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.

That was simple.

That was her identity.

It was not complicated.

A slow breath left her flushed lips, misting the thick glass in front of her. The woman closed her dark eyes, darkening the golden helm's lenses. It was silent for moments, nothing but the hollow echo of buzzing machines from the hallway beyond the thick door of her room invading its quiet. Taking in a deep breath, the Thanagarian woman opened her tired eyes, blinking as they searched through the twinkling stars. Dark eyes refusing to meet her own in the somber reflection on the glass, the woman's shoulders slumped, uncharacteristically weary.

Her talon-like nails pressed surprisingly sharp against her palms as her hands fisted subconsciously. What was wrong with her? She had spent her whole life fighting amongst her people, finally representing their strength and traditions to all those that chose to oppose them. There was a reason she was here in the Watchtower; a reason she was so invested in knowing each and every one of Earth's best heroes; a reason she watched every slight anomaly they projected.

Her job—she was a spy for the Thanagarian government, on this missioNothing else mattered.

That was not complicated.

The next breath that left her sent a shudder running down her spine. Turning her dark gaze to her neatly tucked bed, her placated stare landed on the glinting silver mace—the gleam churning an unsettling feeling in her chest—a taunt that send a chill through her coarse feathers against her bare back.

No, her job was simple: Evaluate Earth's defenses in every way she had been trained to assess and prepare its people for what was to come.

That was uncomplicated.

It is precise.

No shades of grey.

Another shaky breath drawn from her lips in the silence of the unlit room portrayed more. Once again, the woman's eyes trailed along the gleaming stars, unfocused and confused. For every bit of truth behind her mission, what she had been expected to do, what she had fully estimated her job was, the churning hurt in her chest continued to swirl into a mass of uncertainty. For every bit of information she noted about the subtle lapses in Diana's conviction, to the blatant weaknesses of Superman, to outthinking the less than predictable mind of Batman, she felt a small chip of her fervor wither away. The most unsettling fact was that she didn't care. No, because there was a small part of her that didn't mind being taken in and loving these people, these friends, her new and adopted family. A piece of her found that she loved these people too. She yearned for it.

It wasn't immediate of course—she wouldn't have allowed herself that. It was a slow, transitional fact that she had slowly come to realize. She had suddenly stopped one moment as she taunted Flash, realizing her words to him were true—they were from her and her heart. She felt for him—and the others as well. Because, in that moment she realized that somewhere along the line—amongst the laughs and teasing she shared with her adopted brother, the many quirky disputes between Diana and herself regarding men and their certainly very male ways, to challenging the limits of Superman and his regard for good and evil, to exchanging tests to both Batman and J'onn's intellect—she was no longer working. She was no longer the guise Hawkgirl. No, she very well may have been bare to them all—as honest as if she had no obligations to her people in the first place.

But that wasn't even the worst of it.

No, these friendships could be maintained—she could handle those and continue her job.

She was a warrior—a patriot—a spy—a hero to her people.

And she was falling apart.

The Thanagarian's arms tightened around herself, long soft wings enveloping her form. She could handle the friendships with Diana, Flash, Superman, Batman, and J'onn. They were containable. They were…safe. In the darkness of her silent room, eyes regarding the stars from her window, all she could see through the reflective glass were seemingly inhuman, pale green eyes, so warm as they looked back to her. Through sharp, advanced ears, she could hear his deep voice, that low hum in his chest that sent a flush of heat through her breast—an attention on her she tried with all of her might to ignore.

John Stewart was tearing her apart.

Not that he would be able to tell—that anyone would be able to for that matter. For with every step he took towards her, she'd cut through the path with another flat remark—snide if she had it her way. But at this point, there was no denying it to herself. Snide and sharp as she may have wanted it to be—it was dulled by a traitorous tilt of her lips, a subconscious tone in her voice that refused to deliver the message with the vigor she needed to. Instead, she fell into this pattern—this hole of habit—and that same weak, selfish part of her heart that yearned for these people, did not wish to be dragged out.

Helm slipping forward as she dipped her head, she turned from the window to her low bed. Sitting on the end of it, she gently lifted the mace, her small piece of Thanagar and her people. Laid across her lap, her solemn gaze followed her talon like fingers across its points, dully shining in the dimly lit room. Like a beacon, it has lead the way here. As her tool for Thanagar's victory, it had sparked through the dark as her partner at every turn. That is how it always has been. It is her identity as a soldier.

"It's important to you."

After nearly losing it in the debris the day before, her hand lay absently upon its handle for nearly every moment since then. She was somewhat surprised he had waited this long to mention it.

Chancing a small guess, she replied: "As much as your ring is to you."

The hum he made caused her eyes to turn towards him. After a moment, he gave a small shrug. "I guess so." Her dark eyes were narrow under the helm as her gaze lingered on him. Hawkgirl nearly turned away by the time John continued but, his voice held her attention. His tone was slightly reserved, as if he were speaking just as he thought of it: "I'd like to think I was someone that could make a difference—even before I was given it." The man's eyes watched his flexing hand and the green ring on his finger even as she observed him just as adamantly. "And that I could do something, even without it now."

Before his gaze lifted back to her, hers was turned back to the monitor, pressing the keys as though she hadn't been completely engaged in him. She hoped it appeared that way because, the truth of the matter was that she couldn't have been more preoccupied by him if she tried.

But it wasn't her business to confirm or deny his hopes—it wasn't her job to care.

And yet, she did.

Lips pursed together, the mace at her hip felt as though it was tugging lower, heavy in a very figurative sense. It was long moments of monotone droning and clicking from the monitor as she checked the status of the newly repaired Javelin from the screen that he must have been watching her. She didn't speak and he obviously didn't hold his breath waiting on a response from her. Minutely, her ears caught the wisp of a small sigh—his slight disappointment at her lack of it regardless. Be it duty or not, the miniscule twinge of guilt attacked her before she could pound it back into its place deep beneath the surface. So, when his posture shifted, the words were tumbling out before she had time to rein them in:

"People like you make differences. It isn't in your nature not to. Your ring," slanted eyes darting to it for emphasis from the corner of her gaze, "makes your influence greater. But, it would exist without it."

Absently, she realized it was probably the most she had ever said to him without fighting—and, on one hand, she wished to take it back. It wouldn't do for her to outwardly project any of the slight admiration she held for him. The woman could hardly imagine the mortification that would surely insure if he knew what she was actually beginning to think of him.

However, seeing his look of surprise and the way his eyes flitted back to her in a way that made her chomp on the inside of her cheek nearly made it worth it. Then, the smile he shared with her made her cheeks flush at the sincerity in it—luckily, hidden under her mask.

Saving her the embarrassment, he lightly taunted, though his voice held nothing but warmth for this one moment of peace with her: "And here I was, thinking you didn't like me."

"Oh." Turning out of the chair and pulling herself to her feet, the scoff that followed surely looked more composed than she felt. "I think you're reading too much into it." Crossing her arms over her chest and giving a slight smirk, she looked up at him, "I'm only saying you're, thankfully, not entirely useless." She tried to make it sound insulting. Not blatantly or completely rude—but enough to make it feel real enough. But, when his smile only grew, she knew she had failed miserably.

"Right." The woman turned her back to him, her feathers ruffled in slight agitation towards herself, and decided it was well past time to make herself scarce. Scarlet boots clicking as she walked towards the overhang, his next words sent her mind and heart into a frantic combustion. "You're strong enough without it. Your mace, that is—" she had halted to listen to his words, back straight as she could feel those warm, pale green eyes on her. "You do what you need to do—it's very…you." By his shift in tone, she turned, catching him with his hand absently rubbing his neck as if somewhat embarrassed. To her horror later, she discovered that seeing him like that, it endeared him to her. By her expression as he chanced glancing back to her, he elaborated: "Your job—you do it regardless."

The small tilt of her lip quipped her inquiry and humored him, "and what's my job, Lantern?"

The flitting of her feathers in a small twitch was the only indication of how close he had come to hitting home:

"Protecting—helping people that need and rely on you. That's our job, right?"

Reliability, huh? Pressing her finger to the chilled stem on the mace in her lap, a wry smile found her rose lips. They all placed their trust into the wrong hands. She had been prepared for that….right?

Lifting the heavy weapon, she chanced another glace towards it, that unsettling feeling furrowing in her stomach again. Deflated and surprisingly disgusted, she turned away, setting the mace on her bed. What good was a weapon representing Thanagar when all she wished to do was represent the people of Earth? To represent the people she served with in The League? And, shockingly, to represent the kind of person—woman—he thought she was?

Overwhelmed and suddenly feeling more claustrophobic than she had in years, Hawkgirl rose from the bed and strode to the door, leaving the moment it allowed passage. The mace on the bed simply sinking in the shadows as another ornament in her dark, silent room.

In the quiet hall, the metal of the walls made her talons and wings twitch in agitation. She had to get some air. Making her way to the Javelin deck, there was glimmer of hope in her breast that she wouldn't run into anyone. Coming upon the dock though, a small bit of relief met her and she briefly relaxed, seeming no one present. But, that anxious feeling began to blossom in her gut again and the woman wasted no time flying to the mouth of the flier then into the control panel. Pressing a finger to her comm link, the other hand flew over the keys to start the machine and she spoke: "Batman, I'm leaving to patrol for the night. I'll keep in touch."

"You have watch tomorrow. Just don't be late."

She scoffed at his bored tone, "since when have I ever been late?"

"Since when have you left to patrol at one in the morning?"

Her response was as quick as the Javelin was shooting from the Watchtower and towards Earth. "Hawkgirl out."

It was somewhat cool over the gusts of gentle winds but, glazing over currents of warm, was what made her feathers shudder with chills. Gliding in the dark of night, above mountains and trees made her breathe easier. It allowed her the freedom, the delusion of peace. Here, soaring above the quiet brush and wilderness, without the notice of people, she had no identity. Had no duty. No conflict in her own heart.

It was the perfect illusion of freedom.

Breathing deeply and evenly out in the open air, her eyes were closed: every beat of her heart, she heard; every stroke of her wings above the wind, she felt; every agonizing conflict she collided with in her own mind, she dispelled.

For now, she would not worry about what was to come—she would not struggle to swim in the pool of indecision she was choking on. No, for now at least, she would merely be. And that, for this small moment, brought a minute smile to her face.

She knew he was there before he approached her. Mostly because of how calm she felt from her hours of silent flight—she was so tranquil with her senses after the experience, she heard him before he landed yards behind her. But partially, she admitted with a small bit of bitterness, it was because she was so in tune with everything about him—his movements, the aura, the energy of his ring, and his mannerisms. But, with a somewhat reluctant sigh, it didn't scare her as much as it did even hours before. Not bothering to turn to acknowledge his approaching person, she inquired, "how'd you know where I was?"

He stopped just a few feet away from her but she could feel his pale gaze on her. It gave her a newly found thrill that she accepted in this one moment. "I figured somewhere with a good view. It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. No offense."

"None taken." Her lips twitched upward in a small hint of a smile as she watched the lightening hints of sunrise spread further and further up across the sky. So he knew a bit more about her than he let on. Sparing him a glance, she allowed the words to come from her, albeit a bit reluctantly. "Want to watch it with me?"

The fresh grin that touched his face as he sat down next to her pulled at hers as well. Knees tucked to her chest, she turned towards the rising sun and rested her chin on the top of her knees, arms locked around them. Subconsciously, her wings accommodated for the new presence, shifting and folding neatly, their tips spread on the ground of the ridge they sat on.

Maybe it was the acceptance that he unsettled her and that maybe she could just…allow it that made way for the sudden warmth that seeped into her. Or maybe it was the fact that, for all of her own observations about them, he had been making some about her. And, though a small whisper of her resilient self insisted that that alone should scare the hell out of her, at this moment in time, she couldn't bring herself to fear it. Instead, it filled her with a feeling that made the smile on her lips play a game of serenity for the first time in what felt like ages. It was a strange feeling.

"Look…" Her dark, helm covered eyes looked to him, widening and her pulse galloping when she realized he hadn't been watching the sky as she had—rather, he had been watching her. Adamantly if his somewhat awkward, half smile was anything to go by. "We don't really get along, I know. But…" he shook his head minutely, as if to gain his focus again. He turned his pale green gaze from her, the color amplified by the first waves of orange and yellows in the sky. She was struck by the mesmerizing difference.

"…But we are supposed to be on the same team. I just…just wanted to make sure you were okay."

A short laugh left her and she waved him off with a small shrug, "sorry Batman sent you out here. I just needed some fresh air." There was a pause as she looked back to the now visible sun gleaming over the mountains. Her slight grin did not shy away from her face as she felt his attention on her again. "But I'm okay." Her arm left her curled form as she elbowed his side, helm gleaming with the sun's fresh morning shine. "Thanks for checking up on me."

His surprisingly easy smirk matched her own as he inclined his head before his quip: "Figured I'd find you before you found trouble. Glad I made it in time."

The next elbow wasn't nearly so gentle as the first nudge. She laughed at his wince.

Sitting in front of the monitors again, Hawkgirl held back a yawn that ached to be let free. Leaning back against the chair, she watched the screen focused but somewhat bored with the inactivity.

Although she felt remarkable better than she did before, the lack of sleep from her patrol the night before was beginning to take its toll. But, talons tapping lightly against the mace strapped at her side, she knew it was worth it. Rekindling a bit of balance literally took a bit of the weight from her side. The Thanagarian withheld another yawn.

The sudden movement at her side nearly made her lip. Eyes swerving up to the dark clothed man, she blinked in surprise as he placed the cup of coffee in front of her. "Urh…thanks."

Batman minutely inclined his head, withdrawing his hand to his side, cape folding around his shoulders with the movement. "Don't mention it. You falling asleep while on watch isn't beneficial."

Hawkgirl's chuckle was short but obviously not completely unwarranted. "Right, right…" As he turned to leave, the notion struck her and she turned around in the chair, hands already around the coffee mug. There was still a slight smile on her face as she chanced a sip, "you didn't have to send Lantern out to find me; I know my way back here."

She paused mid sip when he turned back towards her with a cocked brow under his mask.

"Lantern." She prompted, confused. "This morning?"

Had she had normal vision, she would have missed the diminutive slip of a smirk at his lips. Her face flushed under the helm even before he said, "I didn't send him."