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“Does Shayna Hall have a future, then?”
Outside, the snow falls like powdered sugar. “I don’t know anymore.” Her voice is quiet. “But I think you already know that, J’onn.”
“It would be presumptuous to invite myself into your mind, would it not?”
The humor has a strong delivery but falls short on her ability to properly receive and process it. “I suppose.”
He bodily passes through the room: a gray mist brushing artificial pine whose branches are proudly erect in the living room, adorned with light and ornaments stemming from a childhood which – as of late – Shayera has been living through vicariously. A childhood which, while far from perfect at its core, contains smiles and the precious presence of these ornaments to remind of happier times when the world wasn’t so happy.
A long pause, then he speaks softly, softer than before, “Have you given Shayera Hol a future instead?”
“Does she deserve one?”
She feels him stand beside her: presence blanketing warmth over her skin and settling comfortably in her mind. His earlier comment nearly makes her laugh, that to invite himself into her mind would be terribly rude…when she so clearly left the door open. “Does she want one?”
A single tear tracks down her cheek. “You know what I want, J’onn.”
Now, his hand settles at her shoulder. He feels warm, or else she just feels terribly cold. Strength fails her, first in the legs, then everywhere else. Where her body is weak, J’onn’s is anything but: a beacon of support to catch her without pause and draw her in close. “Yes. And I want to hear you say it.”
Another tear follows the first. Her days are not without the intimacy of a lover’s embrace – Wally’s arms winding around her waist in a stolen moment at the precinct, accompanied by a kiss to her cheek, or his hands stealing her back into the sheets with mumbled protests about the hour being too early and the bed being too cold without her – but this is something new. Something that equal parts terrifies her and invites complete surrender: the tenderness of a father’s embrace. She has no memory of being held like this, not by her own parents. Without exaggeration, being held in J’onn’s arms feels very much like the first gulp of air after drowning; the bask of sunlight after suffering in the bitter cold.
More tears streak down her face. She feels so foolish: weeping like a little girl at the one time of year when all is suppose to be merry and bright, peace one earth and goodwill towards men; a time when families gather together and remind each other of sweet memories and laugh over a hearty meal.
“…I want to go home.” Her voice breaks around the words. J’onn either still manages to hear each one without difficulty, or he heard them on a stronger voice – one which only he can hear.
Around them, around her, the air shifts. It grows cold for a moment, then almost unbearably warm, and finally settles somewhere in the middle. Shayera opens her eyes. Stainless steel walls greet her: a new tower, constructed by hands not her own and with labor not of her making. All at once, she craves a return home, to the living room in a cramped one-bedroom apartment that at the best of times is a little snug (and at the worst is oppressively cramped) for her orderly nature and Wally’s boisterous personality.
She opens her mouth, ready to take it back, retreat into what is safe and familiar. She never gets the chance.
“Shay!” Wally relocates them both from one end of the room to the next before he manages to skid to a halt, “I thought you didn’t wanna come!”
“I…”
“A change of heart,” J’onn answers for her, even when she isn’t convinced those were going to be her exact words, “doubtless inspired by the holiday spirt which exists in abundance across your living room.”
Wally grins, every bit a proud schoolboy praises for some great accomplishment, and loops his arm around Shayera’s waist. The familiarity of such an act, while simple, melts the tension from her bones. She responds with a hand at his chest, anchoring herself and willing such mundane contact to still the reckless beating of her heart.
The room into which all three of them enter is likely a conference room, under normal circumstances, but is presently converted into yet another display of Christmas cheer before the gathered depart for individual Christmas celebrations. The walls bear garland and colored lights and are lined with tables, each of which is set up with steaming platters of food that remind her explicitly of the All-You-Can-Eat buffets Wally drags her to once a month.
Wally’s hand gently rubs along her left side. He must have felt the ripple of tension.
“I believe our guest list is complete.” J’onn says, tone calm and polite in spite of a generally mixed reaction from the other four people in the room. John, in particular, seems to linger his gaze on her and Wally’s physical closeness.
Then, in the time it takes her to blink, she’s swept up in Clark’s muscular embrace – as if it’s the most natural thing in the world – and a breath she didn’t realize was being held comes rushing out in a single exhale.
“Welcome home, Shayera.” Clark murmurs; she can feel his smile against her hairline.
The last of her tension release with another sigh, and both arms fit as best they can around his muscular girth. On her left shoulder, she feels a fleeting but memorable touch – memorable, because she glimpses it as belonging to Bruce, accompanied by a silent nod and something like a smile passing through his dark eyes. Clark releases her into a polite, albeit somewhat uncertain, embrace from John. Those questions, she is sure, will come later. But not now.
“Here,” she nearly jumps at Diana’s voice, unexpected when she only a moment earlier had watched the Amazon exit the room and, consequently, assumed she wouldn’t be back, “We were short a chair at the table.”
She swallows, hard, and lowers into the proffered chair. Her eyes meet Diana’s as the other woman takes her own seat. No words are exchanged, and none are needed.
Welcome home.
I’m home.