★·.·´¯ NIGHTS`·.·★

Groaning.

The last thing she remembered was pain. And Maru’s shouting at her to lie still, but it had not seemed like a feasible solution to a gunshot wound, so Lyta… might not have actively listened. Critter had probably used some concoction to knock her out and truly? The operative didn’t blame her. 

But there should still have been an ache of some sort— Maru was good, but Isabel had never been able to heal soreness overnight. Yet it never came, despite the mercenary’s body flaring with tension in forestalling. Confused, she blinked awake, expecting the shitty-lit apartment that the Operator had crammed them into. Or even the neon lights from the sign across the street. 

No such thing came. 

In fact, she wind up gawking at a mongrel of a designer lamp that she should have only seen in interior design magazines. “What the….” she murmured, using her hand to shield her eyes from the clear light. 

She blinked again, choking at the sight of the ring. 

It wasn’t huge like some sort of Hollywood gig. Still, it was nicer than anything she’d ever owned, including her first wedding band. Mind stirring to alert, she blinked, looking to the source of the three words. 

“Married.”

She suspected that laughter was inappropriate but the dry, choked chuckle that left her lips boded unwell for her marital bliss. It was tempting to comment, but the sight of Isabel, drowning in crisp white linens, stopped her. 

She always blamed the poor lighting for her own failure to see Isabel’s traits. Even though the suggestion of scars of the past still lingered, features remained to produce gasps and a stunned feeling that never quite faded from Lyta’s chest. 

Eventually, she remembered to swallow, and fumblingly reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. Had she put it there? The diamond caught the sunlight and reflected off the glass, as if it was easily dismissed. 

She’s been on Themyscira for several weeks now. Her wings are slowly healing from where the parademons nearly ripped them off, though she’s beginning to wonder if the damage done is permanent. It’s still a struggle just to flex them and the pain haunts her at night. The Amazons have done as much as they can for her at Diana’s behest. All they can do now is wait and ensure her wounds don’t become infected.

The island is different from anything she’s ever seen. A warrior culture that still knows and understands peace; the opposite of her war-torn home planet. Amazonian society is much more relaxed than what she’s used to. Those with titles walk among those who bear none. On Thanagar, lower class citizens like her never interact directly with those belonging to the upper class. So the number of times she’s found herself speaking to a member of the council or even the queen herself has been surprising.

Just like it is now, when she tears her gaze from the skies to find Hippolyta standing there, refilling her goblet with wine. Shayera doesn’t lower her proud head—she refuses—but she averts her eyes out of respect. “Thanks,” she murmurs, reaching for the glass once the queen sets it down. The Thanagarian takes a long sip and turns her green eyes skyward once more, watching a pair of gulls chase thermal updrafts against the ocean breeze. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Her lips close in a soft smile -- merely diplomatic to those who do not know her, but to those who do, it suggests hint of amusement without meaning to offend. She will never demand subjugation from a refugee, but it seems both their pasts betray them, and that causes a chuckle from queen’s lips. 

   ❝ Didn’t I? ❞ she asks, humoring her as she takes the seat adjacent to Shayera’s. It is perhaps more rhetorical than the question implies, but she elaborates with a far truer smile. ❝ You seemed like you needed it. I daresay, how is it any different than if Epione was to offer bandages or examination. She is my equal, as are you, as far as I understand. ❞

    Isabel cranes her neck, glaring up at the tall woman standing over her, and then she casts her eyes to the long, low banquette across the table. She pretends to consider the offer, tapping a slow rhythm on scratched formica with the ragged ends of her nails, and she looks again to the woman.

    “You are late.” And then she gestures at the seat, takes a sip of her lukewarm tea, and waits. At the other end of the all-night diner, a large group of men laugh, loud and obnoxious, and begin to shake hands and clap each other on the back. Her expression stays sharp, but dark eyes soften into something dark, mischievous. “I almost started the night without you.”

   ❝ I was afraid you would.  ❞ Ah, there it is, the teasing tone meant solely for chemist. As she slides into booth, seat across from the smaller brunette, she whispers a playful, ❝ I thought I’d have to play catch up and in a city like this, what is a girl to do after hours. ❞