Chapter Text
Jack winced as he poured the hydrogen peroxide over his ribs.
He had spent the last hour picking shards of glass out of his skin from last night's patrol. Resting his head against the bathroom mirror, he pressed a wad of gauze to the wound. Blood seeped through almost instantly.
He clicked his tongue in annoyance and reached for another piece.
The apartment was silent except for the steady drip of the bathroom faucet and the occasional hiss whenever antiseptic met his open wound. Empty bandage wrappers littered the sink, and in the corner lay a bloodstained sweatshirt he'd refused to take off all day. It was easier to pretend the injury didn't exist. Tonight, though, pretending wasn’t an option.
Before wrapping the bandage around his side, he ran his fingers carefully around the wound one last time.
The lower half was clear. Relief settled in his chest.
His fingers continued upward. They stopped about an inch from the top.
Something sharp caught against his fingertip.
“...Fuck.”
Reaching for the tweezers again, he pinched the shard as tightly as he could. It refused to move. He tightened his grip and pulled harder.
A sharp, burning pain shot through his side, forcing the breath from his lungs.
His jaw clenched, holding back another string of curses. A second later, the piece of glass slipped free and hit the sink with a quiet ting.
Without hesitating, he poured the hydrogen peroxide over the wound again.
The burning wasn't any easier the second time, but it was necessary. He pressed a fresh square of gauze over the cuts and began wrapping the bandage tightly around his torso, each pull making his ribs protest.
He'd barely wrapped the bandage twice before a sharp ping came from the kitchen.
The police scanner crackled from the counter in the next room.
“...Units responding to reports of an armed robbery in progress…”
His hands froze.
“Suspect believed to be carrying a handgun…”
He stared down at the half-finished bandage hanging loosely from his side before letting out a quiet sigh.
The dispatcher continued.
“Repeat suspect believed to be carrying a handgun.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, “I heard you.”
“... corner of East Mercer and Fifth. Civilians are still inside of the convenience store. Officers are approximately eleven minutes out.”
Eleven minutes allowed him seven.
He tightened the bandage another turn around his ribs, pulling just hard enough to slow the bleeding without making it impossible to breathe.
With one final strip of tape, he secured the bandage and tried moving around experimentally. A sharp ache shot through his ribs, forcing him to grit his teeth.
One good hit there and he wouldn't be saving anyone tonight. The bandages would have to hold.
Six minutes. No time to rewrap.
He walked across the apartment to another black sweatshirt, still dirty but not soaked through with blood. He clicked his belt into place and slipped on his gloves.
His mask sat on the bathroom floor, bunched up near last night’s clothes. He winced bending down to grab it. Every breath reminded him why tonight was going to suck.
After putting his mask on, he looked at himself for a brief moment in the mirror. He lifted the hem of his sweatshirt to see the fresh bandages already beginning to stain red.
He stared for a second. There wasn’t time to fix it.
Five minutes.
He adjusted his mask, pulled up his hood, and headed for the door.
The apartment door hadn’t even finished swinging shut before Jack was already moving. His shoes pounded against the concrete stairwell, each step sending a sharp reminder of the night before.
He ignored it.
By the time he arrived at the final landing, he already knew his route.
High Street to Second. A left turn on Second Street would take him straight to East Mercer and Fifth.
Four minutes.
Cool night air hit him as he burst onto the sidewalk. Streetlights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the empty roads. His pace never faltered.
Every shortcut felt automatic now. His body had learned, long before any of this, how to move without being seen. He slipped through alleys and side streets without slowing, never once questioning where they'd lead.
Every stride tugged at the fresh bandages beneath his sweatshirt. Warmth spread slowly across his side, but there wasn't time to think about whether the wound had opened again.
Three minutes.
A stray cat darted out of a dumpster as he cut through another alley, then vanished into the dark.
He lengthened his stride despite his ribs’ protest.
The fluorescent lights of the convenience store came into view, bright against the otherwise sleeping city. As he reached the next intersection, the street sign confirmed what he already knew.
Second Street.
The faster he arrived, the longer he'd have before the police flooded the scene
Two minutes.
He slowed for the first time since leaving the apartment.
The store sat on the far end of the parking lot. Four cars were parked in the front, one being a black car, idling by the entrance.
Two men stood outside. One leaned against the driver's side door, cigarette glowing between his fingers, gaze somewhere else entirely. The other paced a slow, restless line across the pavement, a handgun held low at his side, eyes flicking to every shadow like he expected something to move.
His own eyes shifted towards the front windows. There was movement towards the front counter. Shadows of criminals and civilians flashed in and out of his view. He'd have to act fast if he wanted to save them.
If he had another five minutes, he would deal with the men outside first. He didn’t. The people inside were in danger now.
He circled the building, staying just outside the pool of light spilling across the pavement. The back entrance opened into a narrow alley, just as he'd hoped.
He looked at the handle and took a breath. Even that small motion sent pain lancing down his side.
His hand settled on the door. He pressed his ear against it.
Voices. Unintelligible, but loud enough for him to understand what was going on. A man was yelling. A child was crying. The faint sound of glass breaking muffled its way through the door.
He'd heard enough. The handle turned beneath his hand.
The door opened just wide enough for him to slip inside.
The store was dark, lit only by the glow of the sign out front bleeding through the windows. The aisles were stacked with boxes, their shadows stretching long across the concrete floor.
Voices drew him to the front of the store.
“I said open the damn safe!”
“I’m trying!” the cashier stammered, hands fumbling with the lock behind the counter.
Jack eased to the corner and looked through the gap.
Three robbers. The one behind the register kept his gun trained on the cashier’s back, tapping his fingers against the counter in a quick, impatient rhythm every few seconds. A second swept cartons of cigarettes into a duffel bag, glass crunching under his boots with every step, muttering something to himself that Jack couldn't make out. The third stood in front of the hostages, gun drifting lazily from face to face, unhurried, like he was enjoying himself.
Beyond the last man, a mother and her son, and a young man who looked to be in his twenties, jaw tight, eyes tracking every movement in the room like he was looking for an opening.
Jack slipped into the nearest aisle, crouching behind an end cap. None of the robbers looked his way.
“We’ve got maybe three minutes,” the man behind the register barked. “Open it.”
The one guarding the hostages turned towards his partner.
It was only a second, but it was plenty of time for Jack.
He crossed the distance with three silent steps.
One arm locked around the man’s throat. The other hand clamped over his mouth before he could shout.
The man’s eyes went wide. He thrashed violently, clawing at Jack's arm as he was dragged backward into the aisle. His elbow slammed into the shelving, sending boxes crashing to the floor.
The handgun slipped from his grip and skidded across the tile.
Jack wrenched his arm free from the man’s hands and drove an elbow into the side of his head. The struggle stopped.
He caught his breath for only a moment before kicking the pistol beneath the lowest shelf, out of reach.
“Everything alright back there Rick?” one of the men called from the front.
No response.
Jack turned to the young man, who had seen everything.
They held each other's gaze for only a second before Jack pointed to the back exit.
“Can you move?” Jack said just above a whisper.
The boy hesitated, then gave a quick nod.
“Good.”
Jack glanced towards the others. The mother clutched her son so tightly the boy could barely move.
“Get them to the alley,” Jack said. “Use the back door.”
“What about-”
“Rick?” The voice up front was sharper this time.
‘Go. Now,” Jack mouthed.
He didn't wait to see if they listened. His eyes were already back on the men working in front of him.
The young man reached the mother and her son, murmured something low enough for only her to hear, and guided them toward the exit. They moved slowly, trying to keep their footsteps quiet.
They almost made it. Almost.
One of the robbers rounded the counter. His eyes landed on Rick’s unconscious body. Jack could see his eyes darting over the man. First to his head, where a pool of blood was forming on the floor. Then to his holster and hands, that were empty.
“...What the hell?”
Then his eyes found Jack at the end of the aisle.
His hand gun snapped upward. Jack threw himself behind the nearest shelf. The gunshot tore through the store.
Glass exploded from the refrigerator behind him, showering the floor with shards that caught the light from outside.
Another shot.
The bullet pierced through the shelving inches above his head, sending merchandise falling onto the floor.
Jack twisted deeper behind his cover. Pain ripped through his ribs, warmth spreading beneath the bandages.
He risked a glance towards the back door. The young man had reached the door, shoving it open and slipping through the gap. The mother and her son were close behind.
“They’re getting away!” one of the robbers shouted.
He broke into a sprint, straight for the pair in the doorway.
The little boy froze. His mother pulled at his arm, but he wouldn’t move.
Jack met the child’s eyes.
“Go!”
The boy flinched. Before he could bolt, the young man turned back and scooped him up, exiting the store with the boy and his mother.
The back door swung shut. The robber lunged after them, but Jack cut him off before he reached it.
They collided hard enough to send a full display crashing across the floor.
The robber recovered first.
Before Jack could find his footing, both hands slammed into his chest.
Metal shelving crashed into his back, the corner of it driving directly into his bandaged ribs.
Every ounce of air left his lungs as the robber shoved him harder.
His ribs screamed. Jack could feel something tear open beneath the bandages. Warm blood immediately soaked into the already full gauze.
Jack tried to push back, but his arms barely moved. The robber slammed him into the shelving again. His knees gave out, the man’s grip on his sweatshirt was the only thing keeping his upright.
A strangled gasp escaped him as another wave of pain rolled through his chest. Every breath felt like dragging broken glass into his lungs.
The robber laughed.
“Thought you were supposed to be tough. Not even putting up a fight. Pathetic.”
Jack swung. The punch never landed. Pain ripped through his ribs halfway there, and his arm faltered. The robber caught his wrist and slammed him into the shelving again.
A cry escaped before Jack could stop it. His vision narrowed, the edges of the room going dark. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
The robber's forearm crushed against his throat.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
Jack couldn't breathe. His lungs refused to fill.
He planted his foot and twisted. Pain exploded through his side violently enough to bring tears to his eyes.
He drove the point of his elbow upward.
The robber stumbled backward with a shout, one hand flying to his face.
Jack collapsed onto one knee, dragging in a shaky breath that did nothing to satisfy his lungs.
His hand clamped instinctively around his ribs. It came away wet. Blood. So much blood.
“Cops!”
The shout snapped him back to the convenience store.
Another voice answered immediately.
“I’m going to the car! Take care of the kid and meet us out there. I don't care if you leave Rick, but if you don't get out here fast, we're leaving without the both of you!”
Red and blue lights flooded the front windows.
The robber glared down at Jack.
For a moment the robber just stared at him. Blood stained Jack’s side, his breathing was ragged, and he could barely stay on one knee.
“You got lucky, kid.”
He shoved Jack backward one last time before turning and sprinting toward the entrance.
The front door slammed open. Then shut.
Silence settled over the store, swallowing Jack from his place on the ground. He took a breath and tried to stand. Neither came easily. His ribs refused.
His fingers dug into the tile. He pushed himself up onto one knee. The room tilted. He caught himself on the shelving before he could fall.
Outside, car doors slammed. Boots pounded across the pavement. There was yelling and crackling radios.
Jack had seconds.
His head snapped toward the back of the store. He forced himself upright, pain screaming through his ribs.
He pressed a hand to his side and stumbled toward the back exit, slipping through it just as he had at the start of the fight.
The mother sat on the ground, her son wrapped tightly in her arms. The young man knelt beside them, looking up the moment Jack appeared.
“You-”
Jack continued walking. He didn't look at them. He pulled his hood lower and disappeared deeper into the maze of alleyways before anyone could say another word.
Behind him, the police flooded into the convenience store. Jack didn't stop running until the sirens faded behind him.
His pace slowed to a stagger. He kept turning down alleys until he was sure no one from the scene would find him. Only then did he stop.
One hand caught the wall beside him before his knees could. Cold brick pressed against his shoulder.
He squeezed his eyes shut. His breathing was loud in the quiet alley, each breath catching halfway through his chest, forcing him to fight for the next one. For a few seconds, all he could hear was his own heartbeat.
The fight replayed behind his eyelids.
The sneak attack. The civilians escaping. The fight with the second robber. Then the cops, and the men fleeing, leaving the cashier behind the counter and Jack the only ones left in the store.
His eyes snapped open.
“God damn it.”
The cashier. How could he forget to get him out? He'd been so consumed with his own injuries, his own survival, that the only man had slipped his mind entirely.
Jack pushed himself off of the wall.
“I left him.”
He turned back toward the opening of the alley, already taking a step toward the store.
Pain hit him before his foot touched the ground. It felt as if someone had driven a knife between his ribs.
His leg buckled. He caught himself on the wall before he hit the pavement. A strangled gasp tore out of him.
“Fuck,” Jack breathed.
He stayed there for a long moment, forehead against the brick.
His breathing came fast and shallow. The adrenaline was gone, and now his body was facing every injury he'd spent the night ignoring.
His hand drifted beneath the hem of his sweatshirt. He pressed gently against the bandages and frowned. The glove was too thick to feel much beyond the wetness soaking through.
Keeping one hand braced against the wall, he caught the fingertip of his glove between his teeth and tugged it free.
His fingers trembled as he slid them beneath the sweatshirt again.
This time they sank straight into warmth. He was touching skin, and the cuts covering his side. The bandages must have slipped. The pressure of his own fingertips made the wound sting.
He pulled his hand back into the light.
Dark red blood covered his fingertips, running through the creases of his palm before dripping silently onto the concrete.
Jack stared at the ground. The shelf must have torn everything open again.
His fingers curled into a fist. He needed to get to the cashier. Jack took another step toward the street, but his body could barely function. Another bolt of pain tore through his side.
He looked toward the glow of flashing lights reflecting off nearby buildings. The police were there now. Ambulances too, if they were needed.
The cashier hadn’t been shot. If he had any injuries, they were likely minimal. Going back would only add chaos to an already crowded scene.
Jack closed his eyes.
“It's okay.”
Whether he was talking to the cashier or trying to convince himself, he wasn't sure.
He pulled the glove on with shaking fingers and pushed himself off the wall one last time. Every step hurt. Every breath was a reminder of the metal shelving that had driven into his side. But, he kept walking.
One alley became another as the flashing lights disappeared behind him. Still, though, the image of the cashier standing behind the register refused to leave his mind.