Hearts of Palm.

Warren's lip hurt like hell.

He had just worked a long shift and was leaving for the night, ready to drop his battered body into bed and sleep, when he heard the click of heels on the sidewalk behind him. It was a little late for patrons, and so he tensed when they stopped, unsure of what to expect.

"Um, excuse me?" The voice was timid and fragile; "Excuse me- can you help me?" Civilian. Warren turned and-

"You."

She was standing before him in a black cocktail dress, a velvet shawl gracing her thin shoulders her only means of insulation. He snorted, watched her expression flash malicious. Slowly, it melted back into passivity, and she chewed her lip for a moment before offering a meager smile.

"Me." She said finally. He just looked at her. "Look. My car got a flat up the road and... I have a spare but I don't know how to change it." This time she didn't try to hide the agitation in her voice, and Warren sneered.

"Why don't you just fly it home?"

"Yeah, because that won't kill me or anything." Her tone was ice, her smile gone. She stepped into the doorframe of the Paper Lantern and moved to open the door.

"Good luck finding someone in there who speaks enough english to know what Tire means." He looked at her; noticed her trembling as she had before. Her breath was fog, slow and shaky. When she turned around to face him again, a sudden gust of cold wind made them both shiver, and the shawl she was wearing came loose. He saw a few tiny burn marks dotting the flesh of her clavacle, causing the ache in his mouth to rear up again. And he fought a moral battle with himself as she rebunched the fabric around her shoulders and shuddered once more. Finally, he let out a sigh that mirrored the force of the gale.

"How far up the road?" He asked flatly, kicking himself on the inside. Goddamn conscience. The little curls her hair was pinned up into trembled in another slight rush of cold air.

"About a half a mile." Her teeth chattered. She was smiling wanly at him, but her eyes were uneasy- as if she was still clutching her grudge and even the promise of a favor couldn't help her let it go. "But... you've got a car right? It's only a minute's drive."

"Actually..."

Ten minutes later found them walking in the freezing cold at quarter to one in the morning. Silent. Warren hated himself at this moment in time. A lot.

"Your name is Warren, right?" She asked in a low voice, not really interested but feeling obligated to inquire. He gave a brief nod. "I'm Mercy." No response. More silence.

A few more minutes went by. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that she clenched and unclenched her hands... reminding him of their scuffle- was she powering up?

"What are you doing?" He asked defensively, suddenly stopping and facing her, ready to ignite at the slightest indication of conflict. He knew this paper-thin flat tire excuse COULDN'T be real- she had lured him into a fight. Startled, she raised her palms to him.

"What do you mean?" Her eyes narrowed, wary.

"That thing with your fists." The girl gave pause, looked down at her shaking hands.

"I can't feel my fingers." Mercy's voice was low, almost angry enough to fight him on the basis of his accusation alone. But he relaxed- minutely; but enough.

"Oh." Then they looked at each other for another long beat of silence, and then he offered her his hands, which he cupped together to make sort of a bowl... a fire bloomed inside of them, flickering in the wind. "Here." She looked at him, uneasy. "Here, I'm not going to bite you." Slowly, she reached out her hands and held them over his, biting her lip as the sting of returning feeling shocked her fingers. "Why the hell are you wearing that anyway? Not really dressed for the cold, are you?"

"I was at a dinner party for my father." She said quietly, and he waited for her to add something, but she didn't. They stood like that for a moment, and then she blurted in a begrudging tone; "I'm sorry I hit you in the face with a table." Warren really didn't know what to do... so he just gave a slight nod and tried not to laugh at how absurd her apology had sounded. Another pause. "And for smashing you into the wall. Twice." He nodded again, this time cracking a tiny smile.

"I'm sorry I tried to set you on fire." Was all he could offer by way of response and Mercy stifled a sardonic giggle, pulled her hands away and crossed her arms over her chest. He shook the flame from his and stuffed them in his pockets, cleared his throat.

"It's late, we need to get going."

So they started walking again.

"Well, I think that about does it." He told her, hefting the flat tire into the trunk of her BMW. Obviously Dinner-Party Daddy had a few extra bucks to throw at his daughter.

"Need a lift home?" Her offer came with a silly smile, one he almost returned.

"Well it is pretty cold out."

They drove in silence, heater blasting. And when they got to his house she followed him up his front walk. Warren was more than ready to call it a night, go inside, and never talk to her again. Ever.

"Wait."

"What?" He was gruff, annoyed, obviously enough so to give her pause.

"I didn't say... thank you." Was all she could really say, and it sounded forced.

"Don't mention it." He turned to go inside but she pulled him back again, gripping his upper arms and leaning up on tip-toe to press her mouth against his - eyes open, whole body rigid. Warren was too shocked to do anything at first, but then he felt an odd tingling sensation in his lower lip- a vibration, really- and the warm spill off blood. With a grunt of protest, he managed to push her away and fell back against the door, hand against his lips, burning with question. Was she psychotic? Was this what he got for helping someone who started fights with him in the cafeteria?

But then... his fingers found nothing where his wound had been before.

Mercy swallowed, watching him, and put her fingers to her own lip, where a wound mirroring the one he had just possesed had opened.

"Thank you." She repeated numbly, looking away from him now and down at the blood on her hand. Warren stared.

"What did you just do?"

"I took what was yours and I made it my own." The way she said it- quiet, reminiscent, gentler than anything else he had heard her say- told him that she was quoting something someone else had once given her as an explanation. Dumbfounded, he just touched again and again the place where his lip had once been split. She wiped at her own chin, smeared blood, offered another trite smile. "It's getting pretty late," changing the subject, she pulled the shawl tighter around herself. "I'll see you around, Warren."

Then she got into her car, and left him standing in front of his house.

He stared after her for a moment.

He didn't know if he was still so resolved in his decision to never talk to her again.