Jason wishes he was more than this walking tragedy ─ stumbling, tentative, limping home from another loud night on the streets. Knuckles worn to blood. He wanted to turn soft and lovely any time he had the chance; but no chance seemed to present itself. Tyche was laughing in his face. He'd had enough of that in a rundown warehouse when he was fifteen.

With you, he could forget the anger. He didn't know where to go or who to be before you ─ when you came along, he knew to go to you. It was like that dumb '70s song by Diana Ross. Nothing seemed to keep you from him, nor him from you. He knew he wanted to be someone you could love ─ but more than that, someone worthy of your love, because he knew you were too sweet to care about that.

So when the fear surged or the anger spiked, he tried to find you ─ in the sparkle of a distant star or the hum of a passerby. When that didn't work, he climbed your fire escape at three in the morning and fell back-down onto the pretty French tiles of your balcony. You always seemed to be awake.

Tonight, you'd happened to be right there ─ cigarette in hand (Jason didn't like it, but he put up with it ─ you were too responsible to let it turn into an addiction) and gaze immediately fixed on his battered form. As he tugged his helmet off, he raised a pathetic arm in greeting. "Hey. Great night for a climb."