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Monday starts with a robbery at Central City National Bank, because apparently this quartet of enlightened individuals woke up with the determination to beat any notion of holiday good will out of the establishment’s patrons. Wally is gone before Shayera even has a chance to return the hasty “Good morning,” and with his rapid-fire departure comes a feeling of dread, that this is going to be the story of their week – the end of which is a deadline, admittedly a self-imposed deadline, but a deadline all the same, which Shayera would greatly prefer to not miss.
She picks up Julie’s shift at the precinct around noon. Two hours later, a call comes over the radio about Mirror Master knocking over an antiques store. A little below his skill level, in Shayera’s opinion, but whatever. It just means she won’t see her husband for another hour, because after he finishes knocking around the reflective surface enthusiast, he’ll have to zip out of costume and play CSI. Shayera just prays he remembers a change of clothes this time.
Right in the middle of five o’clock rush hour, there’s a four-car pileup on the highway. She gets a Sorry! :( text from Wally, probably right around the time he was beelining out the door. With a resigned sigh, Shayera heads home to make dinner. Italian, tonight. She triples the recipe, stores the leftovers, and leaves neon Post-It notes in five different places so Wally doesn’t forget to eat (again) and flatline from blood sugar crash (again).
Then she curls up in bed, pillow tucked close to her belly, and tries to sleep.
***
Tuesday starts with more promise: Wally is in bed when the alarm goes off, peppering her shoulders with little kisses and mumbling apologies for not seeing her all day yesterday. Feeling more relaxed, encouraged even, Shayera mentally prepares her speech for breakfast.
She gets as far as “I need to te—” and their comm links activate. Shayera grits her teeth, forces herself to listen to the bare bone details, then forces a smile to Wally’s concerned look and promises they’ll talk later.
“Later” gets interrupted three times: Wally gets called to a B&E (seriously, people? It’s Christmas! Even she has grown to appreciate this holiday enough to show a drop of consideration!), Shayera gets a text from the captain about reviewing evidence for an upcoming trial, and then they both get called to the Watch Tower for a briefing.
Diana gives her a look across the table, silently asking the question she doesn’t dare voice in front of the others. Shayera replies with a stiff glower – not at her sister League member, but at the circumstances – and gets a sympathetic frown from the Amazon.
***
Wednesday is consumed by meetings, briefings, and a holiday party. Two holiday parties, technically. The precinct’s lasts from ten in the morning until three in the afternoon and contains more frosted sugary sweets than Shayera could have imagined in existence. Around two, someone orders pizza to try and delay the diabetic coma. Wally loads up his plate then cuddles up beside Shayera at a small table. The first waft of hot grease turns her stomach. Meaning, it lurches like a ship lost in gale force conditions in the middle of a tsunami.
“Baby?” Wally, bless him, notices before he even takes a first bite. “You okay?”
“Fine.” She manages, and her (fake) assurances must work, because Wally smiles that radiant smile of his, squeezes her hand, and goes back to his pizza.
Her stomach (thank heaven) holds out until Wally goes for the desserts (again). Then Shayera sprints to the nearest bathroom and becomes intimately acquainted with the toilet bowl.
***
Giganta helps herself to a shopping spree on Thursday. Shayera tells J’onn she can handle it alone. These days, she can sometimes talk the giantess down without issue. Giganta seems to like her, as much as Shayera assumes she can be liked by a woman who is perfectly willing to throw a light pole at her from fifty yards out – but always seems to swing a little wide on the pitch.
Things start to go wrong during the first few verbal barbs. Ten minutes later, Shayera breaks into a hairpin turn to avoid a display case from across the room. Then things go from problematic to downright disastrous.
Regrettably, Giganta is more perceptive than some members of the League give her credit for. She catches Shayera mid-fall, but before she can ask the obvious question, Shayera is scrambling for a trash can and emptying out breakfast.
This is about the time that “perceptive” levels up to something akin to J’onn’s abilities. Helpful in certain circumstances and situations, no doubt – absolutely none of which are present in this moment.
“They let you out in the field like this?!” The righteous anger from a (former? Part-time?) enemy is unexpected, possibly concerning, but Shayera is too busy feeling grateful for the wet paper towel being pressed to her neck. “Are they crazy or is it just you???”
“’s fine.” She half-slurs, willing her arms to work long enough to get upright again. “It’s fine.”
Giganta lifts an eyebrow and pointedly looks down at the trashcan. And…well. Maybe it’s a little generous to call a failed escape maneuver, a last-second rescue from her opponent, and a terribly soiled trash liner “fine.”
The redhead stays with her until Diana shows up, answering a humiliating call for assistance. She sharply deposits Shayera in the Amazon’s arms, as if she weighs as much as a child’s toy, and gives Diana an impassioned lecture, followed by strict instructions to take Shayera home and keep her there. Then she grabs a fashionable diamond necklace and walks out the door.
“Let her keep it.” Shayera mumbles when Diana looks dangerously close to objecting. “She’s earned it.”
Later, Diana produces a decent cover story for the embarrassing defeat and staves off Wally’s concerns (mostly). J’onn gives her a disproving look and a poorly veiled threat of putting her on bedrest – which is a ridiculous notion, and she tells him as much.
“There is no such thing on Thanagar.” Shayera insists, while fumbling her way out of these absurd hospital gowns. “The female always maintains her regular routine, until her time comes.”
“You are not on Thanagar anymore.” J’onn rumbles, the warning clear in his tone and expression when he adds, “And you will do well to tell your husband as soon as possible before I do it for you.”
“When you find a way to magically clear our schedules for ten minutes, let me know.” The retort falters, mostly because she can barely stand upright, and J’onn’s look tells her as much.
***
She spends far too many hours Thursday morning, before the sun has even thought about coming up, bent over the toilet. Wally is in a tizzy, fearing everything from food poisoning to a concussion. By the time Shayera manages to stop vomiting long enough to get three words strung together, Wally’s comm link beeps: Captain Cold is at the museum. It’s Christmas Eve. The museum is not open. And neither is the new jewel exhibit.
Shayera has full intentions of conducting herself appropriately. But when she and Wally arrive and, fifteen minutes into the ordeal, Snart coats one of her wings with ice, proper conduct fails to be a viable option. She’s exhausted, drained and unsteady from the constant vomiting, and disabling one of her wings causes a plumet out of the sky that was too close a call for her to manage with any degree of diplomacy.
While her husband handles the handful of Snart’s “associates,” Shayera shakes enough of the ice out of her feathers to get on her feet. Then she throws a chair and knocks Snart off his feet.
When he tries to get up, she punches him dead in the face. Twice.
***
They technically should finish packing for tomorrow, for the Christmas weekend she’ll spend at the West house in the company of her new in-laws. But James Jesse asks for so little in life and he loves getting visitors this close to the holidays, so Shayera is content to join Wally for a quiet night of friendly conversation and soft darts.
When they arrive at the hospital, James proudly shows them his latest craft: a string of paper cutouts in interchanging shapes of lightning bolts and angel wings. He even colored them: yellow for Wally’s lightning bolts, gray and dark blue for Shayera’s wings. She approves of the color choice. There’s a blue dress of similar shade hanging in her closet with a track record of unhinging Wally’s jaw to the floor.
Wally plays the first three rounds with James. Then Shayera has a go. Her precision in battle strikes matches Wally’s rapid-fire technique – and occasionally outmatches it. Tonight, she beats him and Wally demands a retry. Within minutes, James is perched on the couch, enjoying his lollipop, while Wally’s adorable competitive streak sees them through match…after match…after match…after match.
It’s nine o’clock by the time they bid the Trickster farewell. While Wally is briefly chatting with the night guard, James tugs on Shayera’s sweater and pushes a box into her hands: fairly light in weight, the size of a shoe box, and wrapped in red paper splattered with tiny Christmas trees. There’s a note written in Sharpie on a piece of white paper: DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 12/25!
James winks at her before skipping his way off to his room.
***
“Is it heavy?”
“No.” Shayera carefully lifts the package to her ear. “Nothing is ticking. Nothing is rattling inside. All I can hear is…paper? Like tissue paper.”
“…maybe we should open it now.” Wally tips his head to the left. He does that when deep in thought, and Shayera often fights to keep herself from pointing out how much he looks like a puppy. “Y’know…just in case.”
“You mean, so we avoid blowing up your mother and her house?” It’s half a joke, but not completely. James has behaved himself for the better part of a year, and the doctors say he’s been steady on the medication, but…old habits and all.
With a deep breath, Shayera peels back the paper first. A brown cardboard box greets her. Literally, a recycled shoe box. She tears the rest of the paper away and, with the same care and precaution, cracks the lid. No ticking. She nudges it a little higher. No gas or strange odors. Finally, with a nod from Wally, she pulls the lid entirely free and reveals the contents.
“What is that?” Wally frowns. “A scarf? A hat?”
No. No, none of those things, though it is knitted. Knitted in shades of gray, blue, and purple from the softest yarn she’s ever felt. It will be a matter for later conversation that the doctors are allowing James access to knitting needles. For now, all that matters is what Shayera is holding in her hands. Wally doesn’t recognize it, but she does.
After about two minutes of careful study, Wally finally recognizes the gift. “A onesie?” He blinks adorably. Everything about this man is obscenely adorable. “We don’t have any use for a onesie.”
“Not yet.” Shayera murmurs, stroking the threads tenderly. “But we will in about nine months.”
Poor Wally requires another five minutes before the befuddled expression slowly morphs into a shy grin. Then a beaming smile. Then he drops to his knees, wraps both arms around Shayera’s waist, and rests his cheek to her stomach. “Hi there.” He whispers, “I’m your daddy. And I love you very much. You’re the best Christmas present your mama could ever give me.”
“Funny.” Shayera whispers as she drags fingers through his wild red hair. She wonders if the baby will have Wally’s eyes or hers. She knows it will have his smile. That much is a certainty, and already her mind is filled with images of unruly red hair and a smile that sees the good in everything and everyone. “I was about to say the same thing about Daddy.”