"I wanna make this world one where heroes have time to kill..."

He wakes at 5am. It's routine now; he couldn't sleep in if he tried. But it's a short flight to get coffee and a newspaper, and soon, he alights on his apartment rooftop again. He started doing this after a while, just watching the sun rise. Below him - far below him - the city is quiet; faint sounds of traffic honk and hum, sidewalk chatter drifts wordlessly upward. He closes his eyes for a minute and relishes the feeling of not having to watch for danger every second. There's a summer breeze, too, stronger at this height. He feels it rush over his skin and card through his hair and feathers, and takes in its sleepy warmth. It's nice...

He spares a look over his shoulder and gives his warmest smile when he hears footsteps come from their bedroom to join him. He hears his name called in greeting - a name that, years ago, he was never supposed to hear again. He missed it. He lifts one wing to offer the seat at his side.

"The coffee's for you," he says.

There's no rush here - no quick good mornings and quicker goodbyes, no diving from the rooftop to hopefully come home in one piece (or at all). The headline in the news reads "Third Week Of No Crime." The morning is warm. The city is quiet. He pulls in an easy breath and lets it go. He has time to kill.