Burns doesn't visit. It's not really his style, Spirit tells herself. He has busy days full of doing whatever the fuck he wants, and that rarely involves caring about other people — people who miss him, and worry about him, and want him, inexplicably, in their lives. It's quite sad.

But Xeno is, apparently, not too occupied for Xeno. Not too occupied to show up exactly when he needs something from her. Even looking at Xeno and Burns through the distorted fish eye in her front door, she can tell they're only here out of desperation.

"Preeeee-cisely. I just didn't want you to worry, champ. 'Cause, y'know," In rare form, he lowers his voice, "Some people that I associate with just carry crazy shit around willy nilly, but I'm not like that. I'm, y'know, built different."

But Andrew is smiling, or at least was. He must find this all a little bit funny.

Look, I don't think Burns is cut out for this.

He's got years of being trained by a super soldier, sure, but that teenage boy became a man who hadn't been in combat training since he was a child, was relying mostly on muscle memory, had no idea how to tell Burns to compensate for his short height, for the ease in which his bones could break.

What I'm also saying is that — his reflexes are okay. But they aren't great. So Black Noir wraps his gloved hand around Burns's throat and squeezes, squeezes, squeezes —

Burns learns the hard way that when he isn't getting oxygen, the flames in his hands are extinguished. He is just a boy, flailing for his laugh, choking and wheezing in a way he didn't know he was capable of. Smoke doesn't burn his lungs, but this might crush his windpipe.

Black Noir has pivoted towards the window when Harris makes out through the smoke and blaze what's going on. He reacts faster than any other person should or could — suddenly feeling the super in super soldier, his speed enhanced and inhuman — and does the first thing he can think of.

He kicks Black Noir's legs out from under him at the knee, hopes he's strong enough to get through the tactical gear and break something, well, breakable. He brandishes his handgun and pistol whips the side of Black Noir's helmet. Something cracks — the helmet's material, maybe skull.

one.

"EPCOT ball," Burns says, staring in awe up at the thing. "Y'know what'd make it even prettier? What if weeeeeee—"

Don't.

"You didn't even let me—

I'm serious. Honey, don't.