I remember hating Carolyn for what she did. I wanted nothing less than to beat her until she was as black as her code name and as blue as her eyes. I remember telling myself that I'd never leave Barbara or Dinah alone like that just because I couldn't handle the responsibility that comes with the superhero package. I remember thinking that they knew the risks just as well as I did, and that if they were okay with it then so was I.

Except, I wasn't; I'm not.

The smell of the air is different here. It's not as dirty as Gotham's, but it's just as salty. I can take a little comfort in the sea wind, can almost pretend I'm still there. If I really try, I can even imagine Barbara's breathing in my ear, her fingers flying over the keys as she wades through the data coming in over the Delphi system. I never thought I'd miss the sound of a keyboard clacking in the background, but I do. I miss it so much it hurts.

God, does crime even exist in this city? I've been perched on the edge of St. Roch's primary hotel, the Regal something-or-other, for most of the night, and I haven't heard so much as a peep relating to any kind of wrongdoing. Heh, I sound like some kind of errant knight. "Wrongdoing." Or really, "errant." Guess Barbara's brains have rubbed off on me, after all. Ew. That's a mental image I didn't need.

There's a shift in the air behind me and my hackles rise. I whirl, my leather creaking, just in time for my jaw to connect solidly with a fist. At least, I think it was a fist. I'm falling too fast to check on that detail. It occurs to me that dying like this is somewhat insulting to my feline DNA. The Reaper and I are going to have some words over this, let me tell you.

Or maybe not. There's a pump of air and my descent slows, then reverses completely as strong hands grab me by my armpits. I can feel my stomach turning over on itself, and I might have to swallow my pride and apologize to my savior after I puke all over him. Or her. I'd have to definitely go with her, because there's no way a man's got pecs this cushioney with arms this strong; it'd just be too weird. Eck, the thought of man-breasts is almost more than my nausea can handle.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I have to blink furiously to clear the spots from my eyes. Maybe I'm prone to motion sickness - I'm going to have to get that looked into. Suddenly there's ground under my feet, and look, under my hands, too. That's just great. If there's any rule that stays constant throughout this biz, it's that you don't let your enemies see you down. And here I am, crawling around on all fours because I got thrown around a little. That's a sure-fire way to display my prowess at this - not.

"What you should have been doing all along."

The voices are next to me. Turning my head is a bad idea, or so it seems. Now the ground's under my face. Gotta love that. Also gotta love the steel-toed boots next to my nose. If I had to take a guess, I'd say they're about to kick my teeth down my throat.

"Don't you touch her, Carter, or so help me..."

Another set of boots comes into view. They're smaller than the ones by my nose, and I pair them up with the feminine voice. Nice to know my champion is gonna keep with the job description even though I'm not falling to a humiliating end.

"Damnit, Kendra!" The boots in front of me turn to face the female speaker. I can feel the world stop spinning; it's a nice feeling. I've missed it. "You don't even know who she is."

Well, good. At least we're even on that account. The roof I'm on now doesn't belong to the hotel - it's older. I can feel it's age in the texture of the bricks under my palms as I push myself up, bringing my knees under my stomach as I prepare to pounce on the guy that wants my face broken so badly. My entire body is like one of those composite long bows; every muscle is coiled and ready to push me into a barreling slam. All I've got to do is a get a look at this guy so that I don't miss.

I can feel my eyes shifting as I look up to where his voice last came from. His body is turning to face me; he knows I'm about to attack. Wings dust across the roof by his feet and the moon glints briefly off the head of a hawk. It takes everything I've got to uncoil and back down, and the fucker still hits me.

I'm gonna kick his ass, just as soon as I wake up.

The first thing I hear is a groan. It takes me a few minutes to realize it was me, and after that everything's peachy. Painful, but peachy. And I'm going to kill Dinah forever using that word around me; God damned southern expressions. At least I haven't picked up the word "y'all" yet, if it's even considered a word.

"You're awake?" The woman's voice again, off to my left. She sounds surprised. A tentative opening of my eyes proves far too painful, and I settle for just assuming she also looks surprised. "Carter hit you pretty hard. I wasn't expecting you to wake up for another day or two."

I snort, following the action up closely with a full-bodied wince. Barbara told me Hawkman was a heavy-hitter, but I never would have guessed just how heavy. It feels like every cell in my body has it's own personal bruise. I hurt so much I can't even feel thankful that I heal faster than a normal person. There's something wet on my brow; I think the girl's wiping my face. That's kinda sweet. If I wasn't so surly, I might say thanks.

"What's your name?" The cloth is gone momentarily, but then it's back. She's moving lower, wiping my jaw and neck. That feels good. "Can't you talk?" She's stopped. Damn.

"Yeah," I croak. Surprise, surprise, that hurts, too. I think my tongue is swollen. "Helena."

She makes a noise in the back of her throat, but starts wiping me down again. I wonder if she's going to give me a complete bath? "I'm Kendra." She wipes neatly across the tops of my breasts, and then the cloth is gone again. Something tells me it's not coming back. "What were you doing on top of the hotel?"

I'd grimace, but I'm not that much of a masochist. Unless she's got a handy morphine drip, her answers are going to be terse and, oh yeah, terse. Now, let's see. What was I doing on top of that hotel? I need a one-word answer, here. Ah, yes, "Sweeping."

Ow. Ow, ow, and fucking ow.

I hate my life.

"I wasn't aware St. Roch's rooftops were that dirty." She's got to be smiling; that tone of voice never happens unless someone's smiling. I really want to know what she looks like. "Or did you mean sweeping of the urban-protector variety?"

Ah, a woman after my own heart. Sadly, I don't have it in me to sweep her off her feet with smooth words, so she's gonna have to settle for a grunt. There, grunt issued. And it didn't hurt that much, so maybe I'll start communicating in them until I'm better. They can call me Neanderthal-girl rather than Huntress, and I could walk around carrying a big club and go about dragging women back to my cave for a little procreation.

Man, that almost sounds appealing.

"So, you're a superhero, then?" She doesn't sound surprised. But then, she's one, too. There's some clanking and sloshing, and then I hear her get up and move away. I guess she's cleaning things up a little for her guest. Not that I can really notice, or anything. But she did ask a question, so I grunt again, in a conciliatory fashion. No need to have a fellow superhero mad at me, especially when they've been so nice up til now.

"Well, okay then. Since you're obviously not well enough to utter phrases, I'll leave you alone." She's off somewhere beyond my feet, now. I didn't hear her move over there, which is a testament to how unwell I really am. "When you wake up, help yourself to whatever's in the fridge."

Heh, my knight in steel-toed boots.

You have absolutely no idea how wonderful a thing peeing really is. I've recently come to believe that there's nothing quite like draining your bladder after you've been holding it for more than ten hours. I might even go so far as to say it's as good as sex. Or at least, most sex. I'd like to think sex with Barbara would be better than peeing.

Not that I've got a chance in hell of having her now... God, it feels like my heart's been ripped out. I used to think that the whole true-love schpeal was a crock of shit, but I know better now. It's a constant ache inside me. I hate it, I hate it so much, but I can't go back! If I do, she might get hurt. She might die. I couldn't take it if someone else I loved died, and I know for a fact that I'd kill myself if she died.

There's movement in the other room. Guess I'd best get myself together. A quick splash of water on my face, a finger of toothpaste and a short gargle later and I'm almost as good as new. Not even a hint of a bruise anywhere. I like that. I really, really like that. Being able to blink without sending my body into spasms of pain is truly something to be thankful for.

Ah, well, now that my bladder is empty I can appreciate the college-girl taste Kendra seems to have as far as decorating is concerned. Mismatched chairs are placed opposite the couch I had been camping on, and a really tiny TV is on the kitchen counter. Guess she doesn't watch anything but the news. The walls are bare, except for a Rolling Stones poster over a bookshelf (which doesn't have many books on it). Wow, she even has goldfish. I had goldfish. I hope Alfred's taking good care of them.

And my knight herself is quite the cutie. She's looking at me without the slightest bit of surprise, for which I commend her. I think if my almost-dead patient was up and at 'em the next day, I'd be pretty shocked. But then again, she is a superhero. A superhero with a really great hair-stylist. I'll have to ask who.

"Hey," she says. God, hey. What the hell is it with southerners and their damn shortened expressions?

"Hey." Great, now I'm doing it. I swear Dinah's gonna wish she'd never heard of South Carolina. Course, she probably already does...

"How do you feel? Are you hungry?" I could really get used to this kind of concern. I smile my patented sloppy grin and nod a little, slinking my form down to lean on her kitchen counter as I peer interestedly at the gold fish. "Do you not talk, or am I so charming that I catch your tongue?"

Oh, nice mental image. But, she's frustrated, and really cute with the frustration at that. Her short russet hair's all spiky around her face, in that kind of "I just rolled out of bed" way, and she's got her hands on her hips and they're canted just so... "Nah, I actually talk a lot. I guess I didn't want you to kick me out because I said something stupid." Um, okay. When did I start telling the truth like that? You know, without even thinking about it.

She smirks and walks towards the door, picking up a coat that's been laying on one of the chairs. "You like Cajun food?"

She's not really giving me a choice with that question. I mean, we are in Louisiana. So I mumble, "Yeah, I guess." Man, I'm sooo suave. And would you look at that sarcasm?

"Great, there's a cheap fast-food place down the block. And we can get you some clean clothes while we're out, unless you've got a room someplace...?"

All I can do is look down at my clothes and take in the fact that they're ruined. My favorite outfit is completely ruined. God damnit all to fucking hell. The jacket is ripped down the side in a manner that would make a repair all too noticeable, and the shirt's collar is fraying. My pants are okay, except for the fact that the color has been removed thanks to my introduction to that last rooftop I was on. My shoes are the only thing not scuffed up. Which is something, I suppose.

"Well?"

I blink and look up at her. Oh, right, do I have a room? "Nope, no room. I had a bag, though. Unless you or Hawkman picked it up, it's probably still on the hotel's roof."

Her mouth works in a way that lets me know I've confused her. Yay for me. Finally she just looks at me, her brown eyes piercing into mine. I feel like I'm being sized up for the kill, except that it's not pushing any of my usual buttons. Which is really weird, when I think about it. Eventually she gets her voice to work again. "You know who we are?"

"Uh, well, he's kinda a member of the Justice League, and all that." But she knows this, of course. "And, well, not too many grown men run around dressed up as birds of prey." She knows that, too. "You kinda have to learn to put two and two together in this business, you know?" She grunts at me. "But, no, I don't know who 'we' are. Just him. Who're you?"

"Hawkgirl." She smirks, and walks out the door.

Well, that makes sense, I guess. Hawkman and Hawkgirl. Two peas in a pod, from what Barbara told me about them. And yet, they were arguing like crazy up on that rooftop, if I remember correctly. What's up with that? I got the impression that they were destined to love one another for all eternity and to never argue and be all fuzzy with some warm feelings on top for good measure. You know, true cuddle-love. At least until Hath-Set kills them both and they get reincarnated and do it all over again.

Guess I'll have to ask whenever I catch up with her.

Kendra eats like Jesse. She shovels food in her mouth, starts to chew, and then takes a drink of her sweet tea (I swear, they had to make the word unsweet up for the south) as she continues to masticate (heh, masticate). Then she swallows the whole mix, and does it again. I never understood that. Why take a drink in the middle of chewing? It destroys the taste of the food.

I think the thing that gets to me most is that I would never have noticed that about her if Jesse were still alive. Watching her eat is almost painful. It reminds me of the few lunches he and I shared together, before the Joker took another person away from me. Before I wiped that mother fucking smile all over the asphalt and made damn fucking sure he was locked up for good in Arkham. Before I left.

"So I take it you're from up north?" She's talking around her food. Jesse did that, too. "I mean, most southerners don't wear leather this time of year."

I grimace and slide around a little in my seat, faintly aroused, but mostly irritated, by the sweat that's causing my pants to cling to me. "Yeah. I'm from Gotham." Her eyebrows are up in her hair. If she wasn't chewing tea-food I'm sure her jaw would've dropped. "No, I don't know Batman." I head her off before she gets started. And it's true enough; I've never actually met father dearest. Mostly, I just don't want to go there.

She's finally swallowed the evil concoction. "Were you, uh, in the business there?" She almost said it. She almost asked if I had been a superhero there. I'd have laughed until my gut busted open if she'd let that one slip in the middle of a busy restaurant. I nod, snickering and taking another bite of bourbon chicken. It's really, really good. "Why'd you leave?"

Well, that's the million dollar question, isn't it? Why did I leave? There are so many ways to answer that, and I don't want to give her any of them. I just want to pretend she didn't ask. Except, she's looking at me with those eyes again - like she's gonna pierce right through my soul by just looking at me - and I know I can't just ignore it, or tell her it's none of her business. I mean, I could tell her it's none of her business, but I'd feel like I was being cheap, or something. Like I was copping out.

"I couldn't take it there anymore." Well, that's a good answer. It doesn't reveal anything, and it doesn't sound like I'm copping out. It just sounds like I hate the city, or something. Maybe she'll think I was too stressed there. Gotham's notorious for being the worst city in the States when it comes to crime. Except maybe for Blüdhaven. I don't envy Dickie at all...

"Hn," she grunts. She kinda sounds Japanese when she does that. They grunt that way. I know because Barbara dragged me to a gala once, as her "escort," and I had to listen to her chatter in the language. It's amazing how she can learn things like that without even really having to try. I always kinda wanted to learn another language, just so I could talk to her in it. Or maybe learn one she doesn't know. Like Klingon. Hell, that'd be a reason to go to California...

Oh fuck, she's about to ask me something else. I'm tired of this getting questioned thing. Quick, Helena! Before she opens her mouth around that next mouthful of food! Uh, um, oh: "What was up with you and birdman last night? I thought you guys weren't supposed to argue, or something. I mean, aren't you soul mates, or whatever?" Thank you, God. I even managed to sound uninterested. I win!

She's looking at me with a smile on her face that I can only classify as "bemused." I'm pretty sure she's not the type of person who enjoys being interrogated; neither am I. Betcha I hit on a sore spot with that question. She takes another swig of tea to buy herself some time, but eventually she answers. "We've been having a difference of opinion lately about how to do the job."

Damn, can I sympathize with that. Barbara and I never really saw eye-to-eye on the issue, either. But she had other points in her favor, so I never really let that tarnish my attraction to her. I wonder what Hawkgirl's stance was? "So what was your take on it?" I still sound only mildly entertained by the conversation. I've really got to thank Alfred for suggesting I take those acting classes in high school.

"Look before you leap," she says, and I nearly spit my drink out my nose. She really doesn't seem like the type. I'd have pegged her to be more like me: beat down first, ask questions after they're unconcious. "He sees things in black or white. There is no gray, in his world." She's frowning with all the muscles in her face and neck. I guess he must not've liked something she did. "You're right or you're wrong. Period."

Her fists are almost white, now. If I could think of something to debunk the anger, I'd've done it already. But, just as suddenly as she flared, she cools. Her hands go limp and she sighs, her body relaxing into the back of her chair. There's a weight to her now that wasn't there before, or maybe I just didn't notice it. Being wrapped up in your own shit can make you blind to the shit of others. Maybe that should be my life's quote.

"Guess it was a big arguement, huh?" I take it fairly easy on her with my next question. Yes or no? She needn't bother elaborating.

"Yeah..."

There, see, that wasn't too bad. But her shoulders have fallen just a little more, and it looks like she's trying not to cry. Damnit, Helena, you're such a fucking moron. I think it's time to get the hell outta here. "Let's go get my clothes, okay?"

I've got to say, I finally understand why Barbara used to make those little noises every time I'd hang around the clock tower and brood. I mean, I know I give off angst-riddled vibes, but Kendra's got it covered in a way I could only dream about. Our trek up the hotel to get my bag was, to say the least, tense, and now that we're back in her apartment building it's like she's closed off even more. I guess this place equals "time-to-be-alone-and-angry" for her.

The elevator dings us onto the fourth floor, and I have to hold back an intense sigh of relief. The cramped space was beginning to move in on me; I've never been very good with tight quarters. Minor claustrophobia, I guess. Must have something to do with my feline DNA. Prowling, and all that jazz. My apartment back in Gotham was twice the size of Kendra's. Daddy's money was good for some things...

There's a guy leaning against the frame of her door. I can describe him with exactly two words: strong jaw. His hair is combed back and looks like it's fresh from the wash, which makes it darker than I think it really is. I'd say he's a sandy brown, but I could be wrong. His eyes are ice blue. It's kinda creepy, the way he's looking at Kendra, his arms folded across his chest and this big scowl across his face. I'm gonna go out on a limb and assume this is Hawkman.

The way he's standing, and the shape of his chin, bring back another flash of Jesse. Just before his death, he'd come to see me after work. He'd been leaning against my door in exactly the same way, holding a bottle of wine and a bouquet of roses. I've never been the sentimental type, but it almost made me cry. He'd been the one person besides Barbara who'd bothered to understand me; he'd been one of the few people in my life that cared. And just like another person, just like mom, I'd been unable to save him. I'd been splattered with his blood before it had even registered that a gun had been fired. I hadn't been able to save him.

"Kendra." Hell yeah, that's Hawkman, ten points for me. He's standing up, straightening his shirt, which is a pretty pale blue that doesn't match his eyes at all, and holding his chin up at that perfect "I know everything" height. Fucker.

She sighs, setting her jaw and looking away from him, her hand on her hip and her stance screaming "leave me the hell alone." I'll give her this though, when she looks him in the eye he flinches and looks down. It's so obvious who wears the pants in this outfit. "What do you want, Carter?"

He casts a glance my way, indicating that he wants to talk to her alone. Like hell. Something about this situation makes me want to step in front of Kendra, to take all the damage his words are gonna hold for her. And that's fucking weird, if you ask me. "We need to talk."

Throwing her hands up and opening the door, she shoulders past him without a second thought. I smirk and follow her inside, shoving him with my elbow as I pass. I'm a petty, vindictive bitch. "Fine, what do you want to talk about?" She sounds pretty put out. I'm somewhat impressed that he's still here. Guess it makes sense, though. Hawkman should have balls.

"Her."

I turn to glare at him, my eyes narrowing. He has the nerve to make it sound like I'm the one with the problem? He hit me, unless I'm mistaken. Kendra comes to my defense, in a subtle kind of way. "What about her?"

"Who is she?" Jesus Christ, is he for real? He sounds like he's got a right to know. What is it with these guys and being up on the high horse?

"Why," she says nonchalantly. "She's the worlds greatest cat-burglar here for a tryst with the worlds greatest Hawkgirl." It's really hard not to laugh at the look on his face. He thought, at first, that she was serious, and then he realized she was being a sarcastic wench. And it's also really ironic that she called me a cat-burglar, considering what mom's old job used to be... "Why do you care, Carter? You gonna haul her away to jail for sitting on top of a hotel?" There's a sneer in her voice, but her back is to both him and me so I can't tell if it's on her face, too.

"She shouldn't have been up there; why would she be up there unless it was for something underhanded? She's wearing black leather, Kendra!" I suppose that's some kind of point, in his twisted mind. "People don't go around sitting on hotel rooftops dressed in black leather unless they're up to something!" Well, okay, so that is a valid point in anyone's mind...

"Really? What about Black Canary?" I blink. Wasn't she into fishnets and latex? "Or Troia?" Who? "They're superheroes, Carter, just like you, just like me, and just like Helena."

He scoffs. "And I suppose she told you she was a superhero?" Well, yeah, but not in so many words. "Why do you believe her?"

"She hasn't given me any reason not to!" Damn right I haven't; I'm not stupid.

"And just what would she have to do? Stab you in the back? Kick your face in? Steal your harness?" His voice has gone up several octaves, but it's still deeper than mine could ever be. Harness? "You can't just trust people like her!"

"Like me?" I'm pissed, now. "You're the one that punched my tongue down my throat, asshole. I didn't do a damn thing to you! If you'd've been paying more attention, maybe you would've noticed that I was backing down right before you introduced me to unconsciousness!" There's confusion written all over his face. "I could have had you tossed off that roof before you could have even thought about raising a fist, but I didn't. Why not?" He's still staring at me with that glazed over look people get when their synapses are misfiring. "Because you're Hawkman! You're one of us!"

"Us?" He's beginning to put it together, and his voice is laced in suspicion.

"One of the good guys! A superhero!" I'm waiving my arms around for emphasis. I doubt it's really helping. "I've had more than enough opportunities to kick your balls up your ass in the past few minutes, but I haven't. Why? Because we're on the same side!" I really need to learn to argue more persuasively. Even I know that what I'm saying is lame.

"If you're a superhero, what's your code name?" He's crossed his arms, and is looking at me expectantly.

The real question is, if I give him my code name, will he check up one me? If he checks up on me, Oracle will hear about it, and since Oracle and Barbara are one, I'd be screwed. I could make up a false name, but I'm not that good under pressure. Fuck me. "Huntress."

His jaw drops just a little. Guess he's heard of me, or something. "Oracle's Huntress?" The way he says it sends a chill down my spine. Has something happened to Barbara? I nod a little, not wanting to give too much more away with my words. He's biting back something, mulling over his next sentence. "She's been looking for you."

I don't know whether Carter is going to tell Barbara I'm here or not. I'm not really sure I care. Except, she's looking for me. She wants me back. It's agonizing as hell, but with a cherry on top. I mean, she must care if she's looking, right? What does that mean for me? Does it mean I should have stayed? Does it mean I should have told her how I felt? God, I hate my life! What did I ever do to deserve this shit? Was being a snotty bitch in high school that big of a sin? I mean, damnit, I was hot back then, it was like, a prerequisite or something that I be a snotty bitch!

"You wanna talk about it?" The question is quiet, and unassuming. Kendra doesn't want to intrude, but wants to offer her shoulder if I need it. Geeze, she's got her own problems, why would she want to bother with mine? "Sometimes it helps..." She trails off and looks away from me, leaning heavily into the back of the couch as she stares out the door to her balcony.

I think maybe we're a lot alike, Kendra and I. We've both got issues with our respective partners (although I think her particular situation is worse than mine), we've both done something we regret, and we've both had something happen to us that made us do what we regret. At least, that's what I've managed to piece together. We act too much alike for that not to be it. You can only be this broody if you've gone through a certain amount of crap...

Maybe I should take her up on this offer to listen thing. I haven't really disclosed much information about myself, and she's been all kinds of supportive and defensive. I mean, I kinda owe it to her, in a way. And besides, she's right, it might make me feel better. "My boyfriend was shot." Her head snaps back around as her eyes find my face, but I'm too busy looking at my hands to return the gaze. So far, I'm not feeling better.

"We were out on our first real date since we started officially 'going out.' He had made reservations at one of the classiest places in Gotham, and was ready to drop around three hundred bucks a head for us that evening." My voice is choking up; no one had ever been willing to spend that kind of money on me before. "Jesse was wearing this suit." I make this motion with my hands, the one that reads "oh my god." "I had never seen him look that good. He'd even made sure I wore ruby earrings, so that I'd match his cufflinks." I chuckle a little at that. He'd been acting like a kid going to prom.

"It was a," I pause, looking for the word. "A wonderful dinner." That was understated. Another pause as I'm trying to decide where to go, what I want to say. "He'd been trying for months to get closer to me, to get inside the shell I make for myself." Kendra nods a little, letting me know she understands what I'm talking about. All of us have that shell; we're like turtles. We're a turtle club. "And little by little, week by week, he'd been doing it. He'd managed to really see me, you know? Just me, just Helena. Not Huntress. Not a 'meta-human freak.' Just plain, old, fucked-up Helena Kyle." I snort, shaking my head derisively. "And once we got past all that shit everyone in Gotham has drilled into them about superhumans being the 'Spawn of Satan,' he didn't care."

I'm sure my voice holds a little awe in it; Jesse hadn't exactly been the most pro-meta person on the planet for a while there. I mean, fuck, he'd called me an "it". But, he got over it. He realized he was wrong, and he admited it. He fucking admited it! Mr. "I-Can-Do-No-Wrong" Reese bit the bullet and apologized. Christ, he even went so far as to say, "Look, you know, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I ever called you an 'it,' or ever suggested that you were less than a person. It was dumb, and I was dumb, and I'm sorry." You should have seen his face - he was actually scared that I'd kick his ass to the curb. Hell, maybe I should have. He'd be alive right now, if I had...

I don't think anyone but another superhero could really understand what I'm talking about, could really get the implications of what I'm saying. To be seen and accepted as a person, as the man or woman, boy or girl, inside of the mask, or the codename - that's what we all want. It's what we wish for when we go to sleep at night. For a lot of us, though, it's hard to open up that much. As for me, Helena Michelle Kyle is not someone I like to show to people. She's got too much baggage, too many bad memories. She's a moody, depressive sulk of a girl. She's a girl who tried to slice her wrists open after her mother died, only to wake up with the wounds all healed and the blood dried in between the bathroom tiles around her.

There are exactly two people who've ever met the real me. Barbara, and Jesse. Barbara hasn't even really seen it, not lately. Jesse, and only Jesse, has seen the most recent incarnation of that scared little kid inside me. "I remember when the walls came down completely. He just held me. He didn't say anything, he didn't give me any of the normal empty words, any of the platitudes most people would've spit out. He just held me to him, rubbing my back as I cried into his shoulder. I woke up the next morning to a warm cup of coffee and a chocolate chip muffin." I snort, wiping away a tear. God, when did I start crying? "I hate muffins, but I ate it anyway, because he'd made such a big fuss about it."

"You hate muffins?" Kendra's tone is incredulous. "How can you hate muffins?" I shrug, smiling a little. I've been asked that many times. "They have all kinds of flavors! You can get any kind of muffin you want! How can you say you hate muffins?"

She's really got a problem with this. That's kind of funny. She must really love her muffins, or something. "I don't know, I just do."

She rolls her eyes, sighing as though I've committed some horrible atrocity against the human race by hating muffins. Hell, maybe I have. Readjusting herself on the couch she looks at me, somewhat apologetically, and waves her hand. "I'm sorry, please, go on."

"Well," I say, taking a deep breath as I prepare to go back to that night. "When dinner ended, he took me to the park. He said he wanted to take a walk to where this little bridge was and have a glass of champagne before taking me home." And we'd both known what he meant by "taking me home." Despite what Dinah or Barbara or, well, anyone else, might have thought, he and I had most definately not opened that door in our relationship yet. "We got there, and he pulled a bottle of champagne from behind a bush; he must have prepared everything before picking me up that evening. There were even two champagne glasses wrapped in a cloth, to keep the dirt and leaves out of them."

"I," I stumble over the next sentence. There's a frog in my throat. It's like I'm there again, living it over. "We danced after sharing the champagne. There wasn't any music, so he hummed while he held me." I'm gasping for air. "If he hadn't been making any noise, if we'd just been dancing, I would have heard him. I would have been able to do something." It's my fault.

I'm shaking, now. Arms are encircling me, pulling me into a soft shoulder as I sob. "There was just so much blood." It splattered across my face and arms. I remember it in slow motion: his glass hit ground - he'd been holding it - followed shortly by mine, there was a rush of air following the bullet's impact, and he exhaled with the force of it. Then he was on the ground, and blood - his blood - was pooling into the grooves of the bridge.

I've been sobbing uncontrollably, but she doesn't seem to notice. She's rocking me, rubbing the back of my neck in slow, soothing circles. My lungs are heaving with the effort to breathe, I'm crying so hard. There was just so much blood, and it's all over me. "It's everywhere." I can still see it. "There was just so much blood..."

Where am I? I remember being in Kendra's living room, in one of her chairs, telling her about Jesse. Now I'm here... In her bed! What the hell? I push myself away from her, but our legs are tangled together. She's a heavy sleeper, and doesn't even twitch as I cause the bed to shake with my movements. I'm mostly naked. She's mostly naked. Did we do anything? The room doesn't smell like sex, but...

No, we couldn't have. She wouldn't take advantage of me like that, she's too... I don't know what, but she's too something. I just can't see her using my grief to get into my pants. Damn fine pants they may be, but they're not open! Granted, I'm not actually wearing any right now, but the concept's the same... Right? Fuck it, I'm going back to sleep. She can help me deal with this in the morning.

I twist my legs out from between hers and roll onto my back. The light of the moon is shining diagonally through her blinds, hitting my nose and chin as it travels down my chest and accentuates my lack of a shirt; thank God I always wear tastefully utilitarian bras. The city outside is relatively quiet. It's nothing like Gotham. Maybe that's why I can't seem to get a full night's sleep unless I've been knocked around. Too used to the noise of a big, industrial city, I guess.

I swallow for probably the twentieth time since I woke up. Do I always swallow this much? How many times a day does the average person swallow? I bet Barbara'd know. Jesus, there I go again. Now I'm all focused on my fucking swallowing and I won't be able to get to sleep because of it. It's like when you focus on your breathing. You know, how often to you inhale? Like right now. And now... And now... And n- oh for fuck's sake!

I vault out of the bed, rushing into the kitchen. I don't know if Kendra woke up or not, and I don't really care. I just want some milk. And maybe a poptart, if she has any. Man, that'd be the best. Her fridge is pretty bare, or so it would seem upon cursory inspection. Your standard "single chick with little free time" stuff: milk, a pack of butter, some beer, some Coke - although I understand they call all kinds of soda "Coke" down here, fuckin' crazy southerners - and some left-over Chinese food. At least the milk's not bad.

I pour myself a nice, tall glass and down half of it before refilling it and putting the carton away. I can feel it sliding down my pipes into my stomach, coating my insides with that nice, thick, cold feeling that's exceptionally welcome against the southern heat. "You gonna buy me another half-gallon?" I jump a little as Kendra stalks sleepily into the room. I must be really out of it, not to have heard her. She's making more noise than an elephant in a china closet. "I'm pretty sure you just drank most of it."

"Uh." I swallow, trying to get rid of the thickness in my mouth. "Yeah, sure. No problem." I take another drink, mostly to avoid conversation. I have no wish to have the "Did we have sex?" conversation right now. Especially not when she's bending over to get something from under the counter and I can see almost everything. I should really not be looking at this. Really, I should just turn my head the other way and stop getting myself all riled up. Oh God, did I just use the term "riled up"? I'm going to kill Dinah!

She stands up, holding a bag of marshmellows proudly, like it's some kind of prize. She rips into them and pulls out a handfull, offering me the bag while she stuffs her face. That's just so attractive, I might have to kiss her. No, really, I mean that. Really. Okay, so not really... She looks like a chipmunk. What was that one chipmunk's name? Gidget? The female with all the gadge- Gadget! That's her name! She had all those little machines and was in love with Chip, or Dale, or something... Right, marshmellows.

It's crazy, how sexy she looks now that she's swallowed the handfull that was in her mouth. She's got this half-asleep smile on her face as she's holding the bag out to me, wearing nothing but a blue, long-sleeved, button-up shirt and a pair of really sexy panties. Of course, I can't see the panties right now, but I got an eyeful a few seconds ago. Or minutes. Could be either. Hmm... Marshmellows do sound like a good idea, now that I've had time to think about it.

I grab a handfull and start popping them in my mouth, chewing them one at a time, unlike Kendra. She goes back to munching, herself, and seems to be focused on something internal. She doesn't seem, sad, per se, but kinda... Weighed down. Something must've hit her between the "I just woke up" stage and the "I'm eating marshmellows" realization. Downing the last of my milk, I clear my throat as I move next to her to put the glass in the sink. "Need to talk about something?" After yesterday, listening's the least I could do.

"Uh, not really," she says, shifting from her left foot to her right and looking away from me. She's got this tiny grimace on her face. "Just the same old shit, y'know?"

Yeah, I know. "Doesn't mean you don't need to talk about it." Or want to.

She kinda smiles at me, and shakes her head. Her eyes are hidden by her bangs, which have lost all their styling gel, and all I can see is the dimples the grin makes in her cheeks. Cute. "I just can't stop being angry at Carter, is all." Yeah, well, I can feel that. I'm gonna just let her talk for a bit, stay quiet and listen. Questions'd make it seem like I'm nosey, which I'm not. Curiosity will not kill this cat. "I mean, I can see things from his perspective, so I understand what he's upset about, but-" Her whole body moves with her hands as they fly up in a gesture of frustration. "It's like he can't see things from mine!"

I grunt my understanding and stretch a little so that my hip bumps up against hers. I totally didn't mean to do that, and now I'm uncomfortably aware of what I'm not wearing. You know. Clothes. I pray to God my voice doesn't crack with the sudden rush of heat I feel, and that my underwear hides it, too. "What, exactly, doesn't he see from your perspective?" I cock my head a little, to make me less threatening. She doesn't have to tell me, and I don't want to give her the impression that she does.

She gets really quiet really sudden. I mean, quiet, quiet. Her entire body is still. Not stiff, though. Just still. It's kinda creepy, seeing someone else do that. "I-" She stops. I'm about to open my mouth and tell her she doesn't have to elaborate when she says, "I killed someone." Oh. Oh. Shit.

"Shit."

"A cop." Oh. Oh shit. "But he deserved it." She turns to me, and there's a righteous fire in her eyes that shields a shitload of pain. "He killed my parents." Well, yeah, okay, not gonna deny that that warrants some pain. "After he raped my mother." I blink. I think I blink. I don't know that I can move right now. I'm in shock. I mean, I know that shit happens, but, Christ.

She turns away from me, wrapping her arms around herself as a shield. I shake my head to clear it and push away from the counter. "I'm sorry." It's not really adequate. "I don't blame you." That's a little better, isn't it? I hope so. Man, I don't know how to take this. I mean, the Joker killed Jesse. Killed my mom. He even paralyzed Barbara, the woman I fucking love and I didn't kill him. How do I handle this? "Why?" Did I just ask that?

She whirls. "Why? Why what? Why did I kill him? He raped my mother and then killed her and my father! Why wouldn't I?" She's almost yelling. She's almost about to crack. I put my hands on her shoulders and pull her to me, mimicing the embrace she wrapped me in last night. I rock her a little, and rub up and down on the small of her back. "Why what?" It's a whisper in my ear.

"Why did you kill him? Why not turn him in? Why not let the authorities take care of it?" I say it as soothingly as possible; I don't want to set her off again. But, I've got to know. What made her go that far?

"There was no evidence to convict him." It sounds weak to me, and I'm sure she's thinking the same thing. "He came after me, first. He wanted me dead because I shot his partner." What? She's killed not one, but two cops? "I was only eight when that happened." She's crying now. Eight? "They'd pulled my mom and I over, and they were gonna rape her." She hiccups. "And then they were gonna rape me." Those mother fuckers. People like them shouldn't be cops. "I grabbed one of their guns when they went to hold my mom down, and it went off. I didn't mean to! God, I didn't mean to!"

Jesus, this was not what I expected when I asked if she needed to talk about something. She's sobbing heavily into the crook of my neck. If I had a shirt on, it'd be soaked. I shift a little and maneuver her towards the couch. I have a feeling we're going to be in this position for a while, and I'd prefer to be cried on while sitting.