Behind Enemy Punchlines
Chapter Two
Three dead, twelve injured.
The headline chases you to the corner of a coffee shop, a television mounted so each of the victims' eyes bore into you as their picture flashes across the screen. You could have chosen the side with the foreign tennis game, but when you stumbled to this table thirty minutes ago, both TVs were set to the weather channel. Now yours is blasting the morning news, and you can't help your grim curiosity.
Ralph Hartford, 71. Died of a heart attack during the initial panic, his wife unable to reach the paramedics.
Ralph and his wife live in a nice neighborhood—nowhere near your shitty apartment—and the chances of their call getting tied up by your part in the operation are slim. It doesn't stop you from imagining a different outcome, though. Doesn't stop you from daydreaming a Jimmy Stewart-esque scenario in which you were never born and the Hartfords are eating hospital breakfast, relieved to be planning their 40th anniversary instead of a funeral.
It makes more sense, in a way, to imagine a world without you than a world in which you never took the job. You may not have been voted "Most Likely to Join a Cult" by your senior yearbook, but Tony sure was, and you've been half participant, half clean-up crew to his shenanigans since you signed a lease together. If there's a version of you in some universe with more sense and less existential boredom, you'd like to meet her. Maybe ask for some advice.
No—as far as you're concerned, last night is a fixed point, etched on your soul, and you'll have to find a way to live with the guilt.
Or you could just need a snack and a nap. Hard to say.
The dull murmur of morning rush covers the segment on Jeremy Conrad, 28, who was shot in a convenience store when an opportunistic thug robbed the place sometime after midnight. It's a pretty standard Gotham death, all things considered, but you squint at the subtitles which wonder, as you do, if he wouldn't still be alive if not for the lack of emergency services. One more death to add to your tally, then.
"Is this seat taken?"
Your vacant frown sharpens into a sneer, ready to snap an affirmative at whichever businessman has decided to single out the battered woman at the corner table. You're aware of how you look—like someone threw you in a food processor and set it to pulse—and you're not in the mood to answer questions. When you look up, however, your retort dies a swift death in your throat.
The most exhausted Prada model you've ever seen stands by your table's other chair, the bags under his eyes rivaling the one slung over his shoulder. He has the kind of sleek, dark hair you usually see in magazine spreads, not under buzzing Gotham fluorescents.
As you dial your glare back from 'boiling' to 'tepid,' he shifts awkwardly and points to said designer bag. "You're by the outlet."
You lift a shoulder and turn back to the TV, leaving him to sort out his own problems.
You've missed the introduction to Tonya Franklin, 34, whose smiling, onscreen face looks nothing like the bloodied flashes you remember from last night. You hoped that this would feel like closure, but instead, studying her features for any hint of recognition, there's just a growing numbness in your chest.
"—says a good Samaritan pulled her from the wreckage just prior to the explosion. Franklin's surviving family is seeking any information on the woman who onlookers say—"
Pretty Boy surprises you by settling in the opposite seat, plugging his sleek laptop in at the outlet near your elbow. Where you might expect to see an apple symbol, his dark case has a softly glowing "D."
An older woman is on screen now—Margaret Franklin, per her name card—held fast by a man you assume to be her son.
"We just wanna say thank you for tryin." She presses a tissue to her face, expression screwed tight. "That's all any of us can do."
Your involuntary snort draws the eyes of your new tablemate. In your periphery, he stares at you over his fancy screen.
"You don't agree?" he prods, like you haven't been radiating such intense don't-fuck-with-me vibes that the nearest seats remain empty despite the winding line of coffee drinkers.
You set your jaw instead of acknowledging him.
He doesn't take the hint. "Well, I think she's a hero."
"Who?" you snap, even seeing the conversation hook beneath the bait.
He nods up to the television. Your attention strays from the aerial view of the city and the talking heads' Joker speculations as his hair swishes against his cheekbones like a shampoo ad.
"The one they were talking about." When you make no indication that you know what the hell he means, he says, "The one who pulled the woman out of her car?"
"Dead woman," you grunt.
"She didn't know that."
If Prada-for-him thinks you're going to have a pleasant conversation about the kindness of humanity or some shit, he's mistaken.
"Moot fuckin' point." You hope your foul language scares him off. He looks like the type.
He dashes your hope with a mild, "What's the point, then?"
He seems harmless enough that you almost hate to ruin his morning. Unfortunately for him, though, you've just had your worst night in recent memory, and he made a poor choice of conversation topics.
Also, who the hell starts conversations with strangers in coffee shops? This isn't Metropolis.
"The point," you say, snapping the t, "is that I'd rather hear the TV."
Rather than looking put out, he pushes back his chair with a tired, lopsided smirk. "Sorry, I'll leave you to your… Cialis commercial."
You won't give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm, turning back to stare pointedly at said ad break. Not for the first time this morning, you mourn the loss of your phone. Nothing says "fuck off" like pulling out the ultimate distraction.
Apparently confident that you won't steal his things, your tablemate stands and lopes to the back of the coffee line. You catch his lingering amusement as he stares up at the menu, and it stokes your still-simmering temper. The audacity of these rich boys—you can swear and hiss like a cat and they still think you find them charming.
For that, you decide to jack a pen, slouching low in your seat to nab one out of his bag's bulging side pocket. It feels heavy and cool in your fingers, like one of those fountain pens on display on old guys' big, oak desks. You hope he misses it.
It crosses your mind to slip out while he's in line—fuck his fancy belongings and the credit card they rode in on—but exhaustion keeps your ass welded to the seat. You've been skulking between lighted storefronts since the murky predawn hours, unwilling to go home and unable to settle anywhere long enough to rest. There's a little man with a mallet behind your right eye and he's making it hard to plan beyond morning rush, which is surely when one of the workers will needle you about not being a paying customer. Somehow, you doubt 'sorry, I don't have my wallet on account of the multiple felonies' is going to improve your situation.
A cardboard cup thunking down by your scraped elbow jerks you from your musings.
"You look like you could use it," your tablemate says, holding up a hand as if it will ward off the unpleasantness brewing behind your confused frown, "and the line is murder, you—"
He winces, though he can't possibly know how the word "murder" twists you up inside, so fast that it's like a gut punch.
He clears his throat. "You, uh, shouldn't wait through that if you don't have to."
Aw, shit, he's being nice. Like nice nice. If anything, that makes you feel even worse.
"Thanks," you say lowly, almost embarrassed to meet his eyes. You do, though, and realize he looks even more awkward than you feel.
His reason for discomfort is revealed when he holds up a little parchment paper pastry bag, shaking it with a chagrinned half smile. "This might be overstepping, but I got two—?"
It's probably just the lurch of your empty stomach that you're confusing for butterflies. Turns out, the idea of a croissant is enough to turn your whole attitude around, but you can't let him know you're that easy.
You roll your eyes to cover your eagerness. "Yeah, yeah, I'll accept your charity, Pretty Boy."
You catch the quick bob of his throat as he hands over the bag, and a rosiness to his cheeks that can't be overshadowed by his smug grin.
Ah-ha. He's masking a bit of shyness, it seems. Tasty.
Not as tasty as your first buttery bite of croissant though, which has you salivating hard enough to need a napkin.
"It's Tim, actually," your tablemate says, settling back into his seat. He doesn't reach for his own breakfast, but he does angle his screen down to better see you. "But I respond to Pretty Boy in a pinch."
You run your tongue over your teeth with a growing smirk. "I'm sure you do."
And there's that little swallow again, like the innuendo in your voice actually affects him.
Oh, what the hell—it's a weird day already. You might as well flirt with the pretty rich guy.
"Thanks for breakfast, Tim. You do this often, or just for the ladies who look broken in?"
He winces, and yeah, okay, the comment was a little sharp. Filing off the rough edges is a two croissant deal.
"I won't lie, the dried blood is an attention getter." He shifts in his seat, eyes flicking away and then back to your hamburger meat face. "You okay?"
"Nothing to worry about." You shrug. "Rough night."
Now that you're letting yourself examine him, you can see that his own skin isn't as smooth and unmarred as your initial impression led you to believe. He has a healing cut on his forehead, half hidden by hair, and the shadow of a bruise on his jaw that had to have been a real shiner last week. Not as impressive as yours, to be sure, but pretty Tim has layers.
"You and me both," he mutters, and then, with another flickering glance to the butterfly bandage you can feel hanging onto your eyebrow for dear life, he says, "You might want to get that looked at."
"So I hear." The EMTs wanted to take you to the hospital, but you only sat on the back of the ambulance long enough for them to patch up your face.
Instead of elaborating, you drag your cup closer, peering into the little hole to see what appears to be plain, black coffee. A safe choice, if uninspired. Now if he chose to get you a flavored tea, that would have been something to extrapolate from, but a black coffee? That's a fuckin' smokescreen of a beverage.
"I wasn't sure what you'd like," Tim says, tentative. "I can get you some creamer or—"
You're already waving him off. "It's cool. Thanks."
You slide back in your seat, resting your head against the wall. You regard him under half lidded eyes.
"So, you've buttered me up." You nudge your crumby napkin in case your pun is too advanced, but if his wry expression is anything to go by, he catches it just fine. "What now?"
You cradle your coffee while you wait for him to flounder at your directness.
He surprises you again by only going still for a moment, then mirroring your relaxed posture with a flash of smile.
"Now I'm going to check my email, actually." Then he flips his laptop screen back up and you hear the rapid tap-tap of his keyboard.
You'd raise your eyebrows at his power play—and it is a power play, you can see the satisfied curl to the corner of his mouth—but frankly, your face hurts too goddamn much. You'll let him have this one both because he bought you food and because you're too tired to get up and leave. The expensive pen in your jacket pocket isn't even a factor; as far as you're concerned, he forfeited that the moment he snarked and scrammed.
Your eyes drift back to the TV—now onto some morning show celebrity segment—and you drift in and out of awareness, occasionally nursing your coffee. You don't even realize you've closed your eyes until there's the clearing of a throat and Tim is pulling a regretful face at you over the table.
"Sorry, it's just—" He grimaces. "If you have a concussion, you shouldn't sleep for more than a few minutes at a time."
This time you can't stop the furrowing of your brows, brain fuzzy with what had to have been thirty seconds of deep unconsciousness.
"Who said I have a concussion?" you ask through a jaw-cracking yawn.
"Educated guess," he hazards. "Look, it's a little after eight, and if you need to get to work or something—"
"Do I look like I'm going to work?" You fix him with another murky glare and tip the cold dregs of your coffee into your mouth. "Appreciate the thought, but I'm not the sad damsel you think I am."
Your problems aren't so simple that they can be solved by a caffeinated pick-me-up and some carbs.
"I don't think you're a—" He huffs out a laugh. "I don't think anyone would mistake you for a damsel, believe me."
You pop your tongue. "Why? Bitches can be damsels, too."
He shakes his head, a wave of fresh, almost minty scent washing over you from the soft fall of his hair. It smells like success rather than Suave three-in-one.
"You seem too capable," he says, neatly dodging the matter of your bitchiness. "Damsels have to be rescued."
"I don't look like I need rescuing from where you're sitting?" You bark out a humorless laugh, then snatch up your used napkin when the split on your lip reopens. "Buddy, I'm so far in the hole that I can't see the light at the top. Not," you add, seeing his mouth open, "that my life is your business. I'm just saying—" You pause, trying to remember your point.
Maybe there is something to this concussion business.
"That you're not a 'sad damsel,' but you are a contrarian? Noted." He looks more tired than he was before the coffee.
"I'm just saying that I threw myself into this hole, and I don't need some good fuckin' Samaritan to see me out of it." Not to sound too ungrateful, you tack on a grudging, "But the coffee was appreciated."
Tim holds your gaze and takes a sardonic sip of his own drink. There's fresh steam rolling off of it, so you guess he bought another. Or, more likely, one of the baristas saw an opportunity and got Pretty Boy a refill.
"So what are you, then?"
"Hm?" You realize you've drifted, eyes following the curls of vapor as they warp the air above his cup.
"You aren't a damsel, but you need help, but you don't want help—" He ticks off your inconsistencies, until just his thumb and tapered forefinger are gripping his coffee. "—so what does that make you?"
You cross your arms, caught out in your own prickliness.
"Hate to disappoint, but I'm just your standard Gotham bum. Don't let the pretty face fool you." You'd wink, but—well. Said "pretty" face is under duress.
He rolls his eyes, long lashes fluttering.
It's the lip bite that does it, you think—Tim rolls his full lower lip into his mouth absently, and you follow the straight line of his teeth with a dazed kind of fascination. There's a damp rosiness to his mouth now, and you almost lick your lips like a predator.
"Right," you say, slapping your palms down on the table. You've interrupted some snarky comment, you can tell from the slant of his mouth, but you're done with the banter—for now. "You got a pen?"
Tim frowns, but otherwise doesn't move. "What?"
You sigh through your nose and lean over, reaching for his bag.
"Wha—hey—"
You almost consider pulling the pilfered pen from your jacket, but that seems too bold, even for you. Instead, you slip another one from his side pocket—seriously, how many writing utensils does a guy with a laptop need to carry around?—and snatch the lightly ringed napkin under his cup.
"Look, if feral chicks in coffee shops are what get you going," you mutter, trying to scribble your number without tearing the thin paper, "then call me in a few days when the swelling is down." You motion to your face, in case he's somehow forgotten your run-in with the road. "Or better yet, text."
You finish with an ink stain that wanted to be a flourish and push it back to him.
Long fingers catch the crumpled napkin before it can slide off the table, but he still looks startled.
"I wasn't fishing for sex," Tim protests.
"Shame," you say and stand with a prolonged groan. Several places along your spine crack like rusted hinges. "Cause say the word, and I'll show you Gotham's real underbelly."
And now you have to make a quick getaway before the lameness of that pickup line sinks in.
"Thanks for the snack," you say again, and because you're hungry and lacking in what some people call "shame," you grab his untouched croissant.
You try to make a clean getaway, but only make it a few feet down the sidewalk when his voice calls after you.
"You're not getting it back," you toss over your shoulder. That you mean both the pastry and the pen is something he can discover on his own time.
"I don't doubt it," Tim says, appearing beside you, unruffled.
As much as you can appreciate a certain sense of doggedness, you're starting to get stalker vibes from this one.
"What? Didn't get your fill of my sunny personality?" Your scowl makes it clear that he should have.
He grins, but it looks plastic. "I just wanted to make sure you're really okay? Because—and no offense—but you look like you've been through it."
You weigh the odds of getting to rock his world later if you tell him to fuck off now.
"Not sure what you're expecting me to say," you say instead. You take big bite of his croissant and glance at your invisible watch. "You're cute, but I've got places to be."
"Do you?" Bless him, he actually looks concerned.
"Oh my god, Pretty Boy." Your glare is ruined by your incredulous laughter. "Are you trying to pick up homeless women, or is that just what it sounds like?"
Tim holds his palms up, and from the rising flush on his neck, you'd guess that the slime was unintended. And, most upsettingly, his ruffled expression is downright edible.
"Fair! That's fair. You just seem—lost. Also, you fell asleep in a coffee shop, so I think it's fair to assume—"
"Assume this," you drawl and flip him off. You soften it with a wink, though, because you still want to hit and—though you'd only admit it under extreme duress—his thoughtfulness is pretty cute.
If it is thoughtfulness and not serial killer behavior, which is still up for debate.
Maybe the fact that he followed you is a good sign, though. Seems he's equally hard up for a good lay, and that means you'll have a nice consolation prize in a few days if the payment for your crimes falls through.
God, how depressing—dick instead of financial security. At least if you were a sugar baby, you'd have both.
"That guy has your laptop."
When Tim's head whips back to the door, you take another bite, still chewing when he looks back to you.
"Very funny," he huffs.
"You should watch your shit better." You shrug and polish off the pastry. "If you follow me again, I won't be held responsible for my actions."
Let him wonder whether you mean to maul him sexually or with your fists.
"Be safe," he calls as you turn away.
You raise a hand in a backwards wave. "Not up to me."
The most you can do is take the safest route back to the apartment, and hope that all the crazies are sleeping in from their eventful night. It's what you wish you could be doing.
Shower and a nap, you chant on an internal loop. Your legs ache from a long night of anxious wandering, but it will all be over soon and you can have a shower and a na—
"The fuck have you been?" Mikey demands the moment your apartment door opens.
You were nervous, the closer you got, that no one would be home—or conscious enough—to let you in. You don't exactly keep a hide-a-key in the hallway, although sometimes Tony forgets to lock the window to the fire escape. Instead, the front door opens before your third knock, and Mikey takes up the whole doorway.
"Someone kicked me outta the car at a busted intersection," you gripe, too tired to meet his bristling, combative energy. "Dunno if you remem—"
His hand is on your throat before you can finish.
You've never been particularly cowed by guys like Mikey, truth be told. Wary, sure, but as long as you mind your business and make it clear that you're more trouble than you're worth, you can coexist in relative peace. Unfortunately, volatile men's fuses can be lit by others and still lobbed in your direction.
In other words, something's happened.
"What—" you wheeze, fingers digging at his meaty hand, "—the fuck?"
He holds you to the wall for a full ten count, colors blooming across your vision. It's all you can do to stay on your feet when he lets go, knees threatening to send you to the gross entry rug and an even shittier position. The door shuts with an ominous click.
"Fuckin' knew you were gonna be trouble, but Tone said you were cool," Mikey practically spits in your face. "But you don't know when to shut your mouth, do you? Always fuckin' flapping your lips, like every other fuckin' female—"
You look past his shoulder while he goes on, rubbing your throat with a hand. Your 'shower and a nap' mantra dies a sighing death in the back of your mind.
"—coulda had a nice, fat paycheck with no fuss, but instead I take you two, try to get your feet wet with somethin' easy, and you still fuck it up, and now my cousin's gonna fuckin' pay for it because you got your bitch feelings hurt—"
"Wait," you croak, zoning back into his tirade, "what happened to Tony?"
You glance over to the living space and kitchen, but there's no sign of your wayward roommate. It didn't register before, your attention entirely focused on Mikey, but if Tony was here at all, he would have stepped in before it got to the point of strangulation.
"Oh, now she fuckin' thinks about someone else." He says it like you've all been doing charity together and you let down the team by not showing up to the annual soup kitchen.
"Yeah, my bad for staying out past curfew." You try to shove at his shoulder and slide away, but he's built like a bank vault.
"You still don't get it, do you?" he asks, stale cigarette breath washing over your face.
"Get? Buddy, you've been swearing at me for the last minute, but you haven't said a thing." You try to listen for any of the apartment's other inhabitants, but there's nothing but Mikey's close, heavy breathing. "Where the hell is Tony?"
Mikey laughs, and it's an ugly, grating sound.
"Same place you're headed." He fists the front of your shirt in one hand and blindly grabs for the door with the other.
"Woah, hey—" You lean back, scrabbling for the counter, but he's already dragging you back into the hall. "I'm not goin' anywhe—"
He shakes you like a dog, stretching the neck of your tank beyond repair. "You think you got a choice? You think any of us got a choice?"
And then there's a cold muzzle beneath your chin, and your focus narrows to the rapid beat of your pulse against the metal.
"Nah, we all made it when we took our first job. Too late for fuckin' choices now." Mikey holds the gun to you until you've stilled to the point that you're no longer breathing. He pulls it back real slow, keeping his eyes on yours. "Better find your sense of humor, Princess. We're goin' to clown school."
You've never felt less like laughing.
End Note:
Fic art can be found on my tumblr side blog, runmildest.