A/N: To be on the safe side, spoilers will be through 'Starcrossed.'
The movement didn't still, despite the sharp eyes upon it.
She swore, to this day and all other days, that she was not twitching.
Another soft fshh from the fabric resulted in a low growl from deep in her throat. Jumping to her bare feet, the Thanagarian woman began her pacing again, irritated and definitely not twitching.
It had been seventy eight and a half hours since the return trip from War World, and, despite her best efforts, Hawkgirl had yet to find any rest. Wings at her sides, she held back a tired sigh as the coarse array of feathers continued their not twitching. At least they weren't brushing against the fabric of her bed anymore. Small victories.
With their return, J'onn and Superman having been treated for their ailments—surprisingly small injuries and overall exhaustion—things had returned to normal.
Right?
Another thrill of bunched movement cascaded her wings-No, she blearily noted, apparently not. Hence, the twitching. For whatever reason, she could not be settled: the warrior picked at her food; slaved over the project of repairing the destroyed Javelin despite assurances that it wasn't necessary; rest would not find her; and she could not stop the infernal not twitching.
Steeling a deep breath that filled her to her stomach, the woman finally released it in an agonisingly patient manner. Something was wrong with her. And it needed to be rectified. Now.
Bare feet smoothly pressing into the chilled floor of her always darkened room, Hawkgirl began to pace beside the gleaming stars of the wall window. She was smart, she could manage her reflections-she could figure out what had left her so...so...
Heaving a sign, she relented: Twitchy.
She closed her eyes, focusing on the gentle thrumming of her own pulse in the silence of her room. The whole mission had gone array—nearly losing Superman and J'onn to the deep recesses of space. A short breath passed her lips. It had been a freak accident-her toes stilled midstride-an accident.
Was it so strange that the air she breathed caught—haggard, stuck—in her throat imagining the moment in which the muffled static filled her ears, in which she had lost all communication with two of the league members? Was it so strange? Yes.
The Thanagarian couldn't fathom a moment in her time here on this planet that had filled her with so much—she was loathe to admit it—helplessness. Even just the word made goosebumps rise on her exposed skin. The comm abrasively against her ear filling with the chops of a mocking static—not Superman's assured, righteous confidence or J'onn's softer but calming tones—filled her with so much unadulterated fear. It was sickening.
She, Shayera Hol, Lieutenant of the Thanagarian elite, one of the most powerful warriors of her kind, had been lost to a sickening, heart rocketing-to-the-floor-through-her-stomach fear: Fear for the fates of the people she was ultimately supposed to betray.
Steeling herself against the cold tempered glass, the gravity of the situation began to grow through a tightness in her ribs, through her lungs, twisting in a hold of her heart. Her helm made a soft noise as it slid against the glass. Digging deeper, she closed her eyes tighter, a tenseness in her shoulders, and talons digging pin pricks into her arms as they were folded across her chest, but its pain was lost to her. Realisation. She was scared. She had been so very scared.
As a warrior, feeling fear—in increments—was the only way to survive. Without it, you were nothing more than a walking target. Without fear of losing your own life, you were already dead. If you experienced a small hint of fear, it meant you still had something to lose. It had been drilled in her head for her entirety—with the strength to overpower that fear, she could conquer. Conquering it was the power—was the conquest, the victory, the pride. She understood that well. So very well.
But that rancid, to her core ice that stayed with her seconds, minutes, eternity? after the drone of static first filled her ear, that was not the type of fear she knew. Was not the type she knew how to deal with.
Plpp. Plpp.
The cascading droplets mounted in a splash of red at her feet. Trailing over prickled arm hair, swivelling to the crest of her elbow before pooling into single droplets of blood on the floor, the talons in her arms showed little chance of retracting. Stunned as she was in her recollection, the pain was lost to her cluttered mind as she recounted her next steps.
In that paralysing horror days ago, she remembered the first moment air had been permitted to enter her lungs again. The first fight or flight action she felt in that static at her ear, what her first motion had been to do—where her mind had first and impulsively shot to—who—
"Lantern...! We have a situation. Get up here now!"
Instinct had always been one of her strong suits-thinking quickly, being decisive when no one else could act but this...
Plpp. Plpp.
A breath finally made its way into her throat—how long had it been since she had breathed?—and the sickening hold in her chest tightened, tightened, tightened.
Her first impulse—Shayera Hol, the would be, will be, betrayer of all, spy and champion of her people—in a the sickening, coiling fear for people she should never have had any feelings for, had reached out for an off duty John Stewart in the most terrifying moment she could remember experiencing.
In this sudden moment of clarity—
Plpp. Plpp.
—Her haggard breath misted the star infested window—
Plpp.
—Air, she needed air.—
Plpp...
—She needed to fly. Now—
Earth was a strange place. Part of her was loathe to admit if she did finally fully understand this planet and its people, a part of her would regret it.
The thrumming of powerful wings over air currents of a warm July afternoon filled her with more emotions than she cared to feel. But not even she could deny the beauty of this planet. Wistful breaths left her parted rose lips as another undercurrent of warmth pressed her higher, alleviating another stroke from her wings. Gliding, the dark, helm-hidden eyes watched the world below.
Yes, Earth was a strange place. For all of the beauty it possessed, there was still so much warring against it. Humans were strange—never understanding how blessed they were to have chosen this rock as home. Below her, russet dear clambered at the river's edge, hooves prancing between rocks in a sturdy play. Between the tree line and its rocking stream, summer blooms littered in patches, gleaming in every color, brilliant in the afternoon sunshine. Through enhanced hearing, the cicadas and chorusing birds filled her mind—much preferred to the nagging haunt of static—and over another plume of wind, she felt breaths become less desperate as they had been hours before.
It was beautiful.
The tightening of her breast was there, carefully, oh so carefully, she relented:
This planet is strange, different, but so devastatingly beautiful.
Was it so wrong to admit such a thing?
Yes.
Feeling the small pressure of a smirk at her mouth at her thoughts, she allowed her heart's steady drum to calm her warring mind.
Yes, it was wrong.
Licking dried summer lips between gusts, she began her decent towards the gleaming, repaired Javelin above the ridge.
Yes, it was wrong to feel fear for losing these people.
Splaying wings wide to slow her landing speeds, she felt her heart twinge in the strange tightness when she caught sight of the mouth of the carrier.
Yes, it was wrong...
He was leaned against the metal framing, looking every bit as relaxed as the normal clothes he adorned, fitted Under Armour t-shirt and dark khakis, cross armed and a take away cup of coffee in each hand. The only thudding she heard in her own ears was the winds, she was sure.
...to reach out to him in her moment of sickening fear.
"Hey," when she landed in front of him, John Stewart pushed himself away from his post, extending the warm drink to her. The woman's helm dipped in thanks before accepting the beverage. There was another small gust against her back as she cradled the cup in her taloned hands. Briefly, her eyes analysed his form: casual, yes, functioning, yes. But pale green eyes were weary, skin over his cheek bones drawn, under eyes darkened—he looked tired. This was in no small part her fault—she had found she could not, did not, turn away his help since their return. Since he first wordlessly encased the metal sheets of the Javelin with the green power of his ring in assistance, she had not protested. There weren't many words spoken as they had worked long into the night and next day—days?—to repair the jet behind him. With no small amount of shame, she had allowed him to stay next to her, to finish the task that would have surely taken days longer. The small twitch in feathers supplied the telltale truth of it, in that she had, for a moment, preferred his help, his company, to the silence and solitude of her task.
Now he looked as exhausted as she did.
Quietly and with that pinching feeling in her chest, she bluntly informed him: "You look worse than I remember."
The throaty chuckle that her words earned did things to her expression that she hastily decided to hide behind her cup. Truthfully, he didn't look awful—sleep deprived, yes, but he still looked…acceptable.
Fatigued pale eyes drew towards her again as his laughter subsided and his head swung to the repaired Javelin, a light smile on his face. "It was worth it to get this done. Besides," chills drew their way up her spine as he subtlety appraised her appearance. The Thanagarian knew she looked like hell—hell that hadn't slept and had been twitchy. Those green eyes lingered on her arms—five self inflicted aligned tears in her skin, small bruises materialising on the raised skin—with a certain amount of clarity that gave her move to take a sip of coffee. "You don't seem to have had too much rest yourself."
'No rest for the wicked,' she intoned, mirroring the phrase Batman had used weeks before. It had taken her a small bit of reflection after his mention to disconcert the odd phrase, but she found herself ruefully understanding its meaning. Hawkgirl did not voice the words, however, and found solace in…
Her brow quirked under the helm as she felt the taste on her tongue. Eyes shifting to John in confusion, he shrugged—sharp eyes found with a small bit of satisfaction, the awkwardness there—before explaining, "if you don't like it, you can have this one."
She was shaking her head before he had finished his proposal, "no, no…it's…" really good. Clicking her tongue as a small smile pulled at her cheeks, she relented with another drink from the sweeter blend, "it's acceptable."
"It's a hazelnut blend," he continued, clearly pleased as he finally drank from what she could assume was the..Americano? She could not remember her usual preference but—hnn, yes, it was Americano. Silly name for such bitter coffee. But her usual preference, regardless. Rose lips tilted up at the corners, finally smelling the sweeter differences at her nose before consuming more, and finally deciding she liked it. And, with a minuscule amount of hesitant acceptance, she also realised she again felt comfortable in the companionable silence that fell upon the ridge.
A/N: To be on the safe side, spoilers will be through 'Starcrossed.' This is the third and final installment for the corresponding episode 'War World.'
The soft thump paired with the crackling embers of the nearby fire were the only utterances for moment, before the Thanagarian voiced her opinion, another absent thump resounding as the mace handle met her opposite hand again. Dark eyes scrutinized the burling mass in front of her with something akin to bemused ruefulness. "Aha…" the noise hummed against pursed lips, "so you need us to get there." Finally crossing her arms, she tilted her helm, glancing up at John. "Think we can trust him, Lantern?"
The man nearly rolled his eyes at the obviously barbed words—he was done trusting these people. But the Lantern's pale gaze swept over Draaga again, reluctant. As much as he hated to admit it, unless they relented and accepted help—any kind of it—they would remain in a stalemate. Personally, attention drifting to the shorter woman at his side, he wasn't too keen on spending the rest of his days on this planet alone with her.
"You take me with you," the rough timbers in Draaga's voice had John on edge regardless of his musing, "and I'll get you to War World."
By the way she leaned forward, helm dipping lower, the Lantern knew where she was headed. And so, he quickly held a hand to her shoulder, silencing whatever she had been in the process of retorting. Her head swung to him, frowning. With a minute shake of his head, he pulled her back with him away from Draaga. Thankfully, she complied silently. However, yards away and out of earshot, she nearly jumped him: "You can't honestly be thinking of doing this, right?"
John gave a short sigh, gazing at the glowing specks that glittered off of the gold helm—not looking at her directly, he answered, "it isn't like we have a choice."
"Huh—right—because our last alien excursion went so well."
It was amazing he was able to resist rolling his eyes at the less than obvious attack. Finally sighing as the woman's watchful gaze lingered on the movement, he attempted to shake off whatever fight they were bound to get in to if they continued on this track. Voice lowering in a placating manner, he hoped to sway her: "there isn't much of an option otherwise. If there was another way, we wouldn't need to do this." Pale eyes drifted to look at the large figure of Draaga, his distrust evident. "This could be our only chance, Hawkgirl."
Looking to her somberly, he took a moment to see if she would give in—he wasn't disappointed: though her frown remained, tilted down and narrow face sullen, her dark eyes finally closed in a sigh that heaved her rigid shoulders forward. He noted the hinge of her jar and her cheek—she must have been chewing on the inside of her mouth in indecision—and he regarded her somewhat offhandedly: how could he suddenly see so much more of her subtle nuances?
Before he could ponder more on the matter, she shifted, hands rising to clutch her curved hips and, shrugging, she agreed: "they would do it for us."
The Thanagarian was right: Superman and J'onn wouldn't have thought twice. A weight felt as if it had been taken from her taloned hands from his shoulders as she twisted around towards the lumbering and impatiently waiting alien—for once, they worked through something together. It was somewhat shocking—what with a little patience, maybe this was possible…
"We'll take you to War World." Hawkgirl's flat stare was lost on the equally expressionless Draaga. However, slender hand slipping to the base of the resting mace, her silent warning was not.
In the silence of the glowing sphere, the woman seemed to read his mind—the question that had been brimming and bubbling in his mind since the alien had first lumbered out of the shadows—and finally asked:
"Draaga," Hawkgirl was watching him as intently as she had since leaving, stare steel and unrelenting in her wise distrust. Not able to completely fool the Lantern though, he could feel the trepidation in her seemingly uninterested question: "that scar on your chest…"
"What about it?"
"I was just wondering. Our friend has something just like it."
The winged woman jolted in surprise as Draaga's thick arm suddenly shot forward. "There it is," he growled, pointing to the smog-sprouting planet. It was a pale sphere of color against the bleak darkness it was pressed against in his vision. Even from his point as he sped forward towards it, the dim tones of a graying world were clear. Even without the evident debris circling the surface in orbit, the lack of vibrancy dispelled from the little planet sobered his mood greatly.
Drab and dry, there wasn't much else offered from what he could see.
The Thanagarian that appeared in his peripherals when she inclined closer to him, her attention on the nearing world as intently as his own, seemed to relay the same—if the sullen dip of her chin in a frown was anything to go by.
"There's nothing but desert," she stated slowly. Sure enough, the dim russet shades surrounding the slowly appearing civilization was nothing but rocks and sand.
Following the reference the battle worn alien gestured, the being grunted, "doesn't matter."
His pale eyes gleaned to Hawkgirl's as hers swirled to meet his as well in an exchanged glance.
John's grimace spread even as he supplied: "It's a big place."
Even that seemed to be an understatement. From even the perceived horizon line, buildings, russet and tan clay based, stretched as long as his pale gaze could see. Even looking down through the soft film green of the orb scanned over the many workshops, homes, and markets and the numerous beings bustling and working below. The faded fabrics lined the windowpanes, the drooped tents dispersed over sweet talking sellers, and the thrum of declining buyers seeking better deals infused his breast with a dread. Hawkgirl voiced his dismay in an uncharacteristically hopeless voice, "how will we ever find them?" Her dark eyes swiveled to his, seeking what he could only presume was reassurance or faith. The lantern had been wrong before though.
"That's your problem."
The sudden blast to the back of his head knocked his breath away—darkness swam in his vision as he struggled for breath in the sudden black. Vaguely, he heard the woman beside him call out as the sudden flush of warm air assaulted his dim senses. He knew he was falling—the pull towards the ground reached his throbbing conscious—but he couldn't do anything about it. Limbs were lax, the air rushed.
The insistent shaking was the first sensation that came to him; flushed skin came into focus. Blinking as the pressure behind his eyes thrummed with each quickened heart beat, he groaned.
"H-hey—" he felt the resounding press of her voice on his cheek. Blinking again, some of the clarity returned when he found her looking down to him from his vantage at her shoulder. She must have caught him. "You okay?"
Nodding hurt, but she hesitantly released her hold on him regardless when he was surrounded in green again. "Yeah, thanks…"
Rubbing the particularly rigid knot at the base of his skull, the Lantern caught the tail end of the escaping alien as he dashed for the darkened alley below. The Thanagarian was not having any of that: "Draaga!"
Snatching her forearm when she dove after him, he urgently mustered, "forget him." When Hawkgirl's spread wings remained furled for the dive, he added, "J'onn and Superman are more important."
John shouldn't have been overly surprised at the precision of her growl when she obviously agreed—she didn't have to like it but she obviously knew her priorities. "Fine." With a short, aggravated huff, the woman faced him as he slowly released her arm and asked, "How are we going to find them?"
Gliding down to the rooftop of one of the clay buildings, his eyes scanned the city to the dissolving clarity of the outskirts far from his sight. Unsettled, the Lantern felt time was limited for them. Intuition or not, her rustling feathers indicated she felt it too. "We need information—someone has to have seen them."
"Draaga did."
He couldn't help but agree. For all the scars and marred chunks of wounds littered on their guide's body, the one on his chest was not aged. It had been recently added to the collection of telling battle markers. Despite the plain face, the dread felt by the tall man was palpitating; Superman, at least, had been alive on this planet.
"Uncertainty looks terrible on you."
When she had his confused attention on her, the glare set on him doubled his bewilderment before she severed his anxiety instantaneously: "Don't doubt them. If we've made it this far, they will have done the same." Though her voice was bland of any undertones, her strange chastising was comforting enough to dissolve the thick anxious thudding of his heart. In its wake, surprise and a bit of unnerving; could she truly read him that well? He was not an open book by any means—relaying reassurances to others was a position he was in more often than not. Being the one in need of comfort was disconcerting. How could she have peered beyond that solemn but controlled countenance?
Viewing her from her poised posture as her sharp eyes swept the skyline, she was every bit as powerful as he was beginning to perceive her as. With authoritative words, she was the epitome of confidence with helm to the horizon, chin taut and lifted. Dry wind brushed strands of scarlet hair away from tensed shoulders, furled curling feathers against the smooth grain, glinted off the golden mask shielding an angled face—it was moments before he managed to jolt out of shameful ogling.
Clearing his throat and other odd sensations away, he met her pleased smirk riding on rose lips—perhaps less than ignorant as well—with a sensible nod of his head.
He quickly recovered even under subtly amused eyes. Saving him from anything else at his expense, she raised her head with a lavish smirk and shining wings spread: "let's get some answers."
Even as he followed her into the market, convincing himself that the shuddering pulse in his ears was just a adrenaline rush was harder than he expected it to be.
The moment that the secluded weapon station was mentioned, their eyes met in an instant. Shooting off of the dusty ground with the equally eager Thanagarian, the wind billowed as they took to the air above the city, racing towards the outskirts and into the desert. They hadn't even had the time to thank the three-eyed woman for her tip.
"We're back to square one if we get nothing out of this."
Nodding in agreement and squinting his eyes as the sand twirled in the fleeting air, he called back to her, "it's the biggest lead we have." They had been stunned when the blue and red 'S' was littered throughout the city, figures all alike sporting the emblem. Quickly learning of the popularity of the Kryptonian fighter, the information gleaned from praise of the hero to the utter resentment but predominant fear of their leader, Mongol. The situation was dire for not just their new hero but for civilization itself. The Thanarian had mentioned so while watching their fifth informant slip into the bustling market.
“This world is dying—in discord and suffering.” She had shaken her head with a rueful sneer, “and all a tyrant can supply are measly fights for entertainment.” At his raised brow towards the ironic qualm—coming from her especially—the corner of her lips twitched and she elaborated: “Violence isn't a substitution for what these people actually need.”
It wasn't until their next discussion with a woman in rags that Mongol's weapon base was mentioned. Despite its lack of depictions by the homeless alien, murmurs had claimed he had enough power within it to wipe out an entire world.
Now speeding towards the isolated keep with the Thanagarian at his side, he couldn't help but hope there would be something of use at this place.
"We helped Draaga back to the city."
Wings thrusting in a gust, he frowned. "We didn't have a choice."
"Regardless," another beat of powerful wings shrouded her from him for a moment before it bowed back, "he will challenge Superman again."
"Let's just hope its fair at least."
He could only assume she had shook her head as her voice dipped closer then not, "he will be."
Somewhat curious, he inquired, "you seem pretty sure of that. Wasn't the whole problem here that he wasn't honest?" The throbbing bump on the back of his head pulsed in agreement.
The chuckle may have been a trick of the billowing air but he liked to have thought he heard the pleasing sound from her. "Being honor-bound entails the fight. It's his life—he is nothing unless he can reassume his prowess over Superman—the one that defeated him. Without that," the wistfulness he heard was too strange for it to have been real, "he is nothing."
Over the swirling dunes of sand, the shining metal of the complex neared in the distance. As the station became cleared over the swindles of willowing heat, he chanced: "Is that how it is on Thanagar?"
The gust of air and the blaring of approaching sirens was the only response he was given as she plummeted. Between two taloned hands, the mace sparked to life, igniting the currents around the spikes as her roar smashed the weapon through the fiberglass of the building.
The chocked relief that engulfed him was powerful. Throwing a shield around the Martian on the floor below, he flew down to him as his partner bashed through the shooting foes, mace alight.
Seeing the teal alien in front of him was an awe-inspiring reprieve; rejuvenation of hidden but frazzled nerves. Chancing the Martian a sideways glance under the onslaught of lasers, he asked, "you okay?"
The small incline of J'onn's head was his response before his gaze snapped away to the glowing machine. His call was not lost on the human as he yelled out: "The cannon!"
When Hawkgirl soared through blasts to the tip of the charged weapon, he yelled out. The woman was looking down the mouth of the canon as it mounted its destructive power, suspended before expelling the awesome beam. Meeting it head on, he could only watch as she hurled the mace head down on the blast, the explosion recoiling into the channel. The canon exploded down the length, shattering through the complex as it began to collapse. Grabbing the weakened J'onn and pulling his arm over his shoulder, he took to the sky through the open panel—"let's move!"
The station exploded in a series of blasts, the shockwave following nearly knocking him off course. Righted, he looked over his shoulder towards the angry flames of the station before continuing on.
"Thank you," swinging pale gaze back to the Martian next to him, the alien graced both he and Hawkgirl with a glance, "it would have been impossible to halt the detonation without your assistance."
As he nodded in acquisition, Hawkgirl chimed in front beside them, "what was that thing aimed for?"
He was somber when he replied, "Draaga's planet. Superman is to lose to Mongul lest it is destroyed." As if the Lantern needed another reason to loath the tyrant leader; by Hawkgirl's growl, he could only assume she thought similarly. "We must hurry, Superman will lose unless certain Draaga's world is safe."
Catching the woman's dark eyes in an exchanged glance, she nodded to him.
Pressing onward on dry gusts, the trio sped on, J'onn's vague psychic pull guiding towards the ruins.
"See what they think of their new hero now?" The sparking axe was lifted for the final strike. Mongul's taunting smirk widened: "Game over."
The bright shield that appeared in front of the fallen Kryptonian buffeted the swing. "Not yet." Mongul's wide red eyes spun around to them, green orb dissipating and the two heroes at his side scattered to surround the now out numbered tyrant. "We're going into overtime." Swooping down to stand beside Superman, another wave of relief swept through him seeing him a bit beaten up but unhurt otherwise.
J'onn leaned down to assist the Man of Steel to his feet while stating, "We destroyed his death ray. Draaga's world is safe."
"Then all bets are off." John found that, while he couldn't pity the retreating man, he couldn't say the fierce and determined promise from the Kryptonian didn't slightly intimidate him. From the agitated twitch of the Thanagarian's wings next to him, he felt better to know she at least shared those same thoughts, willingly or not. "You're mine."
"No, he's mine!"
All eyes turned to the declaration. From the pane of one of the crumbling buildings, Draaga appeared, halting Superman's punch and handing Mongul one himself, sending the alien flying into the piles of clay and metal. Brawny shoulder heaving with unrestrained passion, the Lantern watched as Mongul glowered and wiped at his lip with the back of his hand. "You'll regret that, Draaga."
It was difficult not to jump in. Despite knowing that this was so much more than a simple tournament battle for Draaga, it didn't relax his stance or calm his racing heart. Only when he felt a small pressure on his forearm did he avert his attention from the gruesome fight to the woman who held his arm under her palm. Slowly but enough for him to see it, she shook her head. Giving her a once over, it amazed him that she wasn't as riled as he was. Instead, it seemed to be the most placated he had seen her on this mission. Hawkgirl met her quizzical eyes with a small shrug and tight lips—solemn but not exasperatedly so. Instead, she merely turned back to the brawl as Draaga received a fist to the side of his head—one that sent him winding face first into the rubble. When her hand released him with a knowing smirk, he jumped at the chance—so, leaping over to Draaga as he groaned and pushed himself up again, the Lantern advised: "Keep your guard up on the left."
With that, the alien grunted before standing and rushing toward the waiting Mongul. In a fury of powerful jabs and blocks, the stalemate continued. Even the ex-marine could notice the shift in powers as the android camera expelled the cheering crowd: Draaga! Draaga! Finally landing an upper cut below the jaw of his opponent, Draaga's roar sounded through those present and the crowd through the android flier camera: "This is for my people!" The dimly heard mob screamed in encouragement from over the alien's shoulder when his fist connected with Mongul's right cheek. "And this is for my humiliation!" John withheld a wince at the crisp crack that cut through the heavy breathing when Draaga smashed the other cheek. "And this is for justice!"
Mongul's lax form crumbled in a heap at the feet of the bloody knuckled Draaga. From across the way, the puffed breast of a smirking Thanagarian was caught in his pale green vision, obviously pleased for the victor. The large alien crouched low, the android cheering and howling at his shoulder: "Finish him! Finish him!"
The deceivingly low rumble silenced the roars and acclamations: "No." Burly body hunched over the unconscious Mongul, Draaga's strewn and tethered knuckles stretched as he plucked the shining band from the ground. "He doesn't deserve the honor."
"Then it's over," the Kryptonian intoned solemnly.
John watched as Draaga turned towards Superman, Mongul's crown looking small and insignificant in his clenched hand. "Not yet." Extending the glinting band, he offered it to the hero, "Here. You should have Mongul's crown."
With barely hidden distain towards the token but knowing its significance, the Man of Steel declined: "Keep it." At the face he received, Superman's broad smile of encouragement made Draaga's hand recede and he continued, "you've earned a chance for a whole new life."
Stout and marred face contorting, he looked down to his own reflection in the metal crown. Brow crinkling in consideration, the question slipped out in a rumbling drawl. "What's life without honor? I'm not worthy."
Stirring the confident and satisfied smile on Superman's face, he conveyed every bit as much he could before pulling back towards the waiting heroes. "Draaga, the real test of honor isn't how you die. It's how you live."
Infusing the group into the power of the ring, the four pulled off of the ground before taking to the darkened sky. He was confident they would be able to reach Earth with enough time to recharge the power ring. Relieved and contented with having both J'onn and Superman safe and, for the most part, unharmed, he sped off into the stars, breathing a bit easier than he had since departing with the Thanagarian. At his prompt, both the Martian and Kryptonian delved into the details of their capture and their time on War World. With that distraction, the abyss around them seemed to pass more swiftly though he couldn't be sure; last time, the abrasive silence between him and a certain woman was pressing in itself.
And yet, now, John couldn't help but notice the complete and utter silence of her.
It was over a day later when he found her again. Quickly excusing herself upon the return to the Watch Tower, there hadn't been time to speak with her. But as he had lay awake, exhausted on his bed in the Detroit apartment, there had been plenty of time to think on it. He knew she had spoken to J'onn, albeit in her strange, apologetic but not apologetic way—he also knew the Martian had quickly diffused whatever she had been trying to repent for—there were no fault concerning the whole situation in the first place. There were no other words spoken on the matter; it should have been over.
But, as he watched her now, alone in the deck maintenance and leaned over the remains of the destroyed Javelin with the welding laser trained on the surface; somehow he knew that it wasn't.
It was only with the sentiment of being closer to her that allowed him to believe he could step forward. After all, they were friends now, right? Close enough to it—the fact that they had actually worked as a team together said something to him about the matter. At least, he hoped that is what it equated to.
From his view, he could say he felt a small bridge had been broached in their relationship. Was it too presumptuous to think she may feel the same?
"Hey."
Not sparing him a glance as the sparks riveted off the glowing surface, her noncommittal hum was the only indication she had heard him.
Observing the mass of broken parts, John had to ask, "you don't plan on fixing this whole thing, do you?"
Cutting the flame, she peered a him with dark eyes before turning the sheet away from her to the jagged side, pressing it against the twin piece. Her silence was enough to answer him though.
A bit exasperated and beyond anxious on how to broach upon the subject, he finally gave in and just said it: "You don't have to compensate for an accident. It wasn't your fault."
Hawkgirl paused, profile frozen in a steely gaze at the dimly glistening metal.
"That is what this is about, right?"
Shrugging a shoulder, she spoke, "I have to do this."
"But you didn't do anything wrong."
There was a slight twist of her red lips. "Does it matter?"
Sighing, the Lantern finally pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, frustrated. Even if they weren't fighting, a part of him preferred that to this overcompensating and guilt ridden slip of a woman.
"He wasn't completely true, you know."
"Huh?"
Meeting her face, her narrow face was tilted to her project as she murmured, "Superman. What he said to Draaga."
Brow quirked, John waited for her to continue even if it was a complete change of subject.
"If for the greater good, death can be honorable." There was a lift to her narrow face—to him, she looked sad. "There are those that would live life in self perceived honor—even if the end result is a lie."
Guessing but still confused, "redemption?"
Slanting dark eyes to his, his gaze drifted to the bottom of her face, to that sad smile that doubled his befuddlement. "Exactly."
The Green Lantern stayed with her for the rest of the evening as the sparks from the welding lit up the golden helm not inches from the flame. Musing, he knew that some sort of bridge had been crossed. He couldn't say to what but, eyeing her work before turning the sheet for her, he assumed that only time would tell.
