Also on AO3 and Tumblr. Inspired by and for Stariceling.

It was a tiny thing, cylindrical, the print yellowed and faded. In his hand it was heavy and cold, and the glass fogged when he brought it close to his chin in an attempt to see the design better. The X was nearly rubbed into oblivion, but for something at the back of a thrift shop shelf it was in pretty good condition. Hiding a thumb in the cuff of his hoodie sleeve he gave it a quick wipe, hoping that the brown tint was just dirt, and sure enough his thumb cut a clean line across the glass. He grinned quietly. Finally, some luck.

A chin on his shoulder and the accompanying voice. "See something you like?"

Jonathan jumped, nearly losing his find in a tumble of fingers, but caught it close to his chest and glared as best he could. "It's nothing."

"If you're taking the time to look at it then it can't be nothing."

He shoved it back on the shelf with a twinge and walked away without saying a word. At the end of the aisle his hands found the empty pockets of the lambskin jacket over his hoodie, felt the lint and sand at the bottom.

Footsteps, then Sock nudged his shoulder. "I'll buy it for you."

"I don't need you to buy me anything," he grumbled.

Sock's hand appeared with the glass, a bright yellow 99¢ sticker on the bottom. Jonathan was silent, jaw tight. He'd seen the price, he didn't need a reminder.

A resigned sigh. Footsteps faded behind his hunched back, distant chatter near the front of the store, then Sock's shoes stepped back into Jonathan's vision. He finally looked up. There was a balled up plastic bag in Sock's hand, protecting the fragile thing within, and a smile on his face.

"Hey Jonathan, when's your birthday?"

"December."

Sock glanced at the verdant trees in the dark out the store windows, but didn't look deterred in the least. Jonathan accepted the ball of plastic with a frown.

"Happy early birthday. Let's scat."

The garage was four stoplights away. It wasn't anything impressive. In fact, if it weren't for connections it would have been condemned and torn down long ago. Whoever let it stand had none of Jonathan's love, because the place was a drafty piece of shit with an infestation and a weak toilet, but it gave him a roof over his head and a spot out of sight on the street. It didn't belong to him anyway, it was Blacksheep property. He didn't conventionally pay any rent. As long as he fixed shit and ran errands for other members nobody cared that he crashed there. And that was fine by him.

They weren't going in yet, because as usual Sock was getting caught up in something else.

"Let's get... unprofessional." The dim streetlight accented the curve of his mouth, the glow in his eyes. Wind from a passing car tousled hair across his face and shook the crooked tail of his hat. Puddles and discarded cans reflected the warm neon tones of the dance club across the street that rippled the water with each pound of the bass.

He wanted to hold him again, rest a chin on his head while they dozed. Quiet. Uncomplicated. Something so simple, so rare. He wanted more. But he couldn't have it.

He looked to the wet asphalt and ground a cigarette butt under his heel. "You were never professional in the first place, Sock." Biting his lip, grinding harder. "No. You can go, I'm going to stay out here."

The smile only grew larger. "Oh come on, Jonathan. I know you want to."

Jonathan shook his head at the ground. He wanted a lot of things, but not to be caught with Sock. "No, I don't."

"You never do anything but lean against your motorcycle and pretend not to care." His pulse quickened as Sock took his hand.

"I don't care," he insisted while trying to resist the overwhelming urge to spirit them both away.

A bark of laughter. "You care about me."

Jonathan's face grew red. "Well―"

Before he knew it they were at the door, and then inside. Wafting sweat and alcohol filled his mouth and he blinked ill-adjusted eyes in the strobe light before noticing Sock clinging to his side, practically bursting with excitement. His mouth moved and he turned to Jonathan for a reply. They realized at the same time that nothing could be heard over the music, and while that brought a grin to Sock's face, Jonathan's mouth fell to a tight line.

Sock cupped his hands around Jonathan's ear and moved his face close enough that lips brushed his skin. "You worry too much."

Despite his fears Jonathan found himself turning to surround Sock, tingling with the mingled warmth. "I worry enough for the both of us because you're so goddam reckless." Sock's amused huff was like gentle fingers trailing across Jonathan's neck. "What if someone sees us? You're supposed to be killing me."

Sock leaned his forehead against Jonathan's and looked deep into his eyes before stealing a quick peck on the lips. "Aren't I killing you?"

Breath hot and quick against cheeks painted with embarrassment, Jonathan tightened his grip on Sock's shoulder. "Not in the way they want."

"Neither of our groups leave their territory," Sock assured. "Just for tonight, let's not hide, yeah?"

A popular song began and the walls nearly cleared as people crowded the dance floor. Sock bobbed slightly to the beat while Jonathan pressed against the wall and watched him. The boom under his skin was surely the bass, and the stars in his vision the flashing lights. Dancing was not his thing. Nothing was really his thing, except maybe mechanics. Sock was, without a doubt, crazy. He always wanted to go dancing, maybe catch a drink. This was a decidedly more neutral zone of Blacksheep territory, but Jonathan was jumpy when it came to public displays of affection. They were harder to explain away. People might see, might dig into it, might realize Sock was trespassing. Aside from the threat it posed to Sock's general well-being, it also made his position between Demons and Blacksheep precarious. Loyalties were exclusive. Anything seen as betrayal would not only spark outright aggression between the gangs, it would also undo whatever he had. His bike, the garage, his protection, what little cash flow he had. All of it was arguably unnecessary, but something about Sock made him want to at least look like he was trying.

Maybe he wouldn't care about any of this. But then again, this was Sock, one thing he didn't want to lose. He watched the swaying tail of his hat, waved as he gestured from the dance floor with a blazing smile. A pesk, but his pesk.

Jonathan had finally began to bob his head to the beat, shoulders loose, one foot against the wall, when the door burst open. He recognized the body language and scars right away.

"'Just for tonight,'" he growled. Why the fuck would the universe work with him?

Sock appeared out of the crowd. The newcomers shouldered and pushed their way through, leaving a trail of indignant bodies in their wake. Jonathan was luckily shielded by the sheer amount of people.

"You should hide," Sock said, pushing him towards the bar. "I can try to talk them down."

"I dunno, Sock. They don't look very friendly."

A wry smirk. "You act like I don't deal with them all the time."

Jonathan threw his hands in the air. "Fine, fine, but if one of them even lays a hand on you―" He was interrupted with a tasty pair of lips.

"I'm sure you'll beat them up." Sock shoved him one last time.

The bartender gave him a funny look when he crawled behind the barricade, but didn't say anything. He had noticed the intruders too, and looked more worried than anything, turning down drink requests and jumping to a phone on the wall every few seconds without ever dialing. It wasn't until the music screeched to a halt and the space filled with an over-capacity of protesting dancers that he worked up the nerve.

The meanest looking newcomer's grin warped a huge white scar on the left side of his face. He did the speaking, spitting ugly syllables onto the nearby patrons.

"Fiiiive minutes! Five minutes and this place blows." In the strobe light and silence his smirk was almost a monster of fangs. He hefted a gallon of fluid in the faces of the poor people who hadn't been able to back away into the press of bodies. "And anybody that sticks around blows too."

The silence ruptured as panic set in. People trampled heads and limbs trying to escape through the single little door. Eyes wide and breath panicked all the voices raised at once, and Jonathan, stuck behind the counter with a sweaty bartender hopefully on the line with police, was too late to join the stampede. Shit.

"Hey guys." Sock's voice was tentative. "You're not usually around these parts."

"Sock!" Whoever this was didn't sound so bad. "I should say that for you too. What brings you here? This is Blacksheep turf, yeah?"

Sock laughed nervously. "I just like the dancing. As long as I keep my head down I don't upset anybody."

The bartender scrambled to hang up the loud receiver. Fucking idiot got noticed. Footsteps approached like gunshots on the ground. The bartender whimpered. Wood groaned as someone leaned on the counter. Jonathan squashed as far into the tiny space as he could.

"Four of your best." He could practically hear the slimy smirk.

The bartender rushed to comply. Somewhere in the background Jonathan could hear Sock making light conversation, even forcing a laugh. Mostly he was praying Scar didn't lean too far over the counter.

"So who were you callin up there. Friend of yours?" Sipping noises. Then a grumble. "Your best is shit." Alcohol dripped off the counter, some of it into Jonathan's hair, as he dumped it out. He didn't wait for the bartender to try to defend himself.

"Well sir," he almost sounded mournful. "You heard what I said. Five minutes or you go up too. You're still here." The glass shattered against the bartender's forehead and he dropped like a stone, one hand laid across Jonathan's foot.

"You'll thank me in hell," Jonathan heard. Footsteps walking back to the others and the clink of the glasses. Splashing sounds as they tossed it around, and then the snap of a lighter.

"Hey," Sock tried, sounding desperate. "So you really want a fight with the Blacksheep? Has Mephistopheles approved of this?"

There was an uncomfortable silence before Scar huffed. "Don't matter what the boss says, he ain't done shit expanding in years, too busy with fucking 'renovations' to the gang." A chorus of 'yeah's from his cronies. "Sides, a lil punk like you only get around on good looks. You won't squawk." A rough sound, like yanked fabric, and a squeak. Jonathan bristled, imaging his dirty hands jerking the scarf around Sock's neck like a noose. "Right?"

"R-right..."

The bartender's hand was cold where it brushed Jonathan's ankle. A mess of footsteps trooped out the door, and he waited in silence. Sock had left with them. He peeked over the counter, then undid the latch to the small door in the side, painfully dragging the man through broken glass and towards the back entrance. They got out just in time. At his heels, flame danced around the room in place of human patrons, following the trail of spilled liquor. The bartender took an unfortunate tumble into a pile of trash bags once they were in the shadow of his alley across the street, but Jonathan couldn't carry him anymore with his noodle arms. He just hoped the guy hadn't kicked the bucket.

The fire was quick and rough with the old, no doubt barely legal slump of a building. Mortar and brick crumbled and the roof caved as smoke and light belched out its orifices. The group of Demons stuck around long enough to see the rafters tumble, and in their wake the fire and police department arrived. Late. As usual.

The radio would later report 'escalating gang violence' and 'no loss of life'. Which was great and all. But Jonathan knew the implications were worse than what the average civilian could parse. The Blacksheep were not large or particularly powerful. They had some tenuous alliances, but no one would dare help them against the Demons.

Sock melted out of a shadow, linking elbows, tone worried. "Jonathan? I'm sorry I couldn't make them stop."

Jonathan just shook his head, enveloping Sock. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said quietly, and Jonathan felt the hand he raised to his throat.

He didn't know what to do with boiling rage.

Sock stayed over that night, curled up in the creaky old dump of a bed in the curtained section of the garage with Jonathan. Just mingled breathing was what they needed. Both of them were, to say the least, pretty freaked out after the dance incident, and so they stayed in bed well into noon. When crisp knocking came to the garage's hollow metal door Jonathan cracked open an angry eye. Who fucking felt the need to ruin his day already?

He tried to get out of the bed without disrupting Sock, but found that he was already awake, and he just rolled into the covers with a dismissing wave, quickly asleep again. Once he was sure the curtains wouldn't show that he was bedding with a member of rival gang, Jonathan removed the huge deadbolt lock and glared through the gap, blinded by the sun.

"What?" he snapped, hoping to scare them away.

"I'm looking for Jonathan Combs." The voice was feminine and sharp, ready to stab if needed.

Debating the consequences, Jonathan opened the door a little wider, shielding his face against the sun. When he could finally see again his mouth dropped. He definitely shouldn't have opened the door. Hair the same color as his undercut, blue eyes, the same nose. It was his sister, Queen Overachiever.

The door inched towards closing again. "Aren't you supposed to be in college?"

She stuck a foot in the slim doorway and forced her way in. "Aren't you supposed to be in school?"

He backed into the garage and his silence was all the answer she needed.

She sighed, face drawn with worry. "Do mom and dad know where you are?"

"If they do, they haven't bothered to haul me home for dinner," he spat. "Listen, I see what you're trying to do here, but you have no idea. So just go."

Her perfectly painted lips pursed. He bloated under her gaze, projecting the All OK signals that would make her leave him alone. Clean clothes, washed hair, aware gaze, tall stature. See, everything was fine. For a moment he thought he had won. She dropped her head with a resigned slouch and shoved a hand in her pocket. But then it emerged with a nest of crumpled paper, and she pressed it into his pride like a punch.

"I don't want your money," he growled.

"It's not money." She dropped it into his hands, and he glared when he realized her lie. Nestled like a thief in the crumpled ball was a greasy slip of paper with a phone number and address. "Well, it's not all money. Come by sometime, Jonathan. I'm family, and I know that might not mean much to you, but I want to be there for you."

The rejected papers fluttered to the stained concrete. Bangs fell over his eyes as he shook his head. He didn't watch her leave, but the door ground open and closed, a car started, and an hour later he still stood in the dim light, examining the bills and the paper, the peace offering. There wasn't anything he wanted in family. All he needed was right here. A roof and a packet of cigs... and Sock. The glass was still in his pocket, a fragile bulge of thrift shop treasure, heavy with the imprint of his smile. Her gesture was useless with what he had. No use focusing on what he didn't.

He stowed the pile in a lock box anyway.

It was a sweltering morning when they first met. Everyone sane was in air conditioning, old farts and idiots were dropping dead of heatstroke, even the toughened sidewalk weeds, full of spikes and hate for every foot that crushed them, had given up and turned limp as cooked spaghetti on the sizzling pavement. Despite every warning on the radio he was outside in his usual three layers, taking a smoke in the shade of an empty children's playground castle. The air was silent and thick and threatening to burn his lips right off. The smoking probably wasn't helping, but a day like this wasn't going to put him off his habit. A few drops of sweat on his neck and that was it. What was everyone panicking about?

Jonathan first noticed the hat, just as insane as his black lambskin jacket in this heat, and then the skirt, but who was he to judge. Last was the blood, which was a bit of a surprise, given that he had a baby face and stature sure to trip up any mother. It was deep maroon, new, and in a few large splotches across his limbs and torso. No visible wounds, it probably wasn't his. This wasn't exactly the most friendly area of the city, but it was Blacksheep territory and therefore fairly tame compared to the poor people stuck under the Demons or Angels. So blood, while not uncommon, was not usually overt on someone that looked like they belonged in a Saturday morning cartoon.

The stranger settled on a swing, rocking and creaking but not really getting into it. Jonathan thought that maybe something had happened to him, maybe he was mugged or lost, and considered putting out his cigarette to see if he needed any help, when the swinging stopped and their gazes very purposefully met. There was a smile. Jonathan just took a longer drag and squinted. He wasn't sure if it was surprise or suspicion he was feeling. Hard to tell with someone so off putting.

Swinging again, a rhythmic creaking from the metal badly in need of attention, and still a smile, though a little worn as Jonathan's silence stretched on. He rolled the cig between his fingers and watched the stranger with a calculating glare, appreciating the cloud of cancer that momentarily broke their eye contact. Of all the freaks to be out on the day the sun decided to persecute the Earth it was this one. After a quick glance at his dwindling smoke he threw it onto the tarmac and stomped. Fuck it, if he wanted to start something, Jonathan had nothing to lose.

He sat on the next swing, feeling the burn through his jeans. "You're covered in blood."

The swinging stopped, but the smile unfortunately did not. "I know! Isn't it great?"

What a grin. "Don't put the sun out of business, kid."

Jonathan got an amused glance. "Do you know why I'm here?"

"Haven't the foggiest."

"Think." The stranger tapped the side of his hat.

Jonathan shook his head.

"The Demons. You said no."

That was right. Nearly two months ago, recruiters had slunk through their territory, converting a few Blacksheep. "Converting" wasn't really the right word for it. It was yes or death. Nobody from their area had any real worth, but disposable foot soldiers were always needed with Demons and Angels. Smaller gangs were wise to sacrifice whoever was targeted, otherwise they risked total annihilation. Jonathan had been one of the No'ers. The shocked Demon couldn't seem to process his deadpan expression in the face of death and Jonathan managed to walk away clean. He didn't tell the other Blacksheep and kept an eye out for any signs of Demons encroaching territory tags, but no moves had been made. He wasn't sure what to expect. But it sure as hell wasn't this.

"What do you have to do with them?"

"I'm a hitman! I'm supposed to kill you." Smiling again, sharper. "You can wait a bit. I just got done with one."

Jonathan wished he had a cig to looked disbelieving and pensive with. "You look like a Disney reject and you're telling me you kill people?"

"Nobody expects a guy in a skirt."

He really needed a long drag to process that one. "No, I guess they don't."

The cotton air was thick with quiet and screams as the so-called hitman began to swing again. Jonathan licked his cracked lips. What should he do? He had expected some sort of retribution, but he hadn't thought of how he would deal. It didn't really matter to him what happened. Wasn't like he had anything going for him. But whatever way he framed it, death at the hands of Mr. Sunshine wasn't happening. While he was reluctant to fight, he would if he had to. Not that he could ever see this kid putting up anything near a fight. He had kind of undermined himself by telling Jonathan his intentions right off.

"Hey!" From above, then before, as the Demon's swinging intensified. "You don't seem very scared of me."

Jonathan scoffed. "Of course not. Should I list all the nicknames I've given you?"

A laugh. "I love nicknames! Just call me Sock."

As it turned out, Sock really sucked at his job. He trailed Jonathan around for a week, even after he sped away on his bike. The Demon would wait until he eventually came back to the garage and then bug him for every detail. He made it seem like he didn't need sleep or food or washing. The bloodstained ensemble he wore the day they met was still hanging off his shoulders and hips. Jonathan managed to push him out the door every night with a negligible twinge of guilt. Any weight on his shoulders evaporated when he unlocked in the morning and there was Sock, sometimes with a few new bloodstains, always grinning. One day he managed to find a hidden way in, and then Jonathan had to deal 24/7 with inane and often gruesome chatter. Sock was polite enough to at least leave him to sleep. Jonathan began to wonder after the seventh day if there was even any intention to follow through with his statement from the first day.

"Of course," Sock had said in a, dare he say it, reassuring voice. "I don't have to do it right away. It's not like you're an active threat to the Demons in anything more than reputation, maybe." He smiled, and much to Jonathan's dismay, it echoed in his chest like a good puff. "Besides, I like you. Most people are scared. And just because I'm a Demon, too."

"I don't care," Jonathan grumbled. And the next morning, with Sock gone somewhere, at 1:00 am, to the wall: "I don't care."

He really liked that smile.

Fuck.

The Demons were notorious pyromaniacs with fatal ideologies and initiation ceremonies that guaranteed only the most ruthless any positions of worth. When they didn't get what they wanted, they burned something, preferably whatever it was they had been denied. The 'I have it or nobody has it' sort of thing. To join, you only had to start a fire, the bigger the better. And while most gangs wore colors or symbols to project allegiance, Demons bore scars. Burn scars. 'Baptized in flame' was what they said.

Jonathan hadn't made it his business to know any of this, but that was before he started making out with a Demon. It's a real scare to be feeling someone up and then suddenly there's a huge knot of scar tissue under your hand. Sock's mark is large, kind of oval, at the base of his ribcage. Raised and rough and white. Whenever his hand happened to be trawling by the thumb rubbed carefully around the edges and he frowned. It must have hurt. A lot.

A boring, hot day had lent Jonathan's attentions to curiosity. Only his dirty off-white t-shirt graced his upper body today. He fiddled with some parts of the radio on the floor, wires and screws and pliers on the shattered cement before his crossed legs. Sock shifted behind him, dozing against his back, and sneezed. Pollen allergies. Jonathan fiddled harder. There wasn't any money to buy meds from the CVS down the street. He felt inadequate. Seeking distraction, he remembered his parents, or lack thereof, and was suddenly struck with Sock's age.

"Sock?" A quiet hum in response. "Don't your parents wonder where you are?"

Hair tickled his neck as Sock shook his head. "Did I tell you about my initiation? I burned down my house."

A wire slipped out of his sweaty hand. "Okay, but your parents?"

"They were in the house."

It took him a few moments. "Oh."

"Mephistopheles took me in. He's a pretty cool guy when he's not busy threatening someone. He said that I remind him of himself, and that he likes my 'gumption'." Sock's head rolled. Their backs were soaked with sweat, not that it mattered. "Jonathan, what's 'gumption'?"

"I'm the wrong dropout to ask."

The hook of wire finally caught around a bolt and he used the pliers to tighten it as best he could. It felt kind of dumb, but the chatter and tune of the radio helped fill empty space in the garage, and a similar space in his chest. Or maybe it distracted his thoughts of psycho Demons and Sock's scar. The signal had been really frothy lately, and it gave him something to do, so he stripped it down and enjoyed the presence at his back while rebuilding it.

Freaky, violent. The Demons were built on a foundation of chaos. Rumor had it that long ago the Demons and Angels had been the same gang. Something happened, some split in the leadership, and now they just existed to make the others' life hell.

Blacksheep turf began at a buffer zone where Demon and Angel activity mingled, often with bad results. In comparison to the two dominant gangs, they were practically handing out roses on the streets. None of them were particularly vicious, and they didn't seek conflict. A lot of the members were high school dropouts and twenty-something's considered disappointments to their parents. Small time thievery and light drug trafficking was their business. Other gangs considered Blacksheep a live barricade protecting them from the Angels and Demons, so no one ever fought them for territory. Aside from the occasional scuffle with an agitated Angel or drunk Demon, it was pretty peaceful. Just errands and broken machine parts and Sock suggesting yet again that he seek to become a Demon. Jonathan wished for those days back.

The crooked alley door slammed behind him, and he made his way to the overflowing dumpster pushed against the opposite wall. The bartender was gone the day after the dance incident, so he assumed that meant the guy was still breathing. Next to the dark, crumbling garage was a rusty old diner. All neon and lights late into the night, a dented stainless steel exterior and shiny booths upholstered in red marching across the huge windows. A real 50's feel, almost Nighthawks if it had been in a neo-apocalyptic neighborhood. Its fumes made living on one meal every two days difficult, but he'd discovered one grudging night that a backlog of burgers and fries built up each day and they dumped all that good food around ten when the shifts changed. Ridiculous amounts of waste. It was always in the same black garbage bag, and he could just slice it open and fish a few clean, hopefully warm slabs of meat from near the center.

The lid of the dumpster was open, but he could see that no fresh bag had been tossed yet, so he lit another cig and sat on the low step of the garage's side door to wait. Sock had gone somewhere to report to his boss or finish another hit. Something like that. He ate with other Demons, and didn't seem to notice the growling of Jonathan's stomach, which was how he wanted it. Didn't need him worrying over something stupid like that. The glass in his pocket was already a tiny amount of debt.

Jonathan pulled it out, balancing the cig on on lower lip to free up both hands. It had cleaned up nicely. It was a shot glass with a heavy bottom, a collector's edition piece from his favorite band, a small grunge group called Valhalla Soundbox. The five band members were printed across the glass in varying states of rock ecstasy, superimposed by their logo. He only heard them through the spotty radio on a station he didn't like, but listened to because the disc jockey occasionally threw them on. There were probably savvier fans who would have killed for the little thing in his hand, so while he was upset that Sock felt the need to get it for him, he couldn't help the little swell of joy between his shoulder blades. It almost made him want to smile. Almost.

His head snapped up when the door across the alley banged open. A bent back and draped apron ties were in the opening, and when they straightened he watched her flop of tied hair, which was dyed purple. She turned and threw a bulging bag into the dumpster with a strained grunt. Their eyes met for a short, judging moment. Then she went back inside, the door clicking behind her.

After a moment Jonathan made his way over and was just beginning to tear the plastic when the door opened again. The girl was watching him with another bag over her shoulder and wide eyes.

"What are you doing?"

He backed away quickly, her eyes burning his cheeks. Dirty clothes and sharp features. Caught like a raccoon. Her brows steepled.

"Were you going to eat that?"

He chomped on his cig and lied. The grill behind her hissed and his stomach echoed against the bricks.

"At least wait until I'm done."

The bag joined its fellows and the door clicked as she went in again. Jonathan settled onto his step, taking a calming drag, color high on his cheeks. When the door opened he stared at the cracks between his feet, but he didn't hear the smack of a new garbage bag. Instead, the dumpster lid snapped closed, and when he looked up she was gone and there was a paper plate balancing soggy french fries and a double-stacked condiment-free burger. He stared from the step for a minute, wondering if it was a hunger-induced hallucination, but when he stood and picked up the plate it was all still there. A cold crispy bun, two patties thoroughly soaked in fat, and a handful of fries gleaming with salt granules. The plate shook as he considered dumping it. He didn't need anybody's charity, for fuck's sake he was a man on his own. But the garbage was looking less appetizing by the minute. Eventually he dropped the cigarette butt and sullenly ate a few fries. No need to waste good food.

He planned it better the next time, waited until well after anyone would have taken out the trash, which sacrificed the possibility of lukewarm patties. To his great dismay there was a plate again, the fries and double burger, this time with a leaf of lettuce. Feeling ready to go Hulk, he gulped it all down and threw the paper plate at the diner's door. It made a dull thunk, and then the door inched open. Her face peered out at him, eyes observing his drawn brow, and then she opened it all the way.

"Come in." When he shook his head and backed away her lips pursed. "I can make you something fresh." Beyond her, in the kitchen, in the light, something sizzled and panted, and a blender whirred to life.

He walked away.

Despite his mental protestations, the plate of food kept appearing, sometimes with an additional side like a cookie or chips or a huge pickle. It felt weird to eat regularly, and he skipped more than one of the plates, in part to settle his churning stomach, but also in the faint hope that she might take it as a sign of rejection and stop. She didn't, and one night in the alley, his breath fog without a cig, staring blankly at the full plate on the icy dumpster lid, she opened the door again, just a crack, and he looked her straight in the eye. She tipped her head, then let him inside.

It looked just as picturesque and worn on the inside as the outside. The tile was squeaky clean, the counter and tabletops slick, stainless steel winding its way across pale linoleum and the sides of the red booths and stools. Though it tried its best to recall its original charm, spots of vague rust and warped marks made it clear that the building's glory days were over. Shoulders hunched and hands hiding in his jacket, Jonathan took a tentative seat at the edge of a stool, watching the girl kick a mop bucket aside behind the counter. It was empty save them. He wasn't sure if that made him feel any better.

"What do you want?"

Jonathan just shrugged, determined to speak as little as possible. In the light he could see a rectangular name tag pinned to her apron, the flowery font spelling out 'Lil'.

Lil hmmed, frowning. "Okay then, what you usually get."

She walked around the barrier between the grill and counter and it was quiet excepting the hissing hotplates. In record time there was a warm steaming meal in his face and a mug of black coffee in his periphery.

"I can't pay for anything," he admitted uncomfortably, fighting the blank hunger in his head.

"Doesn't matter," she pulled up a stool behind the counter and played with the cap of a salt shaker. "You see how much we throw out at the end of the day. You're doing us a favor, actually eating some of it fresh."

He poked a warm fry. "Won't your boss be angry, hearing you've been feeding a tramp or something?"

"God no, Providence wouldn't care. She might even be happy."

"Your boss's name is Providence?"

"Nah," she shook her head, still looking at the salt shaker. "If you don't call her Prov you call her Miss. I don't think anybody knows her real name. Bet it's something embarrassing, like Gertrude, or Betsy."

He munched quietly on a fry, ravenous for the burger, but oddly full just looking at it. "Providence is the name of the Angels' boss, you know."

She laughed, a nice sound, and looked at him through her bangs. "Are you trying to tell me you think my boss runs a gang?"

An embarrassed shrug. Who knows?

"Well I sure hope she doesn't. Angels like to string people from rafters, I don't get paid enough for that."

The conversation stopped once he finally began with the burger. It was so good fresh cooked, juice all over his tongue and the heat warming him from inside. He hadn't really noticed how cold it had become outside, but as more feeling returned to his body his fingers buzzed with the roiling acid eating at his stomach walls and soon all the food was gone. Lil had picked a mop up and begun to clean behind the counter and near the grill. She returned to find him clutching the coffee mug with a pensive frown.

"Hey." He looked up at her. "Do you need a job?"

He looked down at the coffee again. There wasn't really an answer for that.

"Prov is a nice lady. I'm sure she'd let you on. You live right across the alley, you could just pop in from time to time and clean or flip a few burgers, it's not that hard."

"Look." He pushed the half-empty coffee back to her, pretending he didn't see the disappointed line of her mouth. "Thanks for the food and everything, but I'm just fine. I've got other... things. Going on. I couldn't work if I wanted to."

She didn't stop him as he made his way to the back door, but he did honor one request.

"At least tell me your name."

He stopped just outside the door and ran a hand through his hair. "Jonathan."

Sock was gone for two days. Jonathan paced around the shop and wandered restlessly along the tagged line of their turf. If anything had happened to him Jonathan was at the point where he would find a nice fast bus and either lay down under it or hijack the thing straight into the nest of those Demon fuckers. When he did finally show up again, unscathed and cheery as normal, Jonathan gripped his shoulders.

"I've got to move, Sock." Too much was happening in this area. His sister somehow found him, the diner next door with food and Lil was singing a siren song, and the attack on Blacksheep territory was literally across the street.

"Okay," Sock said calmly. "Where?"

"I don't know, I don't know... Maybe it's time I visit Zack."

Zack Melto, the leader in this area, the guy that leant him the garage. He was always bringing his bike in and complaining about one thing or another ("It makes a funny noise."). There was never anything wrong with it. Jonathan dealt with it solely on the basis that the guy was football-huge and had control over his roof. Sometimes he came by with a pack of cigs and just made awkward conversation. If Jonathan wasn't such a loner he might have appreciated it.

That night he dug trenches in the concrete with his feet, circling around the support pole in the middle of the space. Sock sat on the bed and just watched him, flicking his switchblade open and closed with a shink so familiar it was almost comforting. Eventually he fell asleep, but Jonathan just crouched in the dark, a finger in the dust, head in a world of sisters and red upholstery.

The next day he was at the diner. He turned down food and instead picked up an apron.

She gestured to a mark on the chart, ignoring Sock leaning curiously on the counter.

"Here is where you put when you get in and out, just the time. Lie if you want, no one cares, just don't take advantage, because Prov will find out, and you really don't want to see what happens then." Some red pen in the margins. "These are the busiest times, so if you want to be useful you can pop in around then. Somebody else comes in at the same time as me, Jojo. Well, usually the same time. She's a little delinquent."

Jonathan nodded ditifully. Lil's was the graveyard shift, 9:30 pm to 1:00 am, or however long she could manage. It was a 24-hour diner, which meant it got some interesting characters. Like Sock for example, who was sipping a soda and absently spinning his knife on the counter.

"Does this mean you won't be around much, Jonathan?"

Jonathan shrugged. "It won't be too bad. I can pay you back for the glass."

"I don't need any pay back. I'm going to get so bored without you," he whined.

"Go kill someone or something, isn't that what you get paid to do?"

"What?" Lil's head popped out of the kitchen, brows raised to the ceiling.

"Nothing," they said in unison.

"You could get a job here too?" Jonathan suggested once Lil had gone again.

Sock shook his head on the counter, still spinning the closed switchblade. "I can't. She said Jojo works here."

"You know her?"

"If it's the same Jojo I'm thinking of, then I don't want to get face to face with her again." He noticed Jonathan's guarded expression and sighed heavily. "You kill two pets and suddenly she holds a lifelong vendetta against you."

"Hm."

"Yeah, and I bet she joined the Angels just to get at me. She was initiated even before I was. Last I heard she's doing pretty great, getting all that energy out on, I dunno, whatever poor unfortunate souls manage to get in her way. Old people, probably. And she's a cat person now, been luring all them out of Demon turf just to get at me. Joke's on her, there are still squirrels and dogs and raccoons and stuff."

Jonathan had tuned out long ago, used to Sock's vague background chatter, and turned back to his boyfriend when he sighed and pocketed the switchblade.

"I'll come back later, Jonathan."

Jonathan picked up his glass. "You didn't finish your soda."

A group of girls filtered through the door as Sock tried to leave. He just shook his head and waved a hand. He didn't want it.

The day went by fast, and Jonathan found it surprisingly easy to manage the grill and take orders at the same time. The diner's menu was pretty limited, just your staples: burgers, fries, coffee, soda, cookies, sundaes, and some specialty items that were mostly pre-made and in the fridge. Lil showed up as the sun set, told him he could break or even leave, but he just put on another brew of coffee and continued to man the counter. A herd of officers came in around ten, which had Jonathan jumpy and nervous that they might see into his head and arrest him. They didn't of course, just gossiped about the fire across the street and chugged several gallons of over-sugared coffee. Then they left a generous tip, and suddenly Jonathan was having conflicting feelings about the popo.

That Jojo girl made a show late in the night, eyeing him suspiciously and forcing Lil away from the grill. Lil took a stool and wiped sweat from her brow, looking positively exhausted.

"I'm trying to save up for college, ya know?" The bags under her eyes were darker than her coffee. "But it's so hard, I've been spending most of it on other things, like food and school supplies. I've got hardly nothing."

Jonathan shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away. "It's great that you know what you want to do though."

"Yeah..."

"You could always join up!" Jojo's voice struggled around the hissing of fat from the grill.

Lil puffed an amused sigh. "I'm too busy doing homework to join your little gang, Jojo."

A scoff. "Little gang."

He had to agree with Jojo on that. Lil must be too busy to fear the gangs controlling their area too.

Things carried on like that for awhile. He ran irregular shifts at the diner, angsted alone in the garage, continued with errands and mechanical jobs for the Blacksheep, but eventually he burned out. His first paycheck came with a note that told him to take a few days off. This Providence character hadn't shown her face while he was around, and he still didn't know her name. The check was simply signed 'Providence' and when he took it to the bank they accepted it without question.

Sock became less a feature and more a guest. When Jonathan wasn't looking, the smile dropped and his face filled with something akin to the fire his boss was famous for. He knew Jonathan wasn't ignoring him on purpose. He was just caught up in the whole job thing. The novelty would wear off eventually...

He flicked the blade open and closed. Snick. Snick.

Everything ended eventually.