(anon, I am so, so, sorry, this has so little to do with your prompt; in my defense someone looked at this and said ANGELS CHOKING ON THEIR HALOS and I went OH, NO and this was the result. please accept my sincerest apologies and also holy water)

You learn to stop loving the summer nights.

You're quick-twitching, lightning-veined, moving from rooftop to rooftop like there's springs in your heels. (You've heard of another man, another legend with something like that in his name—but that's a different city, a different story, and you're not the villain of this one, you're not, you're not.)

You learn to stop loving the summer nights, because they're the buzzcrackle of light, they're electric and brilliant and strung across the rivershore like Heaven itself has built its kingdom on this island; they're places where the sun has gone down but hasn't quite died, where the light is vanished but the heat remains. They're places where the city is full up with warmth, and laughter, and love, love, love—

But when it's cold there's fewer men in alleys; when it's cold there are fewer muggings, fewer gunshots. When it's cold the city is quiet. You can go for hours without moving from your post, curled up on a fire escape, huffing wet warm steam onto your fingers.

You learn to stop loving the summer nights. After a while.

This night is a warm night, and there's a man with a knife. Later, there's a man without a knife. You throw the knife into a corner – you've got no use for it – and throw the man into another, unconscious and bound. You'll take him to the police station later, before he wakes up. For now, the city's wide, there's places to be—

There's someone standing behind you.

His breathing's slow, regular; his heartbeat's a dull, steady thump. You didn't hear him come into the alley. You must've been distracted by the man with the knife.

He says, "Hello."

You're already in motion.

First to him—kick to kneecaps, again to solar plexus, chop to throat—then fire escape, brick, up, away. One rooftop, another; you decide to make your way down after those two, use a drainpipe to guide your way along the brick to the ground.

He's there.

There's breathing, heavy. His heart is hammering in his chest. He says, “Don't run away. Please—I just want to talk to you.”

You say, "Who are you."

He says, "A friend. I swear."

Boots scrape on cement; he's fairly light, tall. He's gotten his breath back quicker than you'd expected. “A friend,” he says again. “I promise.”

"I don't have friends I've never met before," you say.

"Then I'm your first," he says. "Really, I'm not here to hurt you. I'm just here to talk."

He's close enough to touch you, now. You take a step back. "So talk.”

He says, “I'm a businessman. I have a proposition for you. No,” he must have seen you tense, “no, I know you've had dealings with certain businessmen. I'm not with them. I'm not," and the shape of his vowels changes, a smile. "I'm not like them. I hope so, anyway. I've been operating in Hell's Kitchen for years. I don't have grandiose dreams for it. I'm certainly not running an organized crime ring.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” you say, dry.

“I'm glad you're glad,” he says. “Maybe you're glad enough that you won't try to break my knees again?” There's a laugh in his voice.

“We'll see,” you say.

"All right," he says, "fair enough. I did startle you.” He pauses; you can feel him looking at you. “It's a nice night – I'd hate to spend it hiding in an alley. How about we walk and talk?”

You take alleys, side streets, keep out of sight as much as you can. Your new friend moves quick; no matter how much you hasten the pace, he never seems winded. Your mind flickers to how quickly he made it from one alley to another—he certainly didn't follow you over the rooftops. He must be faster than you. How much faster, you don't know.

“How did you know where to find me,” you say.

He snorts a little laugh. “Who says I did? For all you know I've been standing around in likely alleyways for the last three months.”

“Then you wanted to find me very badly.”

“Badly enough,” he admits. “I admire your work. I think you—” He pauses, sighs. “I like your philosophy. The hands-on attitude of it all. Doing what you believe to be right in a meaningful way. You're the kind of person I'd like to know better.”

“Why?”

“Because you seem like a good connection? Because I might want to work with you in the future? Because I'd like to get to know you better, I suppose,” and there's a little laugh, warm and self-deprecating. "Because I like you. Who doesn't like you, at this point? You're doing good. Everyone wants to be friends someone who's doing good.”

You've reached the river; you can hear it lapping against the sand. There's a strip along the shore where two people can walk together, and you turn onto it. “So you want to make a business connection.”

“Sure, if you want to ignore all those nice compliments I just paid you,” he says. “A business connection.”

The night is warm; next to the water, the air is humid. You can hear cars rushing past on the highway. Somewhere behind them, someone is probably screaming.

“So what do you want from me,” you say.

“Only a small thing,” he says. "Nothing that'll cost you anything. In the future, maybe, we can figure out something more. Right now, though, my priority is to find out if we have interests in common. To see if I can do anything for you.”

“Do anything for me,” you say.

“I want,” the man says, “to make a deal.”

You're silent.

“The deal is this,” the man says. “I have certain—skills. They allow me to place Hell's Kitchen under a certain level of protection.”

Your shoulders stiffen. “You are a mob boss.”

“No!” he says. “No, certainly not. Not that sort of protection. Not the kind where I keep every criminal away except those in my pocket.” He sniffs. “Under my protection there would be no crime at all. No muggers, no junkies. No hired thugs showing up to smash in the walls of good women.”

“You can't promise that,” you say.

“I assure you,” he says, “I can.”

“How,” you say. “You have a private army? You have senators in your pocket? You station thugs on every street corner?”

The man pauses for a long few moments. “I suppose you saw a lot of—unusual things, when the aliens came out of the sky,” he says, eventually.

You let the saw slide. “Yes,” you say. “Yes, I did.”

“All right,” says the man. “Then think of me as—unusual protection. And trust me, I will be just as effective as the aliens were.”

“And what would you ask in return,” you say, sharp and sarcastic. “Only a few million dollars? Only a seat on the city council? Only a deal for your friends to have the ear of the New York Senate—”

“Nothing so petty,” he says, insulted. “Nothing like that at all. More of—a contract. A symbolic bargain. I would agree to put Hell's Kitchen under my protection, and in return you would agree to—” He hums, low.

“Agree to?” you say.

“Well,” he says, “as a symbol, you understand—to give it to me, I suppose. To pass it formally from your ownership to mine. So that my protection can be real and complete.”

“I don't own this city,” you say, genuinely surprised.

A small snort of laughter from the man. “You'd be shocked how these things are figured.”

“And this is part of your—unusual protection? Owning the city?” You hear him clear his throat, hold your hand up. “As a symbol. You said that part”

“It is,” he says. “Part of the rules—I didn't make them. You'd have to hand it over to me. And then, when I owned it, I'd be able to make it as safe as you wanted. No murders, no robberies, no junkies shooting up on street corners.”

“I'd be out of a job,” you say.

“Well, you'd think you'd want to be out of a job,” says the man, sounding mildly astonished. “It doesn't seem like the kind of job you'd like to do forever. It's not as if there's particularly good publicity—I still remember the newspapers from last year.” He pauses. “And—with all due respect—it's not as if you're a particularly effective solution to this problem.”

You don't say anything.

“Or,” says the man, and now he's a little closer to you on the path, as you walk. “Or, if you would like, there could be a place for you even after the city was under my protection. You could keep on doing what you do now. More effectively, even. We'd have to put it into the contract somehow—you'd work at my behest, I suppose, or you'd exchange ownership of yourself along with the city—but it could work.”

“Go back to ownership of the city,” you say. “You said I'd be surprised at how it was figured. How is it figured? How can I own it? Doesn't it own itself?”

There's a long pause from the man. Then he says, “Think of it as—oh, think of it like this, if it's easier. My beloved is mine, and I am his; he browses among the lilies.”

You can't speak.

“Or, ah, among the hot dog stands,” says the man. “As it were.”

For some time, the only noise is your footsteps on the path along the river. The wind's cooled; the air is muggy, hot and still. You listen to the man's heartbeat, next to yours. It's steady and strong. Either he's telling the truth, or he believes himself so strongly that it doesn't matter.

“How long have you been looking for me?” you say. “Standing around in alleyways.”

“I've been looking for someone like you a long, long time,” he says. “Longer than you'd believe.”

“And you want me to hand over this city to you? I don't even know your name.”

“I usually make people guess, traditionally speaking,” he says, and laughs. “But it's not as if my name has very much to do with our deal, does it? Either I can keep this city safe or I can let it go. That's up to you.” He pauses. “And you do want to keep it safe. Don't you?”

You do.

“Good,” he says, though you've said nothing. “Good, I thought so.” There's a pause. “Shall we shake on it?”

He must be holding his hand out. You extend yours—