[u][b]Down Came The Rain[/b][/u]

bomb_bag_Man:  Happening tonight 

Front_Line_452: Took your sweet time, kid. Was figuring out if you were still alive after the incident last Tuesday

bomb_bag_Man: fine

Front_Line_452: understatement

bomb_bag_Man: look, can we talk about what you need from me

Front_Line_452: you get the dirt on roxxon, I put the good word up to my boss to stop running headlines about u

bomb_bag_Man: u can’t do more? 

Front_Line: murder isn’t something that goes away in news cycles

Front_Line: especially the murder of a war vet and his wife

Front_Line_452: but they’re mosquitoes, kid, their MO 

bomb_bag_Man: don’t have to remind me about it

bomb_bag_man: just be there when it happens 

[hr]

It’s eight when Hobart Brown finally comes back home to the smell of microwaved Chinese food and rat shit in his apartment. His arms and legs feel ten pounds heavier and dropping his cleaner’s pack, half-full of dank grey water, doesn’t help. Ever since he took the window cleaning contract at Roxxon, sleepless nights and instant coffee packs have become a new reality for him. 

Ben was where he was usually, lazing on the couch, arms outstretched. His skin was sallow and his chin was horribly tangled and mussed with a stubble. The guy had insisted on closing all the blinds and making sure the windows were closed, mentioning some kind of sensitivity to light. His job involved prowling around at night all the time so it wasn’t all off-putting to him. The red tinted sunglasses covering his eyes didn’t reassure Hob that he was some kind of Nosferatu, waiting to suck out his blood at night. 

However, as quiet and mysterious as the guy was, he paid his rent on time. Plus, he did all of the cooking and whipped him up a stack of bonafide east-side wheatcakes one morning when he was late to work. He always did his laundry, did his share of the chores, never left garbage like his prior roommates and was all around a pretty swell guy. His dad taught him to never ask unnecessary questions and Hob wasn’t the landlord. If there weren’t any problems, then, he didn’t need to create any problems. 

“ Hey.” Ben craned his neck and lifted his arm, something silver glinting in the faint light. “Found that key you were looking for. It was under the couch.” 

“ God, thanks, man. “ Hob said in audible relief “  Owe you a solid for this.”

He reached his hand out to touch Ben’s shoulder in gratitude. Ben fidgeted as soon as his fingers neared his shoulder. Shit, he should have remembered. Another one of his quirks. One time, he had brushed the man’s shoulder and the man leapt to the other side of the room. It reminded Hob of all the times he had played with magnets in physics class, when the two opposite ends were against each other. Him and Ben were like that. Hob had learnt to accept it quickly, thoug. He’d written it off as probably something to do with his health condition. 

“Sorry, it’s just –“ 

“ It’s fine. It’s fine,” Ben said, breath slightly quick. Hob walked to the kitchen counter, opening the fridge. Before then, it 

“ Sure I can’t ask you to stay on for another month?,” Hob asked quietly, not wanting to let any sense of desperation probe into the question. His contract with Roxxon was soon due to expire and finding another high-paying contract to keep up with the rising rent was a bitch. The news about Stark Robotics developing another new automated gizmo to replace window washers was only the salt in the wound. His dad wouldn’t stop crowing about that any time soon whenever he went for family's gatherings at Ira's place. 

“ Sorry, Hob. The gig’s on the West Side. It’d take two hours for me to reach work and….” Ben’s voice stumbled and a note of something entered it. Sympathy?  “If you need an extension…..” 

So, it was sympathy. Something about Ben’s tone made Hob’s gut coil in anger. It wasn’t ill-meaning but he had heard it a dozen times at family dinners and catch-up with friends. A storm of good lucks, sorries and that sucks rolled into one pile of fetid uselessness. He was the blue-collar worker of his family, the one still working 8 to 8’s while everyone worked a classical 9 to 5. 

“ Nah, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” 

The small apartment became silent, punctuated by the sound of Hob scraping his spoon against the rim of his cereal-filled bowl and the television. He only paid half-attention to the news as he stared at the hundreds of unread messages on his OsPhone. Water bills, loans, college applications, a dozen small knives hovering over his head everyday. His eyes flicked back to the newscaster who was reporting something about the anniversary dinner that were holding for the Fisk Foundation. The titular man himself was there as well and Hob often found it surprising that the podium didn't immediately collapse under his immense weight. 

"Say, how’s the traffic near Roxxon Plaza looking?” 

“Crazy. Out of staters are funneling out this weekend.” Hob said absentmindedly.  “Cops are having a headache with this new vigilante out there. You oughta be careful out there.”

“ I’m sure I’ll be fine.”