weak."

"I don't think you're weak." Smoke replied, starting to frown. He offered a hand. I was probably going to need it to get down the stairs. "You're the toughest person I know."

"Now you're just trying to flatter me," I winced as I reached over with my right arm. It was too late to retract it when he took my wrist, gently, and helped me across the hall.

"It's called a compliment," he said, pulling my left arm so he could have a better hold of my back. Looking down the staircase, I felt a sensation of vertigo, and my breath came out in a huff as we took the first step down. "And it's more than you deserve."

"Right," I grit my teeth as the little jerks down the steps sent spasms of pain into my sides and shoulder. I couldn't think of anything snappy to say and just kept my mouth shut as Smoke helped me reach the landing.

It was like heaven, finally reaching that couch. My heart felt like it was going to pop out of my chest at any moment, my head feeling like it could fall right off my shoulders. I was partly in a daze as Smoke helped get the sling back on, and I finally didn't have to feel the ache of holding up that heavy arm for so long.

He didn't say a word to me, just concentrated on the straps and how it was supposed to go around. I watched his face as I combed my fingers through my hair, retying it in a ponytail. I wondered why he still wore a mask even inside this house, with people who technically knew him.

"I like my privacy," he said, startling me. "Weird of you to ask."

At first, in a crazy moment, I thought he could read my mind, before I realized I must've been thinking out loud again. "Oh. I think that's the drugs talking."

"Of course it is."

I wasn't sure I like the way he said that. Compelled to prove myself (because I can't just humiliate myself once today, I had to go whole hog), I said, "I just wondered what you looked like beneath it. Because, you know, you already know what I look like."

I already knew that was a mistake before I said it. Why would I want to express the idea that I wanted to see his face? His true identity? It was bad enough he knew mine. I didn't want to make this relationship any more complicated or messy than it had to be. But of course my mouth got ahead of me.

Smoke just glanced at me and said, "You're not the one who has to answer to the higher-ups. It's different for me. But maybe someday."

I didn't know why that made me sad, but it did and it sucked. To divert attention from my own feelings, I said, "I thought you were a free agent, or so you said."

"Part time."

"Who are the guys you answer to?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

"Whose it gonna hurt?" I said, smirking, wondering how the Rose could harm a guy who could phase through solid matter.
Smoke uttered a low noise that sounded almost like a growl. It seemed like he didn't know how to answer that question. "All the right people, dove. I can't risk it. Not even for you."

"Oh." Well, I couldn't really argue with that. Also, I was too tired to make a big fuss of it, even if I was feeling spiteful.

Still, there was a sincerity to all of this that left me feeling content, and I had no idea what it was. He had just finished with the sling and had gotten up when I found the right words to express it: "Thank you."

Smoke looked down at me, surprised. "For what?"

I was still feeling light-headed and didn't have the energy to be sarcastic. I could feel a stupid smile pulling on my face. "You know what."

He just snorted, shook his head and waved a hand at me. "Oh, no, I expect nothing less than a thoughtful, hand-written and signed thank you card, along with a bouquet of apology flowers."

"Buy your own flowers. I'm broke."

"Does that mean I still get a card?"

"When I can write again," I said, lifting my useless arm. Another problem I hadn't considered: with my dominant arm in a sling, this was going to make basic things like writing a real problem. "I'll make you one. I promise."

"I'll hold you to that," he said, drifting towards the door with a smile on his face. "Just because you're on drugs doesn't mean you can back out of this later."

"Hey, I make a promise, I make a promise. I'll get you that stupid card."

"Can't wait till then," Smoke said, flashing one last brilliant smile before disappearing.

I stared at the spot he vanished from for the longest time. Maybe longer. I didn't know, I think I was starting to space out. It took me forever to realize I was not alone in that room.

I looked around, saw the Doc standing awkwardly in the doorway between the living room and kitchen. There was a weird look on his face. "What?"

He raised his eyebrows at me, waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, don't mind me, I didn't see anything," before walking out of the room.

I squinted at him as he retreated, suspicious that he was hiding something, but unable to figure out what. Then I decided I was too tired for this, and fell asleep.