A/N: Why am I writing at 1 am, I should be sleeping, ahahaha... That last section kinda got away from me, that wasn't part of the plan, but I'm pretty happy with it.

Your name is Claire Stanfield and you hate these damn things on your hands. Part of you wonders why they exist at all.

Of course, you know the answer to that. It's because you made them. Just like everything else.

But really, you wonder about gloves sometimes. You can't feel with gloves on, can't touch properly, gauge temperature or texture or anything else.

But Luck asked you to wear them for some reason, so wear them you shall, because that makes Luck happy, and if there's a chance that you wearing gloves can make Luck actually smile (not that fake, professional one that he always wears, but the smile he had when you were children) then you'll do it.

Even though you hate them.

A lot.

Your name is Claire Stanfield and you just got very well acquainted with one of the most interesting bastards you've ever seen.

This guy was big – almost bigger than any before him – but everyone knows that they bigger they are, the harder they fall, and you thought you knew just the trick for this one.

He was good, too. If you didn't already know you were gonna win, you might've been worried there for a minute. If you were someone else, the poor mooks left with cleanup duty would be scraping you off the tracks with basically everyone else on the train in the morning.

But you aren't someone else. You're Claire Stanfield, and you're invincible.

You kinda felt bad about using that dame of his to get him to jump, but you knew it would work, and he had just finished trying to kill the doll you were keen on, and you couldn't have that. Besides, you knew that pretty blonde thing would be okay. Mister White-Suit Russo would make sure of that, even if he didn't survive.

You liked him, though, so you knew he'd live, and you knew you'd see him again.

Your name is Claire Stanfield, and the freak show just keeps getting better.

This one was also blonde. You didn't know you had a thing for blondes, but this is turning into a bit of a pattern, so that's fine, you guess.

This one also had blue eyes.

And this one could also kill you, if you were anyone but you.

Interesting, how often you've been putting yourself in these situations, having to rescue the girl of your dreams (and days and nights and thoughts and not-thoughts and everything else) from stupidly strong, blue-eyed blondes from Chicago.

The first one at least knew what he was talking for. This one just talked. And talked. And talked. And then talked some more. It was like he just said every thought that went through his head. People that didn't know when to shut up were irritating, but people that didn't know how to shut up were fun.

Your name is Claire Stanfield and you're alone (truly alone, without distractions and people and jobs to do) with her for the first time since you were on top of that train, all covered in blood and running on pure adrenaline and surrounded by distractions and people and jobs to do.

Oddly, this feels similar. Your heart is beating quick, light in your chest and you can't stop grinning this odd grin that isn't quite like anything you can remember feeling on your face before. You're thrumming with restless energy that needed to be spent, but somehow you couldn't bring yourself to move away from her.

This is the first time you've felt this way without doing a job for someone (mostly your brothers) or knowing that there were tens of thousands of people below, watching your every move and marveling at the man that could fly. You guess that's why this is the first one you actually wanted to say yes.

The fingers of one hand are running through her dark hair (a little course, like she never really put much work into taking care of it) and this is why you refuse to wear gloves. You drag your thumb across her cheekbone (her skin is as soft as her hair isn't, you can feel every little nuance of it if you pay attention) and you think she looks like a deer or a cat who isn't sure how to react, but her mouth isn't all tensed and tight and bared teeth like she thinks she should attack, so that's a good thing.

You don't remember this right now but she's the only person you've ever been this close to without fighting, pulling, ripping, tearing, thinking of new and fun ways of making sure they never got up again.

Without really thinking, you lean forward and bite her ear, just lightly, and slide your hand further into her hair, fingertips digging gently into her skull and your cheek pressed against hers, and she makes this little... sound. A gasp, you guess, but it didn't feel quite the same, and you can hear the pulse under her skin, heavy and uneven. For some reason that you don't feel like figuring out, you want to hear that little hitch of breath again, so you flick your tongue over the spot you bit, and it works.

As her hands work themselves into fists in her dress or your shirt, as you keep looking for ways to hear anything you can from this beautiful woman who can't speak, you figure out that this is perfection, and you wonder why it took you so long to make it happen.