S5 Episode Seven: "Double-Life Dilemma"

Lance knew he was cutting it close.

Despite countless reminders to be ready for his date with Melody, he'd gotten distracted from getting ready. The irony wasn't lost on him: he could track a dozen criminal operations simultaneously, but couldn't manage to put on a dress shirt without his mind wandering to patrol routes and threat assessments.

On one hand, he was grateful for the field kits they'd designed when dealing with House 21: light on gear, they meshed well under street clothes, protective yet easily concealed his identity.

On the other hand, he cursed them for being so easy to grab as he'd left headquarters, having just confirmed his intent to be at Giovanni's at 7:00 PM.

He, of all people, should have known better than to tempt fate.

All of these thoughts and more flashed through his mind as he caught the man's wrist before the knife could complete its arc toward the terrified cashier... and immediately regretted it.

Pain exploded through his left shoulder, where the Basilisk's claws had torn into him nine days ago. The lacerations were healing, but slowly, and every sharp movement reminded him exactly where each one was. He gritted his teeth and twisted the attacker's wrist anyway, forcing the blade to clatter to the floor.

"Bad choice," he managed, though his voice came out tighter than intended.

The would-be robber, barely in his twenties, all nervous energy and desperation, struggled, and Lance had to adjust his grip to avoid aggravating his fractured ribs. The final diagnosis from O.R.A.C.L.E. had been four to six weeks of rest. That had been just over a week ago. 

Rest wasn't an option.

He pinned the man against the convenience store counter, feeling every inch of the bruising that covered his right shoulder, a dark reminder of just how close he'd come to not walking away from that fight.

"Cops are a few minutes out," Lance said, keeping his voice low and controlled despite the way his chest screamed at him with each breath. 

"You're going to stay right here, and you're going to think real hard about whether this was worth it."

"Man, I just needed…"

"I don't care what you needed. You don't get to hurt people because you have problems."

Lance could hear sirens in the distance. The laceration across his chest pulled as he shifted his weight.

"We all have problems."

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He'd been ignoring it for the past twenty minutes: first the situation with the fire escape collapse on Seventh Street, which had required him to catch a falling teenager and had nearly made him pass out from the pain in his ribs, then this. Just this one thing, he'd told himself. Just stop this one robbery, and then he could leave, could make it to the restaurant only a little late.

Except now his phone was buzzing again, and the kid was still struggling, and the cashier, an older woman with kind eyes, looked like she might pass out from fear, and Lance's ribs were sending sharp spikes of agony through his torso every time he breathed.

"Ma'am, are you okay?" Lance asked, keeping his grip firm despite how much his shoulder protested.

She nodded shakily. 

"Thank you. Thank you so much. He came out of nowhere..."

The sirens were getting closer. Lance could see the blue and red lights starting to paint the street outside. But he also saw the time glowing on the security monitor behind the counter: 7:38.

No. No, no, no.

"Are you one of them?" the cashier asked. "One of the Vigilantes?"

Lance didn't answer. He was calculating: if he left right now, the cops would take over. If traffic wasn't too bad and if he could drive without his ribs making him see stars...

His phone buzzed again. He knew without looking that it was Melody. Knew what she was going to say. Knew he deserved every word of it.

He grabbed the zip cuffs from his gear and bound the robber, then slipped out the back door just as the squad of N.A.P.D. vehicles screeched to a halt outside the store.

The alley was dark and empty. Lance pulled off his mask, and the cool evening air hit the sweat on his face. His hands were shaking slightly: adrenaline crash mixing with pain and the knowledge of what he was about to hear when Melody answered her phone.

Four missed calls. Three texts, each one shorter than the last:

Lance, I'm at Giovanni's…

Where are you?

I'm leaving.

He hit her name, listened to it ring once, twice...

"Melody, I am so sorry..."

"Where are you?"

Her voice was controlled, but he could hear everything underneath it. The hurt. The anger. The exhaustion of being disappointed one too many times.

"Something came up at work… an emergency… I tried to get away, but…"

The words felt hollow even as he said them, the same excuse he'd used a dozen times before, each one true in the most literal sense and a complete lie in every way that mattered. His left shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a reminder of exactly what "work emergency" really meant.

"Work. At 7:45. On a Friday night."

"I know how it sounds..."

"Do you, Lance? From where I'm sitting, I am starting to think that you don't understand… that you aren't actually interested in this. In US."

Lance leaned against the brick wall... carefully, because even that much contact sent pain radiating through his bruised shoulder. Through the mouth of the alley, he could see the police loading the would-be robber into their cruiser. Twenty feet away, that woman was safe because he'd been there. She'd go home to her family, tell them about the scary thing that almost happened.

And Melody would go home alone, tell herself this was the last time she'd let him disappoint her.

"That's not true, Melody. You have to believe me, I want to be there…"

"Wanting to be here and actually being here aren't the same, Lance." Her voice cracked slightly. "I'm going home."

"Wait, don't… I can be there in twenty minutes… Just…"

Even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. Every breath was agony. He could barely stand upright. The cut on his cheekbone was definitely bleeding now; he could feel it trickling down toward his jaw.

The line went dead.

Lance stood there for a long moment, phone still pressed to his ear, listening to the silence where Melody's voice had been. His vision blurred slightly at the edges; pain or exhaustion or the weight of losing something he wasn't sure he'd ever really had.

He pocketed his phone and pushed off the wall, immediately regretting it as his ribs reminded him exactly how not-healed they were.

"All clear on this side of the city," Adam's voice came through the earpiece he was wearing. "How about yours?"

Lance steadied himself against the wall, forcing his breathing to even out before he answered. 

"Yeah... I'm all good..."

It was the same lie he'd been telling himself for months. That he could have both. That he could keep the city safe and keep the people he cared about close. That wanting it badly enough would somehow make it possible. That he could do this job while his body was still knitting itself back together from the last time he'd nearly died doing it.

He checked the time: 7:52. Even if he left right now, she'd be gone before he got there. And honestly, driving in this condition was probably a terrible idea anyway.

His police scanner crackled to life: reports of a disturbance near the waterfront.

Lance closed his eyes. His ribs screamed. His shoulder throbbed. The cuts on his chest felt like they were on fire. Every part of his body was telling him to go home, take the pain medication he'd been avoiding because it made him too slow to respond, and rest.

He opened his eyes and made the same choice he always made.

Each step toward his car sent fresh waves of pain through his battered body, but Lance kept walking. The waterfront disturbance could be nothing, probably was nothing, but he couldn't take that chance. Not when someone might need help.

But he also couldn't keep doing this. Couldn't keep losing pieces of himself and the people who mattered, one emergency at a time. He had to find a way to make this work, or he'd lose everything that made the fight worth fighting in the first place.

A ping sounded from his pocket. He pulled out his phone, wincing as the movement pulled at his shoulder. A calendar reminder: 

Meeting with President Knight - Monday, 9:00 AM.

Lance stared at the notification as he reached his car. Robert Knight. New Atlantis University. Resources. Connections. His own studies as a student.

The beginning of a plan began to form in his mind.

Maybe there was a way forward after all, one that didn't require him to choose between saving the city and having a life worth living. He just had to be smart about it. Strategic.

He slid into the driver's seat, every movement a reminder of his body's protests, and pulled up the file on President Knight. If he was going to make this work, he needed to go into that meeting with more than just hope.

The scanner crackled again. Lance took one last look at his phone, at Melody's name still on the screen, then put the car in gear and headed toward the waterfront.

But this time, he promised himself, things would be different.

They had to be.