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Spencer eyed the nearly full pack of cigarettes teasing him from the farthest corner of his smallest drawer where he’d last stuffed it. He was going to quit. He really was. it was a terrible habit.
He knew all about the evils of smoking (he’d been present in his seventh-grade health class). Smoking was bad for the lungs, bad for the arteries, bad for the environment, bad all around. More to the point, bad for the reputation. Superheroes didn’t smoke. And they most certainly didn’t smoke in front of potential citizens who might see, or, worse, rat them out. (That is, photograph them en flagrante and send the incriminating photos zinging throughout the virtual world. As had happened only last year to SpitFyre, thus ending her career almost before it began. A cautionary tale if Spencer had ever heard one).
And yet, sometimes he needed just that little extra spark of nicotine to get through the day – or the night, as it were. Plus, no one around here had any idea what his job was. As far as his neighbors knew, he was a pleasant, mild-mannered young man who dressed unimaginatively in the series of identically bland suits he wore to whatever bland government job they imagined he had. (Spencer was a master of disguise, if he did say so himself).
Not to mention the fact that it had been a hard week (a hard several weeks – or was it months?), what with Midnight Star dogging his every step.
Although, truth be told, he didn’t mind that part of it too much. It was… stimulating to go toe to toe with Star. One might even say he was a scintillating opponent. (Spencer was also no slouch at puns, which came in handy for those times when mid-battle banter could make or break the situation). The fact was, Star was one of the most wily villains Spencer had ever encountered, not to mention rather breathtakingly agile. In addition, he was pretty darn good at banter himself, and there was that – dare Spencer call it charming? – glint in his eye, the one that appeared whenever he was pressing Spencer particularly hard.
There was also the annoying yet invigorating reality that he always somehow managed to slither out of Spencer’s grasp at the last second and thus avoid being booked and forced to pay for his crimes.
Then again, his crimes were relatively modest. Vandalism in the form of eco-messages scrawled in compostable paint deep in the heart of the financial district? Temporarily disrupting the work flow of credit card companies with egregiously high interest fees? They were on the low-level side of things, especially for someone of Star’s villainous stature (someone who regularly featured on Top Ten Most Powerful lists). It was just chance that they were committed, not only on Spencer’s beat, but right in the middle of his shift. (Almost, Spencer thought idly, as if they were being committed for the sole purpose of engaging with him…)
Spencer frowned. He must be more fatigued than he thought, to be entertaining such nonsense. It didn’t matter what drove Midnight Star to commit his dastardly deeds; nor sid such motives have anything to do with Spencer). It also didn’t matter how dazzling an opponent he might be; it was Spencer’s duty to bring him in, and Spencer would up his ante and do so. Tomorrow.
Or soon anyway.
He gave the cigarette pack sitting innocently in its drawer another covetous glance, followed by an equally covetous glance out the window.
It was just such a perfect evening, with the dull grey purpling to black, a nip in the air that settled the exact right amount of chill in the bones. He could duck out to the fire escape and blow the smoke away on the southern breeze as he stared up at the endless deepening blue-black above, and no one would be the wiser.
Not crotchety Mrs. Rodriguez next door, nor Mr. Hamlin down the hall with his bad back.
And not the millions of city-goers who knew Spencer as Battle Spark. (The hero names wasn’t his best work, but he’d blanked out when filling out the form, the line behind him had been long, and he’d scribbled it hastily down, sure he could change it as needed. Turned out that updating it would be a big hassle (involving, not long lines at the Hero office, but also at the social security and passport offices as well).
He sighed. Of course he couldn’t sneak in a smoke (the last one before he quit, he swore it would be), not while the final rays of the sun were still lingering in the sky. He definitely knew better than to light up (and not in the professional sense) when children were around. No doubt the youngest imp in the Rajavel family clan, that little Mira, was still out in the patch of no man’s land (driveway? edge of the road?) wearing her pink frilly helmet and going rounchad and round in circles on her pedal-less pink, frilly bike while her barely-older-than-herself brother barred the way to the actual road.
Spencer couldn’t be the one to corrupt such innocent souls.
Anyway, he had plenty to occupy him inside. The lasagna (which smelled like manna from heaven) would be done in twenty minutes. He could spend that time productively giving the kitchen a decent scrub rather than poisoning his lungs on the fire escape. If he put his mind to it, he might even be able to get the vacuuming and mopping done, too, with his reward (the lasagna) tasting all the sweeter for completion of such irksome tasks.
He shut the temptress of a drawer with a bang and took up a freshly opened sponge (the old, damp, starting-to-mildew-one having been tossed into the trash) when there was a light thump at at the door.
The hand on the sponge froze.
Someone at the door?
Who could it be?
He rarely had visitors. Scratch that. He never had visitors. He was not only the mild-mannered boring young man with the dullest of dull office jobs, he was also the Tenant Who Resolutely Kept To Himself. He did not invite his neighbors over for tea, and he kept conversations in the stairwells to a polite minimum. Said neighbors, overall, respected this boundary, and no one invited Spencer (or Josh, as he was known around these parts) over either.
The only remotely personal interactions he had were with Mrs. Rodriguez. She had taken to barring his way with her cane from time to time in order to drop poorly veiled hints as to the marriage eligibility of her granddaughter. This paragon of virtue, if it were to be believed, was simultaneously as comely as Helen of Troy and as smart as Einstein.
Mrs. Rodriguez had even started leaving Spencer gifts to bring home this point. (Although whether they could be considered gifts or not was debatable. The first such offering had consisted of a plastic cup full of the (surprisingly delicate yet most definitely weedy) pink flowers plucked, no doubt, directly from the scraggly heap growing out of the sidewalk across the street.
Spencer had nearly tripped on them as he’d trudged, eyes half-closed, to his door. As he recalled, it had been a particularly hard day, that one, dominated by a bruising battle with Midnight Star. He’d snuck his way here as quickly as he could to lick his wounds (which, while superficial, were numerous) and eat his curry takeout in peace, collapsed on his wonderfully comfortable, ratty old armchair.
He’d figured out it was Mrs. Rodriguez who’d left the flowers because, the very next day, she’d pounced on him with particular aggressiveness in the hallway and stuck a second gift (a small, wrapped dumpling) in his hand. She’d then proceeded to hold him captive for a solid sixty seconds of verbiage about her lovely granddaughter before Spencer managed to break away.
The dumpling had been delicious. He’d made a point to thank her for it two days later. In retrospect, this had been a bad idea, rather like feeding a stray cat. Because several more batches of flowers (and an additional dumpling) had come his way since. The last bouquet had arrived outside his door only two days ago, and in packaging a good deal classier than the original plastic cup: a real vase (never mind the $2.00 King Thrift sticker stuck to the bottom). The flowers themselves were large, plentiful, and the most gorgeous shade of blue (coincidentally, Spencer’s favorite color) he’d ever seen. He’d put those on his bureau, the sight cheering him wonderfully both on awakening and as the last thing he saw before closing his eyes at night.
Come to think of it, he still hadn’t thanked her properly for this latest round. He made a mental note to do so tomorrow. Or he could do it now, if that was her come a knockin’. He hoped it wasn’t. He was in no mood to hear, yet again, about the young woman’s thoroughly winsome smile. He should probably just bite the bullet and tell her he would never be interested, but something in him balked at the idea. That really wasn’t any of her business.
If it wasn’t Mrs. Rodriguez, was it a delivery? Had he ordered anything to come here instead of his official home by mistake? Although it was always possible, he didn’t think so.
Who else could it be?
His pulse picked up in that way it sometimes did out in the field. He forced himself to relax. He was being stupid. This wasn’t a call for Battle Spark. No one here knew who he was. No one would be attacking him. And if it was a random mugger, they wouldn’t have been so polite as to announce their presence, would they? Moreover, if anyone was equipped to handle a random mugger, it was a superhero, regardless of whether or not he was in costume.
He strode briskly to the door, only realizing as he was about to open it that he was still wearing the salmon-pink apron he’d picked up on sale a few months ago.
Too bad. Whoever was choosing to intrude in on his peaceful evening would have to deal with the sight of him in an apron. (And maybe that would finally give Mrs. Rodriguez a clue as to the likelihood of Spencer marrying her granddaughter).
There was another little jump in his pulse as he grasped the handle, but he ignored it and hurled the door open (with a little more force than was necessary). The hinges creaked.
Spencer's heart lurched.
Standing before him, in full costume (if a bit more disheveled than usual), was Midnight Star himself, lifting his foot for (presumably) another thump.
Midnight Star?
What was he doing here? In Spencer’s sanctuary? His home away from home? His Fortress of Solitude? He’d been so careful! Careful finding it in the first place, careful to rent it through his secret hidden untraceable bank account, careful to always, always, always make his way here with the greatest stealth and subterfuge.
So what the hell was Midnight Star doing at his door?
And what did he want? Was it an incredibly unfortunate random coincidence? Or was it something else? A planned attack? Was Star about to go nova? But the kids were downstairs –
His limbs were just unfreezing when the villain said, quietly, “Hello, Spencer.”
Not Battle Spark. Not even Josh.
Spencer
Midnight Star not only knew where Spencer’s top-secret hideout was, he knew Spencer’s real name?
Panic bloomed. How had it happened? When had it happened? Who else knew? Had there been a data leak? And if so, why hadn’t the warning gone off on his Superhero Secrets App? That thing cost a fortune.
The sound of a door opening down the hall tore him out of these whirling thoughts. The last thing he needed was anyone in this complex seeing Midnight Star hovering outside his door. He reached out, grabbed Star’s shoulder, and yanked him in.
He was half expecting to be enveloped in that fine, powdery darkness that was a prelude to Star's flashier moves, but all the villain did was grunt and stumble awkwardly after him, displaying none of his usual balletic grace. His shock of dark hair, usually pulled back into a tidy bun, spilled out further from its confines, framing his face in frizzy tendrils.
Spencer slammed the door shut behind him.
“Why are you here?” he hissed.
Star didn’t answer him. He was too busy looking around the apartment. Was he casing the joint? Yet his expression was more gently curious than coldly calculating as his eyes roamed freely over a loveseat as battered as the armchair, the scuffed table, the shaggy rug before turning back to Spencer.
More specifically, to Spencer’s apron.
Spencer, reddening, tore it off, balled it up, and threw it angrily onto the loveseat.
He was furious. He was going to have to leave this place. Shabby dump it might be, but it was so much better than the luxe, sterile superhero housing he had in the mammoth hero complex over on the east side. The one where everything was the same, the inside entirely furnished in varying shades of grey. The only good thing about it was the Shield of Invisibility cloaking it in a 500 meter radius, which allowed him to fly directly into his window at night.
A Shield that was oh-so-obviously lacking at his current location.
He was horrified to feel tears prick his eyes.
“Why are you here?” he repeated angrily, blinking back on the sudden wetness. There was no need to be a melodramatic fool. It was just a crappy one-bedroom apartment in a crappy part of town. There were probably hundreds of similarly shabby units, all replete with spidery cracks on the ceilings and ancient heating systems that went on the fritz on the regular.
“Needed a superhero,” drawled Star. He said it with a half sneer, like it was a game, like destroying Spencer’s refuge meant nothing to him.
“Shut up!” Spencer’s fists clenched. Now was the time. He was ready. He would bring Midnight Star down once and for all.
But first he was getting some answers. And (a close second) he was getting Midnight Star far, far away from here, so there was no danger to little Mira and her siblings.
“How did you find me?”
Star blinked, as if he hadn’t expected the question. (How could he not have expected the question?)
“It wasn’t hard.” He shrugged. “I followed you from the train a while ago.”
He grimaced, and Spencer peered at him more closely. He wasn’t just disheveled, he was unusually pale (at least what Spencer could see around the mask). And was he trembling?
“Wasn’t planning on stopping by,” Star went on. “Not yet, anyway. But the thing is, Spencer. I really do need a hero.”
Star lifted the hand pressed into his other arm, revealing a dark patch the color of rust.
Oh.
It wasn't just sneering banter. Star did need a hero, and he needed one because he was injured.
The knowledge spurred Spencer into action. Questions could (and would) come later. Fighting, also, could come later. Now was the time to be a different kind of hero.
Minutes later, they were squeezed into the bathroom with an extra chair and narrow bedside table housing Spencer’s supplies.
“You were a paramedic in college, weren’t you?” asked Star.
Spencer stopped working and glanced at his villainous patient. Like this, their faces were very close to one another’s. He could see, in detail, how awful Star looked: sweaty. Grey. The tight line of his chin.
He must be in a good deal of pain.
“How do you know that?” Spencer said conversationally as he resumed his examination.
“I looked it up. Once I had your name, it was pretty easy.”
“Kind of stalker-ish.” Spencer was only half-paying attention.
“I… wanted to get to know you.” Star sounded, of all things, petulant.
“You’re a grown man,” retorted Spencer. “You could have just asked."
“Could I?” returned Star sulkily.
It was a fair point. Star couldn’t have, could he? If he’d ever tried, Spencer would have laughed mockingly in his face and probably punched him. “You should go to the hospital,” he said, changing the subject.
“I’m not going to the hospital,” said Star with finality. “It’s not that deep. I could have done it myself, but it’s the wrong side. My left hand isn’t as good as my right.”
Fortunately (or unfortunately), he appeared to be correct. It didn’t look that deep – but it was plenty long and deep enough to need stitches (and a thorough cleanse).
Spencer picked up the scissors to cut off the shredded remains of the sleeve. Star’s costume was made of a thinner material than his own and easy to slice through. No wonder he’d gotten stabbed.
“You should wear a more protective costume,” he murmured.
“I’ve tried. Hampers my movements.”
“What got you?”
“A knife.”
“A little closer and you could have been seriously injured,” scolded Spencer. “Lost an arm at least.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” said Star, still sounding like a sulky child.
Ok. Enough idle chit chat.
“Remember, I’m not a doctor,” Spencer felt compelled to warn him.
“I know. Can you stitch it up already? Please?”
The plea was unnecessary. Spencer had already sterilized his hands and was snapping on the gloves. “I only feel comfortable giving a very low dose anesthetic,” was his second warning.
“It’s okay,” mumbled Star. He was looking greyer than ever.
Spencer had best get started.
He was about three quarters of the way through when they had to change positions.
As soon as they were settled into the new configuration, Star let out a gasp.
Spencer froze.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” said Star gruffly. “Keep going. I just …noticed the flowers.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Spencer saw that he now had a direct line of sight to the bureau and the vase on top of it.
“My neighbor, Mrs. Rodriguez, dropped them off for me. She’s been trying to set me up with her granddaughter for ages. Kind of a shame, given that I’m, well, you know. She’s offered dumplings too, but mostly it’s been the flowers.”
Spencer knew he was rambling, but it was helping take his mind off the present circumstances. He didn’t want to think too much: not about who was here in his private space, what he himself was doing, or what was going to happen next.
“You like them,” said Star, very softly.
“Of course I do. They’re lovely, aren’t they? Not sure how she knew blue was my favorite col – “
Spencer broke off, having belatedly registered the tone of Star's voice. His head shot up. He was staring right into Star’s eyes, which, like his voice, were also looking unaccountably soft.
Spencer blinked and looked away (it was too hard to hold that horribly soft gaze). He felt as though he’d been tossed off a cliff.
Why had he assumed it was Mrs. Rodriguez who’d left the flowers? Why didn’t he think it might be – someone else? Did he have any brains at all?
He shook his head, as if he could shake it free of the muck now clogging it up. He needed to focus. On the injury. That he was actively stitching up.
He cleared his throat and said, brusquely, “I’m just about done here, Midnight Star. If you have any fever, increased pain, or swelling, then you really do need to see a doctor, okay? The stitches should come out in seven to ten days.”
Star didn’t reply, but Spencer didn’t repeat himself. He kept going, as quickly as he could.
It was only when he’d cleaned everything up, including placing the bandage, bright white and neat against Star’s skin, and given his own hands a final wash, that he made the mistake of looking up again.
Star had removed his mask.
It was Spencer’s turn to gasp.
Not that it was a surprise: his face followed the general contours of his mask. But without it, he looked so much more human - more real, if rather the worse for wear. He was definitely grey, and definitely tired-looking, and there was dirt smudged on his left cheek.
It was the loveliest sight Spencer had ever seen, and far lovelier than dead flowers in a vase could ever be.
And while Spencer watched, dumbstruck, Star stuck out his good hand, the left one, and grinned a strained version of his usual cocky grin. “Please,” he said. “Call me Max.”
In not his bravest moment, Spencer dropped his eyes. His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would beat right out of his chest.
It was a bad idea. Stupendously stupid. Far, for worse than smoking an occasional cigarette. Star was a villain. Not metaphorically, but literally. He was a criminal. He was Spencer's sworn enemy. Shaking hands, while in and of itself a minor concession, would send Spencer down a slippery slope he did not want to go down (he should not want to go down).
To do so would be dumb, dumb, dumb.
And yet….
Spencer found himself unaccountably bringing his eyes back up, and his hand, too, to shake the one that had been offered to him.
They shook for the usual amount of time, but Star Max didn't let go.
Holding onto Spencer's gaze as well as his hand, he took an exaggerated sniff. “Is that dinner I smell?” The smile this time was no cocky grin: it was a little soft and a little tremulous and a lot hopeful. It twisted something inside of Spencer, a painful sharp little twist right smack in the middle of his chest. “Any chance there’s enough for two?”
Spencer could feel his returning smile break out with such force that he felt giddy from it.
“Do you like lasagna, Max?”
----------------
Spencer was humming lightly as he stepped down the hall.
Mrs. Rodriguez's door opened abruptly, and she leaped out of her apartment with amazing spryness. (Had she been lying in wait for him?)
She was eyeing him so intently that Spencer took a half step back to Max's side.
She froze, her eyes going wide as they darted to Max and then back to Spencer.
She jabbed her cane at Max, nearly wacking him in the shins. “You’re the one who left him all those flowers!”
“Guilty as charged,” said Max unrepentantly.
“Poaching on my territory!” She was fair bristling with outrage. “I knew it was too good to be true that a nice boy like you would be single.”
She cast another piercing glance between the two of them before muttering, “And I guess I should have been trying to set you up with my grandson instead.”
Spencer smiled. He was smiling far too much lately, couldn’t help it. He felt buoyant, irrepressibly effervescent. It was as if he was walking on air, and without the aid of any powers.
Max’s arm slid around his waist.
The expression on his face had Spencer wanting to reach out and pinch his cheeks, to snag an impromptu kiss, to pull him right back into that shabby one bedroom and –
“I’m glad you didn’t,” said Max, thankfully interrupting this (rather inappropriate) train of thought (they were in a somewhat public thoroughfare, after all). “I myself like this nice boy very much.”
This coaxed a reluctant flicker of a smile out of the old lady. She waved her cane. “Go on, you two. Shoo. There’s only so much young love I can take before I get heartburn.”
Spencer laughed a laugh that he hardly recognized and slid out from under Max’s arm.
“Bye, Mrs. Rodriguez,” he said. “Have a good one.”
He grabbed hold of Max’s hand, warm, comfortable, and increasingly familiar in his own, as they set off towards the stairwell.