It was night in Hell's Kitchen, and the beasts that stalked its dark corners were quiet.

It was possible the weather had chased them all underground: New York City was riding the tail-end of a heatwave that had held the residents in its furnace-hot grip for weeks. During the day, the sun was intent on boiling the metropolis alive, the hum of a.c. units a never-ending chorus as stray dogs panted and sprawled in whatever puddles they could find. That same heat now clung like carnival taffy to the streets, lingering even under the relative respite of night, though the beginnings of a breeze tonight heralded a coming storm that promised welcome relief.

Of course, it was equally possible that the uneasy quiet was due to the whispers and slowly spreading rumours of the mysterious man in black, the man in the mask. He'd ruffled quite a few feathers in this little slice of NYC. Word was he'd even gained the attention of the Russian Mob thanks to his constant harrying of their criminal enterprises, along with his penchant for ferociously beating the ever-loving shit out of any other troublemaker he found along the way.

Reckless with anger issues. That's a healthy combination.

Not that any of it was your concern. Nope. You tried to keep your head down when it came to things like mobs and crime rings and vigilantes in masks. It wouldn't do to draw too much attention to yourself. That road led to things like capture and dissection. You'd give a hard pass to that. Instead, you rented your little studio apartment, paid your bills, kept to yourself, and did your job to the best of your ability.

Speaking of which…

You ran your thumb over the wood in your hand, stepping up to the roof's edge and squinting out at the city as you did so. The wood was leading you in the direction of the water, that much you could tell, but whether your goal stopped between here and there was anyone's guess. Despite the heat, you'd been doing this for a few hours already, working slowly and patiently like a hound following a scent. Technically you were on a clock, so your tortoise methods may have seemed counterintuitive, but you had to be careful. Taking a cab would've been too suspicious since you had no idea where you were going or where this would take you, and owning a car in NYC didn't appeal to your wallet. That meant you were on foot, and hoofing it carried its own set of problems. If you followed the trail into the wrong alley, that was it. There'd be no iron suit or magic hammer to save you from a bullet.

"What I wouldn't give for a shield…" you muttered. You tugged at your jacket and the sweat-soaked shirt underneath to loosen it from your skin. You'd contemplated ditching the jacket but frankly, you had too much shit to carry, and the light leather offered a little more protection than the simple cotton of your shirt. "Or at least some rain."

"You're not the only one."

You startled at the stranger's voice, dropping the hunk of wood and reaching for the tactical knife hidden in your jacket as you twisted to face him. Just the weight of the hilt in your hand would have been a comfort even if you didn't draw it, but he was too quick. A shadow broke away from the darkness beside the rooftop bulkhead and just like that he was on top of you, his fingers closed in an iron grip around your wrist, preventing you from drawing your blade. Your free hand got twisted surprisingly gently behind your back, his body a hair's breadth from your front. His stance, one leg close to yours, told you he was prepared to hook your feet right out from under you and send you to the ground. "Please don't," the man in black warned, his voice dangerously soft like a blade wrapped in silk. "Don't make this a fight. My night's been going well until now."

You glanced up, shuddering at the masked face. Only his stubbled jaw and frowning mouth had been left exposed, the rest of his features wrapped in black fabric that left you unsure of where his gaze lay. Even under the getup, you could tell he was lean and hard with muscle, though the steel in his grip was enough of a hint on its own. You sucked in a breath, catching snatches of scent: sweat, bloody copper, and faint cinnamon that did little to comfort you. He shifted just a little, his thigh unintentionally brushing yours. The positioning, close enough to feel the radiating heat from his body, close enough to press your mouth to his if you'd wanted, would have been mildly erotic if you weren't scared shitless. That fear made itself known in the droplet of sweat that rolled down the back of your neck, though you were hoping he'd assume it was just the heat of the night.

How the hell isn't he dying inside all of that?

"Alright, alright." You winced, slowly unclenching your fingers from the handle of your knife, though he didn't release your hand immediately. "Can't blame a girl for being nervous."

He let go of your hand before reaching into your jacket. Bizarrely, his hand made its way immediately into the pocket sewn inside, pulling your knife out as if he'd known exactly where it was all along. He stepped back, spinning the blade around in his hands as if examining it, though he didn't actually appear to be looking at it. After a moment he nodded and, without turning to look, tossed the knife. It disappeared into the dark, vanishing as it arced across the rooftop. You stared at him in disbelief, your mouth falling open. "Seriously?"

A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Don't worry. It's still on the roof."

How the hell did he know that when he hadn't turned to watch where it went? Question for another day. You shook your head and cleared your throat. "Well, what do you want? I haven't committed any crimes, and I'm kind of busy." You bit your lower lip before releasing it when you realized it made you look nervous—which you were—and instead crossed your arms, even if it drew an involuntary grimace as your shirt clung with sweat to your back. He hadn't moved back towards you, content giving you your space for now, but you still didn't trust him. Nobody knew much about this particular vigilante, besides his loathing for criminals.

Which you weren't. Not entirely. Not in this city, at least. So in theory, you should be safe.

He tilted his head curiously, the cant of his mouth unreadable. "Do you do a lot of business standing on rooftops?"

"It's cooler up here where the breeze can reach you," you said stiffly. It wasn't entirely a lie, at least. "And what about you? Find a lot of criminals and Russian mobsters up here?"

"You'd be surprised how many muggers would try to follow a lone woman onto the rooftop of a mostly-empty building."

A cold chill ran down your spine. "You—"

"He started following you about six blocks ago," he said quietly, and your heart skipped a beat, the feel of it so sharp you felt it on your tongue. Someone had followed you for six blocks, and you'd been none the wiser, too caught up in tracking your target to notice the threat trailing along behind. Careless, far too careless with the people who were after you. "I persuaded him to find something more... productive to do with his time." There was a brief flash of his teeth as a savage smile crossed his face, the snapshot glimpse of a sated wolf before the expression was gone.

Well, I guess he solved that issue.

You let out a sigh, reaching back to scratch the back of your head sheepishly. "I… thanks, I guess, then. For, um… looking out for me."

"You're welcome. But it doesn't answer the question of why you're on the roof now, your path through my city, or why you have a…" He paused, and from the slant of his mouth, you were sure his brows were furrowed under the mask. His tone was more than a little baffled when he finished, "a wooden… ice cream sundae?"

Abruptly, you let out a snort of laughter. You couldn't blame him for the guess. The shapes probably looked vaguely similar in the dark. "Ok. First off, I'm on the roof because I'm looking around. Same as you, I'd imagine. Second, I'm doing my job. And third," you picked up the wooden object from the ground and held it up in front of him, "not quite ice cream."

"It's…"

"A duck, yes," you finished, slipping it into your pocket for now.

"And what kind of job has you wandering Hell's Kitchen carrying your wooden duck?"

"Does it matter? And it's not my duck," you said, suddenly feeling defensive.

"So you stole the duck?"

Your jaw dropped. "I did not! I—it's borrowed. I'm not guilty of… of…"

"Ducknapping? You do know I take larceny very seriously, even if it involves wooden animals."

Wait, was he… He was teasing you. You were standing on a rooftop being teased by the man in black—by all accounts a dangerous, terrifying vigilante—over a wooden duck. "The hell is happening right now?" you mumbled, rubbing at your temples.

"I'm trying to decide if you've committed a crime, obviously. Though I'm inclined to let you go with a warning if you swear to return your victim to his family."

"Ok, that is—" You pointed a finger at his now-grinning mouth. "That is enough sass out of you. I'm—I've got a job to do, and you're distracting me."

"And what job would that be?"

This again? "You really want to know, don't you?" You narrowed your eyes at him warily. "Why are you so interested, anyway?"

"You're not a cop, or you would've said something by now. You keep looking down at that duck as you walk," he said, cool and collected as he ticked off a detailed list of your suspicious behavior. How long had he been watching you? "Not your phone, not a map. You're heading in a clear direction, but you don't walk like someone who knows where they're going. You were upset someone followed you to cause you harm, but not enough to have never been followed by someone like that before. And you keep dodging the question about whatever it is you do." He somehow managed to shoot you a look even with his eyes covered. "Consider my curiosity peaked."

Well, when he put it that way, it did look a little shifty. And I was walking for what? You also really, really didn't want him to think you were a criminal. That never ended well, from what you'd heard.

"Look," you sighed, reaching up to rub the bridge of your nose. "I'm tracking someone. His wife hired me to bring him back safely. Tonight, that's my job. Tomorrow it might be finding some rich guy's lost poodle or an engagement ring that got pawned off." You held your hands up helplessly in a shrug. "I find what or who people lose. That's it. All I do. Not exactly a criminal mastermind here."

"And the wooden duck plays into this…?"

"It's complicated," you said firmly, planting your feet stubbornly. This part you would not budge on, no matter what threats he might throw your way. You had no interest in discussing your abilities with someone you didn't know. "Maybe it's a magic duck. Maybe it's a compass. Or maybe I just like holding it. We'll leave it at that."

He stood there silently for a moment, lips pursed and head tilted. You could feel his focus on you, and it was unnerving, to say the least. You were struck by the ridiculous, uneasy notion that could see under your skin, like he was peeling back the cloth and skin and nerves to examine the framework underneath. He was probably just trying to freak you out to see if you'd crack, but the hairs on the back of your neck still stood on end. Eventually, he nodded and stepped back. "Alright."

"Ok," you agreed.

There was a moment of silence before he gestured towards you, as if indicating you should get on with it. You arched a brow at him. "Well? Aren't you going to leave?"

"You clearly intend to keep going until you find this man." He shook his head, his stance just as stubborn as yours had been a moment ago. "I'm not letting you go alone."

"Excuse the fuck me?" you blurted, not sure you'd heard that correctly. "Hold on, don't you have a crime to stop somewhere? Maybe some actual duck-related larceny?"

"You can argue with me, or you can get started. If you're really in a hurry, then I'd suggest the latter."

You swore, stalking off to the corner of the roof to retrieve your knife. He followed you without a sound, silent as a cat's paw while you grumbled and hunted for your knife. "I could just lose you when I get down to street level."

"You could try." The bastard wasn't even smug about it, just factual. "Two feet to your left, then three steps forward."

What the—son of a bitch, there it was.

"You're a strange dude," you said in puzzlement as you picked up your knife, glancing over the blade to look for chips or fractures.

"Maybe. But you're taking directions from a wooden duck, so I don't think either of us has room to talk."

"Touché." You slipped the knife back into your pocket and drew out the duck once more, striding back to the rooftop edge. The man followed a few steps behind, clearly intrigued by how this was going to play out.

You blew out a breath. You didn't usually do this with people around, but, you reminded yourself, there was nothing for him to see. Even if he was suspicious, what you could do wasn't flashy or obvious like turning into a green monster or lightning-based construction tools. All he would see was you, staring down at an ordinary, scratched-up wooden duck. So, you let your eyes fall half-closed, squeezed the duck tight in your hands, and opened up.

How it felt, in truth, defied explanation for you. The closest you'd ever come in your research were the descriptions of opening the third eye, but even that didn't seem quite right. Whatever it was called, however, ultimately had no bearing on how it worked. All you knew was you pulled apart something inside your head and suddenly, you could… see.

Gleaming white threads raced out across the city, crisscrossing in complex tangles and weaves like spider's threads in a web that spread as far as your eye could see. They pulsed brilliantly, as they always did when you first looked, before gradually weakening to something less tear-inducingly bright. After the typical dimming, the true colors, at last, made themselves known in glittering hues: vibrant reds and soft blues, rich greens and bold oranges and yellows. You'd long since classified all of these hues into types: shades from yellow to red for mutual affection between people or pets; blue for connections to inanimate, unfeeling objects; green for caring that was one-sided. That last always struck you as the saddest. You glanced down at the duck, pleased to see the azure ribbon around its neck like a tiny leash had reappeared. That thread dipped down and trailed away into the distance, passing right through concrete and steel in an unerringly straight trail to your goal.

The duck meant something to the man you were after. It was a childhood toy, or so his wife had said. And the duck had eventually been gifted to his son. Needless to say, he had affection for it, and that meant you could trace it back to him.

Beside you, the man in the mask had stiffened, as if he could sense what you'd just done. Which... shouldn't have been possible. No one could see these threads but you as far as you knew. You resisted the urge to glance at him. You didn't want to see what sort of connections he had. Even aside from the privacy issue, it was safer for the both of you if you had no way to identify him sans mask, and knowing the exact thread makeup tied to him was one surefire way to do that.

You headed towards the stairs, leaving him standing silently at the roof's edge. Either he would follow, or he wouldn't. It didn't matter. You had a man to find, before the cops could do the same.

You were unbothered on the rest of your trek. There was no evidence of the man in black that you could see, no hint of his presence looking down on you. Everyone else left you alone as you walked along, save for some asshole who began to follow you, catcalling and swaggering in his drunkenness. You shook your head, determined to ignore him. He swore at you, before abruptly falling silent. You closed up, the threads temporarily winking out of existence before you turned, wary, expecting for your harasser to have been creeping up behind you. And yet all you saw were his legs slowly disappearing as he was dragged, unconscious, into an alley by unseen hands.

You cleared your throat to stifle a laugh, turning on your heel to go on your way, all while feeling a bit more carefree than you had a moment before.

You frowned at the duck and glanced up at the building as you let the threads fade out of sight. An empty warehouse, big and squat and forty years past its prime with its ancient brickwork, grime-covered panes and unsightly, orange-rust doors. Interesting. Your target hadn't worked at the warehouse company in over a year, and certainly not at this particular warehouse on the outskirts of the shipping facility. He, along with just about everyone else in the company, had worked in the center section where the newer, more modern buildings sat. Or at least, that was what his wife had told you. Then again, she'd also mentioned how happy he'd been here amongst the old containers and ancient machinery where it was quieter, the surroundings muffling the usual clamor of the city itself. Maybe he'd come down here on his breaks.

At least it was cooler here close to the water, distant grumbles of thunder just barely audible at the edge of your hearing.

"Two people inside."

You jumped, clutching at your heart before turning to glare at the man in black who'd appeared beside you. "God, you gonna give me a warning next time or do I have to put a bell on you?"

"One of them's a kid," he continued, ignoring your question. Maybe sneaking around like a ninja was just standard with the black costume. "You didn't mention a child."

"No, I didn't," you said quietly.

"The man has a gun, and he's there with a child," the man in black said sharply, a current of anger simmering just below the surface. You didn't question how he knew about the gun. The wife had warned you that her husband was armed, and for all you knew, the man in black had scoped the building before you arrived. Without knowing where I was going? Unlikely. You were tempted to ask if he could do things, like you, but that felt too intimate, too personal a conversation to have with what was still a stranger. "I need to know what I'm walking into, and whether that child is in danger."

"You can't go in with me," you said quickly. "A man in a mask will just spook him." And in truth, you hadn't planned to go in either until now. His wife had prepared you just in case you needed to approach but had understood that you might want to keep your ass safe here outside. 'If you want, you can just call me when you find him, but please, please find him for me.' But now that you were here, now that you knew the kid was actually here with his father...

The masked man stepped in close, something like a fervent plea threading through his words as he lowered his voice. "I know you don't trust me yet, and you have no reason to. But I've had a million chances to harm you, and I haven't. That's not what I do. A child's life is at risk. Let me help, please."

Shit, that was convincing.

His tone was so earnest, each note soft and soothing. And he'd helped you already tonight, even if it was just keeping people off your back. Your hands clenched. You wanted to trust him, because there were other rumors too—rumors far kinder, rumors of men, women, and children who'd been saved by him—but…

"This isn't a fight," you said, glancing up at where you thought his eyes lay behind the fabric covering them. He waited patiently for you to continue, tipping his head down towards you as he listened. "You can't just punch your way through this. James is just having a rough time. He needs help. If the police came, all they'd see was a man with a gun standing near a kid."

"That's why you and your client didn't call the cops," he murmured.

You nodded. "He won't hurt his son. He loves him, loves his wife. He's never hurt anyone in his life. He's not dangerous. Just afraid." You pinched the bridge of your nose. "His wife just wants them both safe. She told me a lot about James, so I could try to talk him into coming home once I found him."

"Is going home going to help?" he asked, his mouth tilting down into a frown.

You let out a bitter little growl. "No, but... Things were fine before. He'd been stable for years with the right therapy, right meds. But someone up the fucking chain found out at his job and decided they didn't want his 'type' working for them. He lost his job, the insurance. He thought if he ran away with the kid, got somewhere safe, his wife could… Anyway, he's better at home than here." You hesitantly reached out and touched the man's forearm, black fabric burning hot beneath your fingertips. The thick muscle tensed beneath your touch, and he made a soft noise of acknowledgment, or maybe surprise that you'd been bold enough to touch him. But you needed him to trust you because you got the feeling that there wasn't anything that could stop him from going into the building. "If you go in with me, you can't go in looking to kick skulls in. This one's a victim, not a bad guy."

He considered your request pensively for a long moment before nodding. "We'll get them out alive. Both of them." He gently settled a hand on your shoulder, gloved fingers squeezing gently. "Thank you for trusting me with this."

"Well." You waved him away, trying to play it off as you took a few steps back, out of the strangely comforting corona of heat he seemed to radiate. "You did take out that guy who was catcalling me. And the mugger. Technically, I owe you. But I consider my debt paid after this."

"Really?" He huffed a quiet laugh. "Even though I'm the one helping you?"

"You may be helping me, but I trusted you. That's a huge step for me, you have no idea." In truth, you spent most of your time alone when you weren't working. You couldn't exactly afford to get too close to someone now that people were on the watch for anyone that even sneezed like an enhanced. Then there were all the ways your abilities could be used for if you were caught by the wrong people, especially if you had the dreaded red thread. You'd been moving every few years on your own just to avoid notice, hiding under assumed names and false faces ever since you were sixteen. All of that naturally engendered a lack of trust. "So follow. Or don't. Your choice."

Then you stepped off across the street, taking advantage of the gaps between the streetlights to stay in the welcome darkness as you headed for the back of the warehouse. Either he'd join or he wouldn't, but either way, you couldn't stay here. You drew your phone out and fired off a text to James' wife as you went, keeping one eye and ear open.

"Do you even have a plan?" the man in black asked as he appeared beside you, apparently done with roof-stalking you. You had to be careful, or you were going to start expecting him to pop up over your shoulder whenever you turned around.

"Go in, find him, talk to him." Finished with your text, you shoved your hands in your pockets, hopping up onto the sidewalk and following the cracked cement to the ancient back door of the warehouse. "Then everyone goes home and we drink to our success. That's the beauty of simplicity, my friend."

He hummed in thought. "You should know, he's on the second floor, west side of the building, in the…" He paused. "He's in the office, it sounds like. Pacing back and forth. There's a staircase in the back that leads to the catwalks. You can use them to get to the office."

Your steps faltered because there it was again. "You haven't been here before, have you?" you asked suspiciously.

He just smirked, the expression wolfish and smug, before he slipped back behind you and disappeared around the front of the building.

The back door was locked, but the set of picks you kept inside your sock solved that problem easily enough. They wouldn't exactly splurge for high-tech security on an old, empty warehouse that rarely saw use. The remnant scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the stagnant air, and the way the steel door opened without shrieking in protest, confirmed your suspicions: at least one person who worked at the company used this place regularly for breaks. Ancient, rusted chains dangled like streamers from the ceiling while the streetlamps' tea-rose orange light filtered in through the yawning broken windows, casting squares of color onto the cracked cement floors. You waited for your eyes to adjust to the darkness before taking the grated staircase you could see off to your left. And damned if it didn't lead you right to steel catwalks that ran along the walls of the warehouse. From there, the office was easy enough to find: a dim light shined through the glass windows that allowed the occupants to look down into the warehouse. You didn't bother to pull the wooden duck from your pocket. Something told you that, like everything else, the people you were looking for would be exactly where the man in black had told you they'd be.

A gentle touch brushed at your back as you reached for the office door, and this time you managed to avoid leaping into the air like a startled alleycat.

"You go in first," the man in black whispered from behind you. "I don't want him to think I'm here for him. But if he aims the gun at you or the boy, I'll have to—"

"I know," you whispered back. "Just… let's try it my way first."

He was gone by the time you touched the bent handle of the office door, vanishing off into wherever it was ninja-people went when they wanted to hide. You blew out a breath, steeled yourself, and opened the door. It swung silently on its hinges, which was fortunate since it gave you a moment to look around. Old steel desks were scattered around the room, pushed aside in some places to leave a path towards an open doorway at the far end, where the light seemed to be coming from, and a door, cracked open, on the wall to your right. You rubbed your fingers over the nearest desk, just forward and to the left of the door you'd come through, and came away with dust. No one's been coming up here for a smoke. You stepped further into the room.

Creeee-ak! went the floorboards.

You weren't trying to be silent, since the last thing you wanted to do was sneak up on a guy with a gun and a twitchy finger, but still. That was loud, even for you.

"Who's there?"

Just before the gun went off, a hand on the back of your shirt grasped you and yanked you down behind the desk you'd touched. The first round belatedly gouged a chunk from the door you'd come through. The man in the mask pulled you in tight to him, pinning you between the desk and his body as the second shot was fired wide and high, striking the office window and shattering the glass. You buried your face quickly against the hot black fabric of his shirt, feeling more than hearing his hiss of pain as shards of glass struck his back. Both shots were apparent warning rounds not intended to hit you, but the message they sent was clear. The two of you listened as James swore and a toddler began to cry.

"Ok?" you whispered into his shoulder. Jesus, he'd taken that glass for you without even thinking, and it left you feeling equal parts grateful, strangely guilty, and vaguely unsettled. Who did that for someone they didn't know?

His head turned towards you, his mouth close to your ear as he let out a harsh, shaky breath, the exhalation stirring the hair not sticking to your neck with sweat. "Fine," he breathed, and somehow you knew he was lying.

Well, that went well. Fuck, what am I doing?

You shifted in the man in the mask's embrace, maneuvering until you were crouched beside him. You both needed room to move, just in case the next shot came low. "We're not here to hurt you, James!" you shouted. The stifling air in the room was stagnant and heavy with heat despite the cracked windows, and you frantically wiped the sweat from your face, trying to keep your vision clear.

"Then leave! Please, I don't want to have to hurt you. Just go away and leave us alone." His voice was shaky, but you had no doubt his aim was steady. He'd had training once upon a time. He knew how to aim, and he'd have hit you if he'd wanted to.

"I was hired by your wife to find you two and bring you home safe," you called out. "So I can't do that, James. My name is Jane, and I'm here to help." 'Jane' wasn't actually your real name, but it was the name you'd chosen for your stay in the city, and you stuck to it now, but at the very least, it was the only lie you told him.

"Bullshit! You don't bring some masked guy with you to 'bring me home safe,'" James chuckled, a broken sound just barely tinged with panic.

"James, I'm here to help just like her, and to make sure no one gets hurt," the man in the mask said. He rolled his shoulders with a grimace, glass falling free from his shirt. You could just barely see the wet gleam of blood around his shoulders where the fabric had grown damp; no doubt it was even worse across his back.

"I'd never hurt my son." James sucked in a breath across the room, the floors creaking as he began to pace in agitation. His son started to quiet now that the loud sounds didn't continue. "Or my wife. She wanted me to wait, not leave but then, I can't… I couldn't let them take him."

"Who's they, James?" you asked softly. The despair in his voice made you ache. You had, had to walk out of here with everyone alive.

"I… CPS. They… that asshole, he got me fired. And then he called CPS on me. They were gonna come for my boy, I just know it. I couldn't provide and…" There was a quiet sniffle, the sound of his groan anguished. "I never laid a hand on my boy in his life. Never even yelled at him. But they wouldn't've believed that. They'd be like the company, they'd just see how I can't get good treatment no more and I can't find a job… I won't let them do it. I'm gonna get on a ship with my boy, and when we get somewhere safe where they don't know me, my girl, she's gonna come to us. It's the only way."

A victim, not a criminal.

He wasn't going to shoot you.

You drew in a steady breath, taking a moment to center yourself. When you spoke, your voice was calm, with only the faintest hint of shakiness. "James, I'm going to step out now. And so is my friend here. So you can see us, ok?" To his credit, the man in the mask must have come to the same conclusion, rising to his feet smoothly beside you, his hands up like yours. In the dim light—a nightlight for James' son, you realized, plugged into the wall on the far side of the room—you could finally see James, a gun in his hand. He'd shifted his aim over your shoulder towards the wall behind you, ensuring he didn't shoot you by mistake. He was absolutely soaked in sweat, dark circles under his eyes and his skin drawn tight. God, he must've been exhausted. "We just want to talk. Neither of us wants to hurt you."

"James, please," the man in the mask said gently. "Your son is scared. So is your wife. We can fix this, all of this."

He shook his head sharply, baring his teeth. "No way you can fix it, you're just—"

The man in the mask gestured sharply. Another small shard of glass dropped and you winced in sympathy. "What they did to you? What they fired you for? It's against the law. And I swear James, I'll—I can put you in contact with a lawyer who will take your case. You have a case, you and your family. They won't take your son."

"It won't help," James said helplessly, the gun wavering in his hand. "We've barely got money for food now; no way we can afford that."

"It doesn't matter," the man in the mask said breathlessly. It startled you, the fiery passion in his voice as he spoke. And that fervent belief was affecting James, too, if his faltering stance was any indication. "He'll take your case. James, you don't have to do this. You can go home, be a family with your wife and son. Let us help you."

"I'm going to pull my phone out, James," you said, leaving one hand in the air. Both men tensed as you reached into your pocket, drawing your phone out slowly so James could see. "There. I think there's someone you need to talk to." You scrolled through the contacts, the man in the mask continuing in his efforts to convince James as you did so. You hit the number, and when the call connected, you switched it to speakerphone and held it up

"James, baby, is that you? Please, you gotta come home..."

That ended up being the last piece needed. James dropped his aim, voice broken as he spoke to his wife.

You watched the car disappear around the corner, and it was only then that you finally relaxed, tension draining away from your shoulders and down into the street like the rush of cool water.

"You're going to have to give me the number of your lawyer friend," you sighed to the man in the mask, glancing over at him. You knew he was probably planning to whoosh away into the shadows as soon as you looked away. All the hero types did.

And you could let him, let him fade back into the shadows and leave you here alone. It wasn't a bad idea, all things considered. Getting too friendly with anyone was bad. A few hours running around was one thing—the few hours you'd spent with him tonight wouldn't be enough to form a thread. Any more time after this, however, could be dangerous depending on whether or not Sir Ninja Zorro continued to be so god damned likable.

Yes, that's what you'd do. You'd let him whoosh away and you'd never see him again, other than on the news maybe. And in a few years you'd leave Hell's Kitchen, and then in your twilight days, now and then, you'd fondly reminisce over the man in the mask and how you totally could have been bros. And that's settled.

"Are you looking for legal assistance, Jane?" Something about the way he said the fake name gave you the impression he found it funny, though you weren't sure why. There was no way he could've known you'd lied about it.

You shrugged and said casually, "You'd be surprised at the number of people who want to sue me over being found."

He chuckled at the way you threw his earlier words back at him, then winced, another shard of glass falling free to shatter across the street like glimmering bits of stardust.

Right. The cuts all over his back. I like my plan, but… He'd been injured helping you, so technically him being hurt was your fault. Could you really let him leave without at least offering to lend a hand? You didn't even know if he had anyone else to help, and he couldn't exactly stitch his back alone…

Ok, new plan. It's just a few more hours. I'll be fine. Then the old plan. This is fine.

"Alright, let me see it." You spun your finger, mind made up. You tried not to think too hard about your decision. This was just debt repayment, and nothing more. "Give me a spin. I need to make a damage assessment."

"I told you, it's fine," he said, his easy nature temporarily replaced with stubbornness and apparent masochism. His statement was entirely at odds with the blood that had soaked the back of his shirt enough to creep around the sides of his shirt, too. Figured he'd balk at your help for something this minor. "I can't stay, anyway. It's—"

"Come on," you sighed. "You're bleeding, you've been sliced up by glass, and something tells me you don't do hospitals, and how the hell do you look sheepish when I can only see your mouth?" It was ridiculous, really, the amount of emotion you could get out of just the lower half of his face. At least it was a nice lower half. "Never mind. After everything you've done to help me out with this, the least you can do for my conscience is allow me to give you a drink while I pick glass out of your back and stitch you up. Then you give me the number of your lawyer friend, and you can run off and never see me again." You forced the image of him shirtless out of your mind—God, what a sight that must be—as you finished your closing argument and shoved a hand in his direction. "Sound good?"

"There's no arguing with you on this, is there?" He sounded amused, slipping his gloved hand into yours to shake.

"Nope," you said, popping the p. "You're stuck with me, at least for the next few hours while I clean you up."

"I don't suppose you'll tell me how it was you tracked James here, or what your real name is?"

Damn it...

"Only if you tell me your name and how you sniffed out everyone in the building," you muttered. "This is a quid-pro-quo thing we have here between us."

"And here I thought we were friends," he mused thoughtfully.

Your face grew hot at the reminder of what you'd said earlier and waved him off. "Time's wasting, you're bleeding, and I need a drink." You hopped down off the curb as you started down the streets back towards your place—this time, your apartment, instead of your office. No way the man in the mask could take a cab, so the least you could do was stay on foot for him. Though you had to move quickly if you wanted to beat the rain, those distant rumbles fast approaching. A glance back showed you he was gone from the street, vanishing into the darkness. "You better not ditch me on the way home," you shouted.

A soft laugh from somewhere up above was all you got in response.

By the time you made it back to your apartment, you were half-convinced he'd taken off, and just a little sad at the thought. To your surprise, however, there was a knock at your window—the one that led out onto the fire escape—just as you toed off your shoes by the front door and hung your coat. "Huh. What do ya know?" You hurried over to flip the latch and slide the window up, stepping back as the man in bla—

"Ok, I've been calling you 'man in black' in my head for too long now. I need something shorter." You gestured him towards the chairs and table in the 'dining' section of your studio as you headed for the kitchen, flipping on a few more of the lights for him as you did so. A brilliant flash of lightning lit the skies outside and the ensuing boom of thunder rattled your windows as you pulled two bottles of beer from the fridge and brought them to the table. Then it was back to grab the first aid kit from the cupboard and some wet rags. As the much-welcomed rain began to pound against the building, you made sure to snag a battery-powered lantern from the cupboard in case you lost power. "I know you won't tell me your name but you have to have a nickname or something."

"'John' seems appropriate if you're calling yourself 'Jane.'" He let out a little groan as he sat in the chair and began to peel his bloodied shirt up over his head.

"Ha, you're hilarious," you said dryly. Either way, 'John' worked, you thought as you washed your hands. "Well, I gotta tell you, John, I didn't think you'd actually show."

"I wasn't going to," he admitted as you turned towards him with the kit. "But I can feel a piece of glass I couldn't reach and decided to take you up on your offer."

There was a moment of static in your brain as you took in the lean, scarred expanse of skin before you. Even smeared with blood and riddled with gashes, it was easy to see how the muscles flexed and shifted, blatant power in the line of him as he set his shirt aside and leaned forward to rest his arms casually on the table. The burning memory of his warm scent hit you, a tempting thought of what he'd smelled like when you'd had your face buried against his chest.

Completely inappropriate to be thinking of this right now.

"—ane?"

You shook it off, grabbing your second dining chair and pulling it over to him. You set the kit on the table and pulled out the alcohol, tweezers, and needle, setting the last two inside a small cup and pouring the liquid in to sterilize them. Next, you fished inside the kit for some latex gloves, along with a few other things. "You need anything before I start this?" you asked, hoping he wouldn't notice how flustered you'd momentarily become. "Some tequila? A knock over the head?"

You were quickly growing fond of that little huff he made when he was trying not to laugh. "I'm alright," he said. "Getting stitched up isn't uncommon for me if you can believe it. Although usually, it's my hands working the needle. This is a lot easier."

"What can I say? I've got the magic touch, fortunately for you." You started with a wet rag to carefully mop up some of the blood that had flowed down from all of his wounds, smeared across his back in a solid sheet. Next would come the alcohol and the tweezers. You could already see the thumb-sized shard of glass he'd mentioned, halfway up and just to the right of his spine. It looked painful where it was embedded, despite his lack of any real complaint, so you resolved to pull that one first.

"Mhm. Trust me, I'm not complaining."

"Better not be. Rule of thumb is never to complain to the person about to stab you with needles." It seemed like with every inch of clean skin revealed by the rag, you found another scar. You paused to brush your thumb over a particularly nasty-looking one near his shoulder blade. He shivered just a little. "And I thought mine were bad," you murmured. "These look like they really hurt."

"They did," he replied, shifting to take a sip of his beer as you reached for the alcoholic wipes and began to clean around the wounds. "They're from mistakes, mostly. Moments I got careless... or impatient."

You made a sound of agreement, setting the wipes down and plucking the tweezers up. "I think everyone's got scars from mistakes. Yours are just a little more… physical. Big pinch," you warned as you carefully grasped the glass shard with the tweezers and drew it free from his skin. He didn't lock up or cry out, but the small breath he sucked in through his teeth told you it hurt. You shook your head, dropping the glass into the tray. "You really are used to this."

"Did you think I was—ah—lying?"

"Sorry." You rubbed his shoulder in sympathy and plunked the next shard in the tray. "And lying? No. Being a little hyperbolic? Maybe. I'm starting to revise my assessment, though."

"If it makes you feel better, I kind of wish I could say I was lying."

You snorted, leaning in close to eyeball the next few shards. Unfortunately, there had only been two large pieces. The rest were much smaller and required you to get an up-close look. "But only kind of," you teased, going to work. "Are you a masochist, sir?"

"Comes with the territory when you're Catholic." You didn't have to see his mouth to hear the smirk on his lips.

"Well, that explains a lot," you mock-sighed, dropping the last few bits of glass into the tin. "The scars, the way I'm pulling glass and you're barely blinking. What have they done to you?" You leaned forward again, peering closely at the cuts. You didn't see anymore, but—

John shifted, half-turning his head. "There's a little piece still. In the cut on my right shoulder."

You shifted your gaze, and under his direction, managed to spot the subtle glint hiding in the trickling blood on his shoulder. This piece was the smallest yet, not even the size of a child's fingernail. You carefully moved the tails of his mask and then, holding your breath, you gently pulled the shard free. The both of you let out a sigh as you dropped the last piece into the tray and set the tweezers aside. You hadn't realized how tense he was until that moment when he finally seemed to relax against the table. Without thinking, you reached up and rubbed gently at some of the pressure points on the back of his neck. His grateful groan that slipped out left you feeling warm inside, a shiver rolling down your spine. Realizing belatedly what you'd done, you quickly dropped your hand and cleared your throat.

"Better?"

"You have no idea," he said softly, relaxing even further with a sigh.

"Considering I've never had that much glass in me, I'm guessing you're right." Out came the needle, now. If he'd been calm for the glass, this part was going to be a cakewalk. "Glass in anyone's skin has got to be painful. Does the way you're taking this right now have to do with..." You hesitated, licking your lips before deciding to barrel forward. "With your… abilities?"

Silence filled the room, the returning tension so thick you could trip over it as you threaded the needle. Your guess was a stab in the dark, but you were feeling fairly confident. Your brain's gears had been turning on the walk back, contemplating the way he seemed so aware of where everything was, the way he'd pulled your knife from your jacket and disappeared into the shadows. The only answer you could come up with was that he could do things like you could. Or, well, better than you could. Your ability was kind of worthless outside of a certain context.

"And just what is it you think I can do?" he asked quietly. You licked your lips again. He hadn't left yet, but you could sense you were walking on thin ice here. You hesitantly touched his back and prepared to stitch. The fact that he let you meant he was planning to stay at least long enough for you to get him patched up, which was a good sign.

"I don't know. I just… wondered," you said, touching the tip of the needle lightly to his skin for a moment, giving him a chance to prepare before you pressed it through his skin. No one could accuse you of being the neatest stitcher, but they'd hold. "I mean, you seemed pretty sure that I was doing some weird shit, too. Just seeing if you were like me. If I'm wrong, I'll drop it."

But you couldn't keep the hope out of your voice. Having abilities was… lonely. Sure, there were the Avengers, but they were so far above people like you on the ground that they may as well have been gods. Just the act of knowing this bleeding, passionate, human man in your kitchen was like you…

Dangerous for you, this line of thinking.

But is it worth risking a thread?

You scoffed internally. What were the odds he stuck around long enough, would care enough, for that to happen?

He'd settled by degrees while you were thinking, and no longer looked like he was about to bolt from the chair. "You're..." He shook his head, his hands clenching and relaxing on the table. "Are you planning to tell anyone about this? And don't try to lie; I'll know if you are." His words were said with the same confidence as his words on the rooftop, 'two feet to your left, three steps forward,' as sure as his hands when he pulled you in at just the right angle to shield you from the glass. He turned to look over his shoulder, leaving his face in profile as he licked his lips.

What would have happened to you, you wondered, if you'd been planning to lie now? Would he leave? Destroy your apartment as a warning? Fortunately for you, you wouldn't have to find out. You had no reason to lie.

You did your best to meet the gaze you couldn't see, pausing with your needle. "Anything you tell me is safe here," you said honestly. "I won't tell. And hey, quid pro quo, remember? You tell me yours, I tell you mine."

More silence, and you let it hover as you went back to stitching. Minutes ticked by, and you placed a bandage over the biggest, now-sewn cut before moving on to the second, slowly closing up the open wounds on his back.

"You're not wrong."

You smiled.