Nightstar
| Landscaper / Window Washer
| DC
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Post by Mar'i Grayson on Jun 22, 2016 21:48:22 GMT -5
The door clicked open and there was a scuffle of boots, joined by a jangle of keys as they were returned to the wall hook. Mar'i had returned from grocery shopping, as evidenced by the brown bag brimming with fresh food to put in their fridge.
“Honey, I'm home!” she announced with a bright grin, knowing full well it was an over-used line, but somehow didn't seem to lose its fun for the Grayson girl; especially not when the only person to hear it might protest the term of endearment. She kept up that self-indulgent smile as she maneuvered from the entrance to the kitchen counter.
'Home' was a really shitty apartment. The peeling wallpaper, the lingering smell of mold in the bathroom, the questionable stains, and the rate at which things fell apart earned it that distinction, but it was better than starving on the street.
Mar'i did her best to make it work, and would remind herself it was only a temporary arrangement. She cleaned, and scrubbed, on a daily basis with whatever supplies she could get her hands on—mostly vinegar and baking powder—and the windows were almost always open to try and ventilate the space.
That space wasn't much by square-footage, but somehow as tiny as the apartment was, it felt quite empty whenever Damian wasn't in. It was the lack of personal, meaningful items, and the very minimal furniture that spoke nothing of taste. Their's was a home to survive in. It was not warm, or cozy, or grand. It was not a place she enjoyed spending time alone. So, privately, she had been relieved to see his shoes when she walked in.
Mar'i put the groceries on the laminate between the fridge and the oven. Despite her best efforts, the bounty she brought home wasn't much for the week. It was enough for two people on a shoestring budget, but some of that cheery light she entered the apartment with dimmed from guilt.
Damian was a tall, active man. He ought to be eating bigger meals to feed all that muscle. “Did you eat yet?” she called over her shoulder but didn't quite look to see where he was as she put away what she bought.
On the brighter side, not eating meat was a budget saver. “I was thinking of making stew—I bought some spices, so you should come be my taste-tester if you're not busy with anything.”
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Nightwing
| Mercenary
| The Regime
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Post by Damian Wayne on Jun 23, 2016 19:47:08 GMT -5
Mar'i was obnoxiously loud. Her announcement hadn't been necessary. Damian had heard her barge through the door with all the fanfare of a parade after storming up the rickety stairs like a thunderstorm. The walls were thin here, much thinner than he was used to, but noise-cancelling wasn't really something to worry about when you'd lived with ninjas the vast majority of your life. Mar'i, who was the opposite of a ninja really, was the sort of person sound-dampening had been invented for.
He didn't move when she entered. Damian, who was sitting in the "living area" of their space on the floor, was surrounded by the guts of what had once been the microwave. It had come with the apartment, an appliance on it's last legs, and now the youngest Wayne was attempting to fix it. The endeavor probably would have been more successful if he had proper tools, but for now he made due with some cheap ones from the poor people stores and the few he'd had built into his uniform.
"TT," he made a clicking noise as he glanced up when she asked him a question. She was putting away groceries, and he simply watched her gracefully perform the mundane task for a quiet moment. "No," he admitted as he picked up a piece of the microwave and frowned at the grime coating it. He grabbed the already dirty rag he'd been using and started to try to clean it.
"As entertaining as it might be, I would prefer not to play Russian Roulette with your cooking." the young man said. It hadn't taken him long to realize that her alien stomach could handle things his could never dream of. Still, her attempts at cooking tended to be more interesting than the field rations he knew how to prepare.
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Nightstar
| Landscaper / Window Washer
| DC
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Post by Mar'i Grayson on Jun 23, 2016 21:17:18 GMT -5
Mar'i turned her head, with her jaw hanging open at the insult, but eyes still remained sparkling in good humour. "I resent that! I only have your health in mind," she said, as she took out the peeler from the drawer and set the carrots to the wooden board.
"Maybe some of my tries have been a bit... unorthodox," she conceded. That was the danger of not ever having to cook for herself, and suddenly having the responsibility fall solely to her.
"But I've learned my lesson! Keep it simple, and follow the recipe." Something she ought to have known from the start, having done her share of lab work.
"Which is why I was going to leave flavouring to you but now, whatever, I don't care," she said, in mock haughtiness. It was obvious for anyone with the slightest sense of what teasing was that she wasn't serious.
"Eat my bland, healthy stew at your own peril." She topped it off with a 'hmph', and continued peeling.
Were she actually mad at him, that would be the end of the conversation there, but he was still in her good Grayson graces so she remained chatty. "How goes the microwave? Will we be able to have popcorn when we watch rom-coms on our imaginary TV tonight?"
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Nightwing
| Mercenary
| The Regime
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Post by Damian Wayne on Jun 23, 2016 21:45:06 GMT -5
Damian rolled his eyes at her dramatics, as she took it out on the carrots, but the ghost of a smile flickered across his face. As a child he might have haughtily refused any of her cooking with sharper insults, but with the Regime he had lived in the dorms, and eaten cafeteria food long enough to be somewhat used to tasteless meals. It still offended the prince's palate, of course, but he had adapted. And matured.
"Is that how you threatened people back home?" he asked blandly, glancing up at her for a moment of quiet study, before going back to screwing a part back into the corpse of the microwave. "Scare them off with some carrots and thyme?" Damian was teasing...sort of. He knew that Mar'i was more dangerous than that, but he never stopped probing for more information.
When the microwave was addressed Damian shot it a baleful glance. He had managed to fix Father's Batmobile so that it could fly according to Bruce's specifications. That this simple machine was being so troublesome was an annoyance that tightened the young man's jaw in annoyance.
"Maybe imaginary popcorn," he decided with a frown as he picked up a part covered in what could only be described as a suspicious brown goo. "I can't fathom what they did with this thing to make it like this," he paused, considering, "and I'm not sure I want to know."
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Nightstar
| Landscaper / Window Washer
| DC
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Post by Mar'i Grayson on Jun 23, 2016 22:28:13 GMT -5
She raised a brow and smiled to herself, amused by the remark of carrots and thyme. Maybe if she was some condiment themed villain. "For friends who dare insult me?" she mused, chopping the vegetables on the board. "Deny them the pleasure of my attention," she answered.
She looked over her shoulder with a knowing look his way. "But, you'd like that wouldn't you?"
Mar'i chuckled and returned back to paying attention to what she was cutting, before one of her fingerling potatoes stopped at fingerling.
Popcorn was ruled out, which was fine since they didn't even have popcorn. And the kernels tended to get stuck in her teeth, ick. That, and empty calories? Well, actually, more calories wouldn't be so bad. Great, now she actually wanted popcorn. If only they had money to go see a movie. Maybe she ought to look into cheap theatres that played old movies. It's been awhile since she's seen a real classic.
"Those were my sentiments exactly when I first started cleaning the bathroom," she said, revolted by the memory and shaking her head to be rid of it.
"Maybe you're better off salvaging any useful parts, instead of trying to make it a microwave again?" she suggested.
"We can live without it as long as the stove's working." Just as she said that, she quickly knocked on the wooden cupboards above her because it would give out now that she mentioned it. They really didn't need another headache.
The stove turned on, thankfully, and she began loading the pot with a great assortment of cut vegetables. "I'm making enough that we can freeze some for you to take to work," she said. Work that she assumed was hard labour. "I'll be at an interview tomorrow so, fingers crossed, we'll have the pleasure of take-out soon."
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Nightwing
| Mercenary
| The Regime
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Post by Damian Wayne on Jun 24, 2016 15:37:48 GMT -5
Damian smirked at her observation but said nothing more than a "TT," to confirm or deny her suspicions. At the memory of the bathroom when they had first arrived at this miserable hovel the young aristocrat couldn't stop his nose from wrinkling. He'd lived in Gotham for some time, and the filth of some people didn't surprise him much anymore. That didn't mean, however, that he was content to live like the rest of the pigs. Luckily, Mar'i was of a similar mind, and not as adverse to cleaning things that weren't gear.
"That's assuming there are any salvageable parts," Damian replied negatively. There always were parts to salvage, of course, but the guts of the microwave were as ugly as it's food crusted exterior. Using any of these in his gear would probably cause more problems than fix anything. Unless, of course, he had access to better tools. Which required money they didn't have yet.
He had no comment about food to take to work. She knew he worked evenings, telling her that third shift was all he could come by, but Damian hadn't told Mar'i yet what he was doing most nights. A part of him still wanted her to think he wasn't a monster. "What sort of job?" he asked conversationally before blowing into a coil. Rusted flakes, dust, and what seemed to be the long forgotten corpse of an insect flew up into the air around him. He coughed, instantly regretting the decision.
"Instead of wasting extra income on food," not that food was ever a waste, "we should come up with a better solution to hide your eyes. This world or whatever is filled with depraved idiots. Despite any fantasies you might be harboring of me saving you from certain death, I would rather not go through the trouble."
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Nightstar
| Landscaper / Window Washer
| DC
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Post by Mar'i Grayson on Jun 26, 2016 11:10:21 GMT -5
Mar'i opened her mouth to answer, but the cough interrupted her train of thought. She glanced over her shoulder with a raised brow. She couldn't see him entirely from the kitchen through the cutout, with mostly a view of his head. So, she hoped he had prepared his little project by setting up some newspaper on the ground or else there'd be trouble. The carpet had been enough trouble in her cleaning escapades.
She resumed her work in the kitchen, which was cleaning up the tiny station while the pot full of veggies and broth cooked on the stove.
"High-rise window-washing," she answered. Not a glamorous job, but it was outdoors and hardly a risk for someone like her, who had flight since she was small enough to test the limits of modern crib-safety. However, for their income the starting salary of $15 with potential to gain more more after a few months was good enough.
They desperately needed the money, because as fortunate as they were Damian had picked up a job to pay rent, food, and necessities, they had little in the way of funds for anything else. Speaking of which...
Mar'i laughed when he talked about her secret fantasies involving him, her smile bright with amusement. "That sounds more like your fantasy," she teased. "Saving the super-powered girl with your cunning resources; using my peril as a stroke for your ego, to lord over me and quip about my incompetence." She smirked, with a shake of her head as she washed her hands at the sink.
"Thank you, for your concern though, I will try not to inconvenience you that way," she conceded, her tone light rather than annoyed, despite the heaping of sarcasm. She was sincere that it was rather nice of him to think about her, in his own way.
"I'm sorry to say however, I've thought about that issue, and even with the second job we're not much closer to a solution," she admitted as she dried her hands on the kitchen towel.
She turned the stove dial down as the pot came to a boil, and let it simmer. "The technology required to replicate convincing, real-life eye tracking from the slightest muscle movement wouldn't come cheap. It's just not possible on our budget," she said, regretfully. They could save up every extra penny toward it, and they'd be looking at years of waiting.
"Zachary--that's Zatanna's son if you know of her--he provided me glamours in the times I needed it. I rarely had to hide who I was, but now..." Now, the situation sucked. She didn't have access to an indispensable income, no connections, and her very identity as a visible meta-alien jeopardised her in an unfriendly world.
"My best bet is to find someone with similar capabilities, and negotiate some sort of compensation. And we should be trying to find more people like us."
She looked back at him with a mirthful smile, "as much as I enjoy keeping you to myself."
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Nightwing
| Mercenary
| The Regime
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Post by Damian Wayne on Jun 27, 2016 18:53:12 GMT -5
His lips thinned into a line and he focused too much of his attention on the microwave when she teased that it was his fantasy instead of hers. Damian couldn't really deny that he would enjoy what she was joking about, but he also didn't need to save her from her own stupidity to quip over her incompetence. He held his tongue until she mentioned the hopelessness of their impossible situation.
"TT," the young man made his clicking noise, his nose wrinkling at the idea of finding people like "them" who could do magic on her, and showing his obvious disapproval. "If you willingly enter the thrall of some magic user I'm not going to save you," Damian warned her, even if he was sort of lying to both of them, but he scowled up at her as though he meant it.
"Not every solution needs to be so complicated," the young man lectured despite the ring of microwave parts around him contradicting his preference for so-called "simple" solutions. "Father taught me one of the easiest ways to hide my identity is to change my eyes. If I can change my eye color with a lens, I don't see how you couldn't." There were contacts that covered the entire eye. Surely, he could find her a custom one that would make her eye look normal at first glance. Preferably considerably less expensive than her wild technological ideas that would take him years to attempt to develop.
"And I realize the call is strong to be around your people," he said it condescendingly enough that it made it clear he didn't agree with the idea that he was in any way, shape, or form like any of them. Damian was human, completely and totally, and very proud of that fact. Even if he was, apparently, in the wrong universe. "But seeking them out, or even being seen near them, will draw unwanted attention to us," Damian informed her, his serious gaze leaving the microwave parts to study her. "We don't have the capital to go on the run."
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Nightstar
| Landscaper / Window Washer
| DC
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Post by Mar'i Grayson on Jun 27, 2016 19:54:13 GMT -5
Mar'i didn't mind terribly when he claimed he wouldn't save her from a magic thrall, probably because she believed he couldn't. It was all gruff talk, anyway, and despite his pride he had revealed more than once through the course of the conversation that he did have her safety in mind. She just wished he'd be more willing to admit it, so that she'd stop doubting him.
She listened to his points as she walked from the kitchen to the living-room, frowning at the mess of dirty parts around him as they came to view. She pulled up the chair of their two-person square table that functioned as their only table to eat on. She crossed her legs over, sitting on its side, with her elbow to the edge of the back rest as her hand rested under her chin.
Mar'i scoffed and glanced away when he made the remark about 'her people', whatever that was supposed to mean. She really didn't like comment, and pursed her lips while quelling her need to argue with him on that front.
"What about my family? My friends? Those are 'my people'--the people who love me, and I'm no closer being with them again scrubbing carpets you can't even bother keeping clean," she said, making a sharp gesture to his project.
She sighed and rubbed her face at the momentary flare of anger. "I'm sorry, it's not you. You've been great, and your suggestion about lenses is a good one for keeping under the sunglasses, but it won't help me integrate into the world the way you can," she said.
"People like me are persecuted here. And it's frustrating that I can't do more," she explained.
Then, perking up slightly, she looked back at him.
"But I've heard things. There are heroes here too. Maybe there's even more people that have been stranded, just like us. I agree that we have to lie low and be careful, but it's worth the risk to try and reach out. Not now, but I'd like to soon."
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Nightwing
| Mercenary
| The Regime
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Post by Damian Wayne on Jun 28, 2016 20:20:59 GMT -5
Damian huffed at the microwave, as if it had been given sentience and could agree with him that she was being impossible, before eyeing the less than clean carpet around him. There probably wasn't any amount of scrubbing that could make the flooring look less filthy, but if she was focusing on the floor that meant she wasn't going to go do something stupid outside. He could understand her frustrations, though, sort of.
She still wanted to return home: to go back from whatever magical universe she was from where Dick was still alive, and he didn't exist to her knowledge. Damian wasn't sure he wanted to go back to the Regime, to his old miserable existence with a war that pitted father against son, but he did know that he didn't really want her to leave. He couldn't articulate this, though. For someone who had no trouble blending into the general populace physically Damian's social skills, or rather lack of them, could be his undoing.
"Just because the papers say costumed freaks doesn't mean they're heroes," Damian reminded her in pessimistic fashion. Villains dressed up just as freaky as the good guys, and in a world where anyone with powers was considered a villain by default it was unlikely as many heroes existed as Mar'i hoped. People had a funny habit of eventually becoming what you assumed them to be.
"Don't be stupid," he warned with his general lack of tact. "There's only one way to seek out people like you without arousing suspicion, and you don't belong there."
He was speaking of the underground, the one even darker than the black market Damian often used to find employment. It was said that all the freaks like her had gone into hiding down there. His sources weren't always the most scrupulous but he'd hunted down a few people like Mar'i already, focusing on the task instead of the person, just so he didn't imagine her haunting green eyes in every pleading face.
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Nightstar
| Landscaper / Window Washer
| DC
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Post by Mar'i Grayson on Jul 2, 2016 11:18:18 GMT -5
Mar'i was annoyed at the insult, but despite thinking the worst of her, the woman refused to become what he assumed her to be.
She was thinking about it. The idea of taking the easy route offended her pride and duty, so it was out of the question that she would spend the rest of her days waiting, keeping a low profile, doing nothing.
However, she knew a thing or two about risk management. Now, they were vulnerable, with no plan b and as he said, no funds to begin making one. There were no safe-houses. There were no plane tickets. There were no connections to erase their existence in the eyes of the law, and start an anonymous life elsewhere.
If they were caught...
Her face fell as the creeping realization seized her. If they were caught, they would try to execute her. She faced the danger of death as a hero every day, and she was powerful enough that if it came to it, she would fight for her life. Even so, what would be Damian's penalty? What was the cost of harbouring someone like her?
The thought of him being executed made her chest tighten in an awful way. It wasn't simply the idea of death, which was the one weakness she could never deny because it defined the limitations of her heroic career, but that it was him made it difficult to keep from looking visibly upset. He was the only person she really had here to rely on. For all his insults, he had been a source of comfort to her during these trying months by virtue of his presence. And, X'hal help her, she liked him.
"Are you sure?" she replied quietly, looking down and away from him. "If anyone finds out who I am, and that we're living together, you're guilty by association. I really like this arrangement between us, but if it's your safety you're concerned about... It might not be worth the risk."
She looked up at him, meeting the blue eyes she'd be terribly sorry never to see again. Did he think she was worth it, stupid decisions and all?
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Nightwing
| Mercenary
| The Regime
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Post by Damian Wayne on Jul 6, 2016 19:32:20 GMT -5
She was quiet. Too quiet. Damian set down the microwave part in his calloused hand and slowly got to his feet. A life in the shadows made the young man silent as he stepped over the remains of the old kitchen appliance carefully and made his way towards Mar'i. He could clearly smell the stew now that he was closer, and the steam rising off it seemed to cling to him once it hit him.
Mar'i wasn't looking at him when she spoke, and he was tempted to reach out to draw her attention back. Damian didn't, though, keeping his hands loosely at his sides for respect of personal boundaries. This close he could smell the cheap perfume smell of her shampoo. When those green eyes slid back up to his the young mercenary didn't hesitate.
"I'm sure. You're worth the risk," he informed her definitively. The young man moved a half-step closer, his eyes never leaving hers, as he said: "I have no concern for my own safety."
It was probably stupid, but he'd stopped caring what would happen to him awhile ago. After Bruce had already declared him dead. After all the things he did to gain Clark and Diana's approval left him hollow inside. Selina said he could reinvent himself, and he hadn't been sure how to do that until he met Mar'i. He still did things he knew he shouldn't, for the sake of their survival, but he'd been tainted since birth with a darkness he hoped she'd never know.
"I don't want to lose-" Damian cut off abruptly, inhaling sharply, because this wasn't a confession he'd been expecting to make. "I just- promise you won't go there without me to back you up," he demanded, his last request making up for the hesitancy prior. In tone it was almost a command.
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Nightstar
| Landscaper / Window Washer
| DC
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Post by Mar'i Grayson on Jul 7, 2016 17:21:43 GMT -5
He had come in so close so silently, the ninja. She was looking up at him from her seat while he was barely a step away. He could be quite disarming with that skill of his; he had spooked her with it a few times, but it was his words, not his silence, that had her lips parting in surprise. A good surprise, as she wished all in life would be, that lifted the sombre veil off her expression.
The conviction that she was worth it was comforting, though the lack of concern for his own safety was not. The crumple in the faint smile he managed conveyed he might not care, but she did.
As though those weren't words enough from her usually prickly friend, his interrupted admission came at an even greater shock. Mar'i stared at him speechless, in awe of the implication that couldn't be denied. He didn't want to lose her anymore than she did him. The swell of emotion inside her was almost dizzying. Relief? Gratitude? Happiness? All she knew was that she had never felt fonder for him.
"I promise," she said quietly, with a smile. Maybe it would have been better of her to choose the less risky option and leave, but it was hard to resist that selfish part of her that wanted to stay by his side regardless. She would therefore easily concede to his demand that he made to keep them both safe.
She planted both feet to the ground and rose from the chair. Her arms reached out to him, inviting, not enveloping. "Hug on it?" she asked, with all the patience for a man she knew to bristle at contact. Hers was a question, with room to refuse if he'd like.
[/quote]
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Nightwing
| Mercenary
| The Regime
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Post by Damian Wayne on Jul 8, 2016 19:57:40 GMT -5
She promised and Damian responded with a single nod. Hopefully she was better at keeping promises than he was. He almost flinched at the self-inflicted jab, remembering a promise he'd made to his father a long time ago. One he'd broken more times than he could count. Her movement interrupted his self-flagellation and he turned his gaze once again to lock eyes with hers.
Damian Wayne wasn't a hugger. He didn't express affection terribly well, but that didn't mean he didn't want to. She was inviting him in, but not pushing him, and the youngest Wayne hesitated for a moment. He glanced up at her face, not even realizing that he was seeking further confirmation, before taking a step forward and pulling into an awkward embrace.
It took him a few heartbeats to relax. He wasn't used to others in his personal space, but he liked the way she felt against him, and the way she smelled. "Are hugs necessary to remember promises where you come from?" he asked her quietly, teasingly his lips near her ear.
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Nightstar
| Landscaper / Window Washer
| DC
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Post by Mar'i Grayson on Jul 9, 2016 16:28:21 GMT -5
She could tell it wasn't natural for him, but he had been the one to pull her in against him, and so he could be the one to let go if he didn't find it to his liking. For Mar'i, it felt as though he didn't really know how to hold someone. There was an uncertainty she could feel in his arms around her. If he didn't, he proved to be a fast learner, as he relaxed. He did have one of the best teachers. Mar'i easily wrapped her arms around him as soon as she realized he wasn't going to change his mind, and rested her head where it was comfortable against his shoulder.
He spoke first, his breath tickling her ear, but it was his joke about remembering promises with hugs that made her chuckle. As long as the people she didn't like refrained from promising her anything, that sounded like a great arrangement. Alas, "No," she answered, smiling, "but..." Her head shifted against him suspiciously like a nuzzle. "It's a comfort to me, and I only have you to rely on now."
She should probably check on the stew. She should probably let go and stop doing potentially creepy things, like noticing how rock-solid his abs were despite the clothing. She should definitely not think about how they'd feel without them. What was reason in the wake of the feelings that drew her to him? She was where she wanted to be. Did he want to be here, too? Or was what she had to give too much for the bristly son of Bruce Wayne?
"Damian," she whispered, her lips close enough to his neck that any closer and she'd be kissing the name into his skin. "I..."
The lid was smacking against pot as stew was bubbling over. It brought her back into the moment, and she tensed. What was she doing? She was taking advantage of his gesture of comfort, knowing full well how uncomfortable such things were for him, and what was she trying to do? Confess her attraction?
She drew away suddenly, using their dinner as an excuse. "I gotta save our kitchen before it splatters everywhere," and retreated.
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