It becomes abundantly clear, as he talks, that the man in front of her is as much her Batman as the one she left at home. Her hands clench and her focus on him is absolute, absolute enough that Bruce has to be able to tell that her anger isn't at him as much as it's for him. She thinks of his friends. She thinks of Dick and Tim at home, and the distant Jason she's heard about from the others. She thinks about her own suffering, her time under the serum, when her hands hadn't been her own, and the time after the serum, when she was never quite sure whose hands they were.
She thinks about her father, the girls he and Deathstroke had tried to make. The weapons. She thinks about the man who'd raised her to be a weapon, about his face in the rain as she stood over him.
About the arms that pulled her in after she'd made her choice. The man who'd helped her find her way as a hero.
He'd built a family, taken in all of them in his own way, taken them literally under his wing. But whose wing was he under? Had he had anyone to run to when things like this were going on? She knew he had friends, but even among those friends...
She thinks about why she's here. And why he's here. And ultimately, they sound very similar to her.
She finishes her tea, puts the cup down, and unfolds from the couch in a single smooth motion. He's not far, so it's only a few steps to walk around to stand in front of him, stare down at him, hear the story in his muscles and his bones and the way he sits, the shame.
She presses her lips together, determined, and leans over to carefully place her hand over his heart. She leaves it there for a moment, looking into his eyes, willing the words she can't find in her awkward second language. Then, slow and deliberate, she leans further and presses a kiss to his forehead.
His hands were dirty. So were hers. And they were both doing the only thing they could to try and fix what could never be fixed, death and suffering that could never be erased. But she'd known this pain since she was eight years old. She'd been avenging her own soul since the day she'd first reached over and ripped a man's throat out with her tiny hands. This is her place. This is her pain. And for this, her wing is large enough for one.
I never wanted you here. But you're not alone here. I'm here too.
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She thinks about her father, the girls he and Deathstroke had tried to make. The weapons. She thinks about the man who'd raised her to be a weapon, about his face in the rain as she stood over him.
About the arms that pulled her in after she'd made her choice. The man who'd helped her find her way as a hero.
He'd built a family, taken in all of them in his own way, taken them literally under his wing. But whose wing was he under? Had he had anyone to run to when things like this were going on? She knew he had friends, but even among those friends...
She thinks about why she's here. And why he's here. And ultimately, they sound very similar to her.
She finishes her tea, puts the cup down, and unfolds from the couch in a single smooth motion. He's not far, so it's only a few steps to walk around to stand in front of him, stare down at him, hear the story in his muscles and his bones and the way he sits, the shame.
She presses her lips together, determined, and leans over to carefully place her hand over his heart. She leaves it there for a moment, looking into his eyes, willing the words she can't find in her awkward second language. Then, slow and deliberate, she leans further and presses a kiss to his forehead.
His hands were dirty. So were hers. And they were both doing the only thing they could to try and fix what could never be fixed, death and suffering that could never be erased. But she'd known this pain since she was eight years old. She'd been avenging her own soul since the day she'd first reached over and ripped a man's throat out with her tiny hands. This is her place. This is her pain. And for this, her wing is large enough for one.
I never wanted you here. But you're not alone here. I'm here too.