Disclaimer: I do not own Justice League or The Dark Knight Trilogy, which are the property of DC Comics, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., etc. Nor do I make any profit from this story.
A/N: It's another insert-an-OC for me, but I really enjoy these. This story begins a little after the cartoon episode The Terror Beyond, and quite some time before the next episode Secret Society. The year is 2013 and I have totally messed with ages and dates so it will fit my particular story.
DC Comics had a superhero named Enigma. However, the "mysterious entity known only as 'Enigma'…" (from my summary) is NOT related in any way to the 8-issue Vertigo/DC Miniseries of the same name.
Notes:
Just so you know, I have changed the story from crossover to regular, leaving it in the Comics - Justice League category. Because really, it's not a simple crossover, but an overall re-imagining.
Chapter 9: Stained
An age passed, or so it seemed, by the time Meara's feelings receded to something more manageable than utter chaos. Nodding off for the first time since awakening in the Caligo Room some time before, Meara accepted her exhaustion and its source. When Bruce moved to help the young woman to her feet and back through the lounge, there was no argument from her.
"I have to finish last minute packing. Are you still…" Bruce sighed quietly, hedging his words for a number of moments before he spit out what he wanted to say, "Is this trip going to be too much?"
Struck mute by the idea of Detroit and deliberately searching for a place to match her past horrors, Meara shivered with a resigned sense of fate. She couldn't keep running. It would kill her future, whatever it stood to become in this strange new world.
"I think I need to do this, Bruce," she responded, unfocused on the world around her.
"It's your choice, Meara," he rebutted easily. "I only suggested it because I thought using half-truths as a subterfuge would be easier for you than outright lying."
"It would be," the brunette agreed, tilting her head to look up at the man steadily. "I have to do this."
Staring into her stormy eyes long enough to gauge whatever he needed to see, Bruce nodded and stepped back. "Try to get a bit more sleep, then. Go rest in the Aerius."
"But the Justice League," Meara argued half-heartedly.
"I don't care," was Bruce's quick, confident answer. Meara didn't doubt him. "Go and rest. We'll wake you in time to get ready to leave. I'll be packing just down the hall anyway. And you can eat something en route. Alfred will happily pack something up."
"All right," Meara agreed simply. Bruce Wayne planned his every move, every day and night. He knew what he was doing far better than the young woman did.
"Call out if you need anything," the billionaire nodded once, releasing Meara's hand. "I'll hear you."
"Thank you," Meara sighed in relief, nodding her thanks as they passed through the doorway of the lounge and into the entrance hall. Casting a glance to the side, the twenty-one-year-old caught sight of Dick standing out on the front steps, not even wearing a hood as rain breathed softly atop his head.
Unable to move another step, Meara couldn't help but stare. The pose of a dying man could not be more saddening to look on. Head downcast, hands crossed over his chest, shoulders loose and low, Dick Grayson seemed a force of silent grief.
"I'll be upstairs packing," Bruce muttered just loud enough to be heard, his easy steps falling away to nothing but a pat upon soft plush carpet.
Distracted and absorbed as she was, Meara only half heard the offering, heading mindlessly over to the front doors and slipping through to the outermost barrier. Through the lightly fogged glass, Dick stood ever more depressingly against now-mottled gray skies and deepening rain clouds. Opening the furthest door, Meara didn't quite know what to say, standing in the open doorway with a half-open mouth and a heart full of empty words. Her soul had been expelled for the day, her quota of sentiment and emotion completely spent.
What did one say when their spirit was so drained?
Meara closed her mouth self-consciously. She had no words to speak.
But Dick Grayson could not be said to wait for the world to come to him. In motionless poise, the young man began to speak at last, his voice as gentle and quiet as the still landscape outside the manor, "I can still see my parents… I can see it just as vividly as I did at the age of eleven. They fell from the highest bars… fell dozens of feet until their bodies finally hit the hard ground. I could hear their bones break…"
Meara's tears, somehow as yet unfinished with her, stretched to cover what Dick had suffered in his life, and for what Bruce and Tim had endured in theirs. The similarity, the connection between father and son, their unknowingly mutual recounting… it left Meara shivering with a strange understanding of soul-bound families; a kind of bonding she had never truly found in her own life.
"It never gets easier," Dick murmured understandingly, head turning to glance over his shoulder. "You never get over it. Not really. That was why I trusted a stranger to take me in. I could see in his eyes… he knew. He knew how I felt and that it never goes away."
Wordless and hurting still, Meara stepped into the breath of rain with Dick and let her heart settle into sad, stained mourning as they shared the gray view before them.
Meara could honestly say she never noticed how drenched she and Dick became in the misty rain. At some point, the acrobatic young man had reached out and taken her hand reassuringly. As usual, Dick took the initiative.
Meara couldn't have been more appreciative; her mind fell away from rational thought as the deep, unyielding emotions took precedence.
"Meara?" Bruce ventured quietly from behind them, to which Dick finally turned, Meara's hand still clasped in his.
"You should go change," the younger man commented concernedly, glancing over her wet clothing in worry. "You're soaked to the bone."
"So are you," Meara remarked emotionlessly, but finally turned to face him with blank eyes. "But I suppose you're used to that."
"Yeah, pretty much," Dick half-smiled and tugged on her hand, no real joy in his eyes. "Go on. If it makes a difference to you, I'll go put on something dry as well."
"I'll accept that," Meara murmured, a very tiny, drudging smile teasing at the corner of her lips. It wasn't a happy expression, but the attempt clearly meant more to her hosts than the result did.
"Good," Dick commented simply, turning them both by the weight of their joined hands.
"I'll wait down here," Bruce added, still so very quiet, "Dick, why don't you walk back down with Meara?"
"Sure," the first Robin agreed easily, nodding in acquiescence. Meara allowed him to lead her out of the rain and into the foyer behind Bruce, who made a line to the dining room, presumably to speak with Alfred.
While it was difficult to think much past the emotions still clouding her brain, Meara forced herself to think enough to put together something resembling a matching outfit that she would want to walk around town in. With little interest in her chosen activity at present, the young woman finally grit her teeth and chose a loose orange top and blue-jeans. Still slightly chilled and expecting the weather to be a little cool in Detroit, Meara added a taupe cardigan with an orange, yellow, and brown pattern on the borders. The brunette took little care in roughly matching the cardigan with a plain pair of flat-heeled, tan suede boots and a brown leather tote. The last piece to her wardrobe was the same taupe leather jacket she had worn her first day out with Bruce.
Shrugging at her reflection once she had pulled her still-damp hair into a low ponytail, the young woman grabbed the tote purse she had switched to and walked out of the Caligo room to find Dick waiting for her in a completely dry gray pullover, jeans, and his blue field jacket.
"You ready for this?" he asked in genuine concern, eyes half-squinting at her with concentration.
"I'll be fine," Meara responded, monotone but putting a definite end to the subject.
Dick rolled his eyes slightly, but left it alone and joined Meara in walking downstairs to where Bruce and Alfred stood waiting.
"I've packed you a meal for the trip, Miss Meara," Alfred pointed out in a gentle voice, patting a matching luggage piece that sat atop the rest of the luggage she and Bruce would be taking with them to Detroit, in addition to her black floral suitcase. "Please do eat something."
"Thank you, Alfred," Meara quirked her lips in an imitation of a smile. "I'll try to do that."
Sighing resignedly as though he knew that was unlikely, the butler just nodded once and stepped back.
Bruce took his place just as Meara considered how exactly they were going to be traveling to Detroit.
"Not a road trip," she almost groaned, giving Bruce a world-weary expression he couldn't seem to help smiling over. "I'll get carsick. I promise you that much."
"No, not a road trip," the billionaire actually chuckled at her, grasping her shoulder reassuringly. "We're taking a private jet."
"What about the media?" Meara immediately questioned, frowning. "Seeing me with you on a private jet before I've even started my job at Wayne Enterprises doesn't sound very wise."
"They won't see you," Bruce told her without any doubt. "We board the jet in a completely private section near the tarmac."
"What about when we're in the car?" she pushed more relentlessly. "They'll see us then."
"Not with blackout tinting," Bruce countered instantly, almost smirking. "I do consider these things beforehand, Meara."
Gauging his expression a moment longer, Meara at last sighed tiredly, accepting her fate. "At least it doesn't get knocked around like the Batwing."
Snorting in unison, both Dick and Bruce reached down to grab all but Meara's brown leather tote and black floral case.
Rolling her eyes, Meara lifted her finger to eye level and announced dryly, "This cut didn't suddenly make me an invalid, gentlemen."
"Really? Are you sure it didn't?" Dick gave her a playacted look of confusion, tilting his head awkwardly. "Because… Even if you're sure it didn't, I'm pretty sure it did. Aren't you sure of that, Bruce? Because I'm definitely sure of it."
"I'm sure of it, too," Bruce agreed more simply, but nonetheless playing into his eldest son's humorous speech.
Closing her eyes and rolling her lips inward at this lighthearted approach, Meara finally couldn't hold in her smile. Small, but real, the expression contrasted vastly with a look of exasperated fondness she gave both men.
"Go along, Miss Meara," Alfred chuckled at their sides, reaching out to pat her shoulder and push her towards the doors. "Pull up your hood and let these proud creatures carry the baggage."
Bruce and Dick weren't waiting for permission, which made Alfred's words just the slightest bit patronizing, but Meara just nodded and grabbed her floral suitcase as she did what he suggested.
Settled in the passenger side of the remarkably drab charcoal car Bruce had commandeered to drive to the airport, Meara remained silent throughout their trip, but her mind never ceased to be wildly active. All manner of possibilities for this trip – most of them ending in terrible emotional upheaval she was not prepared for – invaded her mind like wildfire.
"Stop it," Bruce's commanding voice traveled immediately to Meara's eardrums. Looking over in a fraction of a second at the billionaire, Meara swallowed against her fears. "You're just hurting yourself again. Alfred would have my head if I didn't try to put an end to that kind of thought process."
"It's not like I want to think it," Meara countered bitterly.
"I know that," Bruce sighed heavily, glancing over at her again with an understanding expression. "Believe me, I do."
Nodding towards the dark-haired man in acquiescence, Meara decided against further speech on the topic at hand. The world passed by her window in a blur of dreary, gray color that matched her mood on this unhappy sojourn.
When the airport came into view, the young woman had to breathe deeply against a sudden influx of nerves.
"No one will see you," Bruce insisted firmly, accurately reading the newest source of Meara's discomfort.
Sighing against her own anxiety, Meara just nodded and tried to sit less awkwardly in her seat. Judging by the set of her shoulders, it wasn't working all that well, but she had at least tired. Bruce sighed more quietly beside her, clearly having judged the same conclusion.
Meara had to admit, however, that the drive through the airport was the easiest drive she had taken in a long while. No other cars passed except airport loading vehicles and two security guards. Bruce stopped only a minute to scan some kind of card at a moving gate before they drove through to a private section of the airport. The area was, indeed, private, the same lack of other vehicles putting Meara further at her ease. Bruce drove into the side of a large gray warehouse building with a rust-colored door. The wide door slid into two separate sides on cue, then moved back to close in the middle as soon as the car made it past the threshold.
"Sensors?" Meara wondered aloud, the first word spoken between them since first catching sight of the airport.
"Yes," Bruce nodded in agreement, finally putting the car in park. "They're not standard issue, of course, but when you pay for the hangar to be built, you have some room for creativity. We'll board the jet just inside that doorway on the opposite wall. It's a fully enclosed space large enough to allow the stairs room to extend up and down from the doorway. As I said, no one will see you."
Turning back around to face the interior of the brightly lit warehouse to see what he was talking about, Meara noted the doorway in question and realized the whole structure was far larger than it had seemed from outside. Three enormous windows on either side, far and away at the top of the walls structured with black steel, had been shaded with a frosty white glass. To the far right, most of the wall housed a similar set of doors to the one they had just entered – only much, much larger and divided into six distinct pieces rather than two.
"That's the main hangar doors," Bruce explained matter-of-factly. "It's really only used when the jet comes out of – or goes into – storage here. The doors have three settings, each successively wider. It has the same sensors, as well as a manual switch on this device."
Looking to the billionaire's uplifted hand, Meara took note of the small rectangular fob with four square buttons surrounding a raised, circular center. "What are those buttons for?"
"Open, close, emergency stop, alarm," Bruce offered simply, pointing to each surrounding button as he named it.
"And that piece?" the brunette inquired more cautiously, filled with a sneaking suspicion the unnecessarily raised center of the fob had a purpose deeper than structure.
Smirking but barely at the hesitant knowledge in his charge's eyes, Bruce named the last button more darkly, "Self-destruct."
"How do you avoid accidental destruction?" the young woman queried with a raised brow. "It seems a little too easy to hit that center section. Just pressing one of the other buttons could set it off, couldn't it?"
"I deal in shadow and reflection, not sunlight," Bruce remarked cryptically with mild dry humor. Seeing Meara's expectantly raised brow, Bruce sighed and elaborated more plainly, "Do you know about the frequency device on the suit?"
"Last I knew, it was in the heel of your boot."
"It still is," Bruce confirmed. "This central piece is similar to that. When I set off a certain frequency, it links to a device in this hangar. When that frequency resounds in the hangar, it sets off a timed validation. The validation is also set into motion when the alarm goes off. If the code is entered within thirty minutes, the self-destruct is reset. If not…"
"I don't think I need any more explanation," Meara decided rather stoically.
Nodding slowly at her understanding, Bruce finally ticked his head to the side. Taking the sign for what it was, Meara opened her door and stood from the car. Suspecting Bruce would not allow her to carry any more baggage than she had upon leaving the manor, Meara hoisted her brown tote on one shoulder and picked up her floral luggage case in her other hand. Then, quite intentionally, the brunette grasped two luggage pieces she knew were on the lighter side before Bruce could reach them.
"Chafing much?" Bruce commented with well-hidden amusement.
Deigning not to respond to that retort, Meara lifted her brow again and waited for the man to guide her in the right direction. Chuckling slightly, the billionaire hefted one more bag in addition to the four he already carried, shaking his head as he led the brunette to the other side of the hangar.
"Wait here," Bruce instructed, leaving the baggage he carried and walking back to the car across the way. Returning with the rest of their luggage, the dark-haired man set those down next to the other pieces and opened the rust-red door to the boarding area. True to his word, the brightly lit space was fully enclosed in gray stone, the smooth expanse slightly intimidating – while feeling very open at the same time. Shaking off the feeling, Meara followed Bruce's gesturing hand and walked through the door. Thirty feet ahead, the end of the steps sat against the hard concrete ground, leading up into the bright cream interior of the jet.
"Go ahead and pick your seat," Bruce told her, a hint of impatience in his tone despite his still form.
"I'm going, I'm going," Meara reminded him, rolling her eyes at the billionaire's attempted patience, but nonetheless did as Bruce said; he wanted to get going and have their trip done with, which was fine with her.
The jet looked no less bright and creamy once inside the well-lit space; Meara appreciated the lack of darkness for this particular trip. Glancing around at the configuration, Meara chose a seat similar to what Alfred occupied when Bruce returned to Gotham after his seven-year journey in the world. If Bruce needed to say anything to her, or discuss plans about the trip, she wanted to be directly available.
Uncertain where Bruce would place her luggage, Meara set it beside her seat and kept her tote bag in her lap. For a number of moments the jet was mostly quiet, the only sounds those of Bruce bringing their luggage aboard and packing where he decided was best, including the two bags and floral case Meara had carried on. Chancing a few peeks at the process, Meara saw various places to store and strap down the luggage without having to stow it in cargo below.
At last the luggage had been completely stored and Bruce brought over only two bags when he joined Meara, taking the seat across from her.
"We should be ready to go soon," he informed her more calmly and patiently than he had been before boarding the plane, strapping his two luggage pieces along a wall section Meara hadn't noticed until then. "So you're informed, we'll be making an extended turn south and coming back up towards TCIA. It's a fake out maneuver I always use. Even as sure as I am we won't be noticed, I like to keep in the habit of caution."
"What's TCIA?" Meara wondered confusedly, brow furrowing slightly.
"Tri-County International Airport in Detroit," Bruce told her easily, buckling his seat belt and gesturing for Meara to do the same. "What do they call it in your world?"
"Detroit Metropolitan Airport," the young woman shrugged, following Bruce's directive as she talked. "I guess if I thought things like that wouldn't change, I was expecting too much."
"I doubt you were expecting too much," Bruce disagreed. "Perhaps simply not thinking about it."
"I suppose that's it," Meara agreed vaguely. "Although tri-county is the same… are the counties Macomb, Oakland, and Wayne?"
"Clover, Beorn, and Thwaite, actually," the billionaire corrected her patiently.
"What about the major New York area airports?"
"Aside from Gotham Urban Airport, we have Metropolis Network Airport," Bruce mentioned first. "I doubt you have those."
"No, we definitely don't have those," Meara remarked wryly.
"Then there's JFK and LaGuardia," Bruce added. "That's all."
"So there's no Newark or Teterboro," the brunette sighed. "I have so much to study around here."
Bruce smirked a bit. "I think your nose will be stuck behind the computer more than you might have expected."
"Oh well, that means I get more practice with it at least."
"Haven't you used them at college?" Bruce asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Mostly for CAD, with the computer already on and the program already up," Meara shrugged vaguely. "Sometimes I used office programs, but those were probably very different from technology here."
"It did seem to be less advanced than our technology," admitted Bruce casually, "but not so far removed that you wouldn't be able to learn it in short order. You'll be well adjusted by the time you start using technology at work and in classes."
"Could you think up some learning exercises to help me?" Meara suggested thoughtfully. "You know, have me pull up the internet, look up something – like tropical flowers or some such – and then… um… favorite the page and… save a picture from the page? Could that work?"
"I can certainly do that," Bruce promised easily. "I'll have Tim and Dick think of some lesson ideas as well. As a matter of fact, I'll have them focus on the internet and basic applications. I'll look more at the technical and programming aspects. Would you be offended if we start at the very basics, such as changing the desktop background or the system theme?"
"Not at all," Meara shook her head. "I'd much prefer to build from the ground up, rather than finding out I've missed something vital when I'm already halfway there."
"I agree with that mindset," Bruce nodded seriously. "I find that works with most things in life."
"That's true," the young woman agreed just as a white light flashed on the wall near Bruce's seat, accompanied by a dinging sound.
Bruce reached over to press the white button on the wall and replied in a much more billionaire-infused voice, "We're all buttoned up back here."
"All right, Mr. Wayne," a light but masculine voice sounded over the speaker. "We'll be moving to the runway in a few minutes."
"Thanks, Kelly," Bruce responded briefly and turned off the speaker.
Meara couldn't help wondering, "Do you have different pilots each time you fly or are they the same ones?"
"I have a few familiar sets of pilots," Bruce answered with a thoughtful frown. "Occasionally they're unavailable for holidays, vacation time, or family circumstances, so I sometimes have to work outside my venue, but typically I don't have a problem with replacements. I pay them well. And most of the time I put enough… well… leering in the explanation… to prevent too many questions on problematic situations. But the pay usually negates any questions from the start."
"But you don't generally use this jet to do anything outside the typical Wayne lifestyle, do you?"
"No, not anything outside the ordinary for me," said Bruce shrugged, sitting back into his seat. "I have other transportation for that. It's just that I like a fair amount of caution no matter what I'm using this aircraft for."
Nodding her understanding, Meara leaned backing her seat as well. "I really should have known that, but I wanted to make sure."
"Don't hesitate to clarify something with me," Bruce pressed coaxingly, leaning forward again to look Meara in the eye. "Even if something seems as though it should be commonplace, that doesn't mean that it is. Ask. I won't think you're a fool for that."
"Thank you, then," nodded Meara, offering a small smile. "That makes me feel better."
Nodding, Bruce allowed the conversation to lull when the plane began to move.
Waiting out the process of taxiing the runway and taking off only ramped up Meara's nerves infinitesimally. She may not have gotten vertigo in a plane that size, but it didn't mean she wasn't nervous as anything. The young woman didn't dare look out of the window right by her seat, actively pulling down the nearest window shade to protect the minuscule contents of her stomach from possible expulsion. Bruce snorted quietly at her action, but said nothing. Glaring just slightly at the daring – or perhaps insane was more fitting – man across from her, Meara didn't reply.
Only once the plane had leveled out above the clouds did the brunette dare to let her eyes drift towards the window. The sight of white fluff didn't precisely improve her nerves, but at least there were no buildings or lakes rushing by to emphasize the speed and strength of their aircraft as it went on through the pale gray sky.
"Feel free to move around and turn on your devices," the pilot named Kelly said over the speaker, "ETA is eleven-hundred hours."
"Are you hungry yet?" Bruce inquired curiously as the speaker clicked off, "If you are, the meal Alfred packed is right here."
"I suppose I am," Meara answered uncertainly. "At least, I probably need it by now."
Sporting a raised brow at the phrasing, Bruce reached over to unhook the container from its cubby space. With his other hand the billionaire pressed a button on the wall between their seats, a table surface drawing down from the wall to stand between their feet. Bruce waited until the table feet had fully extended before he started to place items from the container on it.
To Meara's surprise, the items were containers of the very same Chinese takeout she and Dick had purchased in such unthinkingly large quantities two days earlier.
"Alfred thought we shouldn't waste it," Bruce explained upon seeing her startled expression.
"I'm not complaining," Meara smiled slightly, "but it's not even warm."
Bruce gave her a particular look, and the brunette found herself embarrassed by the obvious answer to her suggestion. Alfred.
"Ignoring the fact that Alfred warmed everything and stored it in an insulated container just before we left," Bruce said amusedly, "…this is a luxury jet."
"Here I thought you wouldn't see me as a fool," Meara remarked, unfazed by the seeming obviousness of her curiosity.
"That doesn't mean you aren't amusing sometimes," Bruce retorted just as quickly, to which Meara had no words.
Silently, unable or perhaps unwilling to catch his gaze, Meara set about reaching for a plate and choosing the foods she wanted from their selection. Bruce joined her, surprisingly, albeit picking only spring rolls and fried rice. Dick's description of Bruce's healthy eating habits came to mind suddenly, and Meara had to purse her lips to keep from smiling.
Once the food on both plates had dwindled and the table once more placed in its secret slot, Bruce brought them both back to the imminent subject. Meara nearly cringed at the near-apologetic look on her host's face.
"Meara," the dark-haired man began quietly, looking her directly in the eye as he spoke, "Straight to the point… I need you to describe the place where you lived."
Catching a breath, the young woman knew she had no right to be upset over the topic choice. Bruce had to know this so that Meara's story would ring true. …Not that it made the situation any easier to handle.
"It was a house that I—" she started to say, but caught herself before the words could fully leave her lips. "It was a house with a plugged up sink, broken dishwasher, bad air conditioning…"
Bruce noted the abrupt change of phrasing with ease, frowning just slightly. Perfunctory explanations, that was all she had given him. He could break a dishwasher, ruin the plumbing for the sink, tamper with the air conditioner's proper functioning… But as far as the area and atmosphere of the house, he had nothing to truly work with. Nothing to build a life with.
A minute or two passed without anything else having been spoken, until the billionaire finally intervened with a quiet voice, "What can you really tell me about it?"
Closing stormy eyes against the pain pulling her under, Meara forced herself to speak the real meat of her memory, the things that sincerely gave her old home – her old life, for that matter – an honest descriptor.
Pausing to keep herself steady, Meara tried to soldier on, but her voice became no more than a murmur when she finally spoke, "I'm sorry… I don't know why this is so hard. It's just a building on a street. I lived there. I should be able to do this."
Meara swallowed against the challenge of speaking further, shaking her head and looking down at her hands.
Silence filled the jet while Bruce tried to think of some way to help the young woman in his care give the details they needed. Otherwise, their trip was fairly useless. They certainly didn't have time to just walk the streets of Detroit and let Meara house-gaze until she found a worthwhile comparable.
"You can't talk about it, and I understand that," Bruce spoke after a pause, a unique thought hitting him in an unexpected burst of inspiration, "But could you sketch it?"
Looking up in surprise, Meara frowned thoughtfully. "I… Well, I think I could…"
Tumbling in the young woman's brain, the idea gained an ever-increasing significance. There was so much she could never bring herself to say aloud. Not right now. Perhaps never.
As she thought it, Meara reproached herself. Bruce had pulled her brother's fate out of her with shocking ease the previous night.
Even thinking of her little brother had been a terrible pain in her chest every day since he had been ripped away. Saying his name gnawed at her heart, no matter how happy the memory she associated with it. In the space of half a day, thinking that name was no longer such a heavy burden. 'Gilroy' didn't hurt quite as much as it did the day before.
Who knew what the future might hold, if Bruce Wayne could draw her out in such a way? The brunette decided not to test fate any further. Never say never, as they said.
"I'll try."
Bruce simply nodded, "Good."
To the young woman's surprise, Bruce reached into the other bag he'd placed by his seat and pulled out a sketch pad, pencils, and a small pack of other drawing tools. Smiling ever so slightly at his thoughtfulness, Meara took the items with gratitude and settled more comfortably into her seat to begin sketching the house she remembered so vividly.
From across the still-extended table, Bruce watched in fascination as his companion hesitated approximately two-point-five minutes before definitively setting pencil to paper beginning in the bottom left corner, spanning across the page slowly but surely to build the foundations up to the roof of a decent-sized house that must have been built in the nineteen-twenties or thereabouts. The young brunette drew some of the straightest lines Bruce had ever seen without a ruler, a force of instinct and habit she must have cultivated over years of artistic practice. As the drawing grew more in-depth and detailed, Meara drew the pad closer to her, taking her art away from Bruce's sight.
Still he watched her, the heavily concentrated frown on her face, the focused furrow between her brows, and the steady muscle of her arm where she held the pad up to discerning stormy eyes. The process continued on through multiple sheets of paper, Meara seeming unable to stop drawing once she started. It looked cathartic and intuitive for her, this particular set of sketches. Gotham's hero made a safe assumption the aspiring drafter had personally redesigned her last living space in Detroit, hence her excellent memory of its layers and angles. Judging by Meara's rapid, clockwork motions, the billionaire also assumed she remembered her designs with photographic intensity.
It seemed a mere blink of time Meara had been sketching when a notifying ding came over the speaker, actually startling Bruce somewhat. Scolding himself for losing focus, Bruce paid attention to the crew's message along with a freshly surprised Meara, pencil stilled and brow cleared.
"We'll begin landing procedures in approximately twenty minutes," the pilot informed them. "Please secure all belongings and prepare to fasten your seatbelts."
Once the PA cleared, Bruce told Meara calmly, "How far along with the drawings are you?"
"Almost done," she responded, clearly unsurprised by her progress. "One more sketch of the yard and I should be finished."
Unlike Meara, Bruce was taken a bit aback by the actuality of the speed he noticed in her movements. Not allowing the depth of his surprise show, Bruce nodded. "Buckle up and then try to finish before we begin landing. If you run into our descent timing, I'll put away your tools for you. I'm not terribly worried about landing without my safety belt, as you can probably imagine."
Allowing a small smile to surface at his sarcasm, Meara nodded. "All right."
There was still a gleam of involvement in the young woman's rich eyes, and Bruce was pleased her zeal had not abated from the surprise interruption.
Given another fifteen minutes, Meara had completed her sketch with the same proficient methods and tucked it between the pages of the drawing pad with her previous works.
"Good timing," Bruce commented as the belt placard lit up on the wall, taking the tools from Meara to place them inside the bag he'd brought them in.
"We'll begin landing procedures now," Kelly said over the speaker, "Please make sure your belongings are secure and your safety belts are fastened."
Connecting the last secure strap over the bag in his hand, Bruce settled back to strap into his safety belt. Having already done so, Meara reached over to pull down the window shade again. This time Bruce made no comment.
Having faced the feelings when taxiing and rising off the ground did not make it any easier to feel the plane now riding through pockets of mild resistance as it lowered through the clouds section by small section. Only once the jet jolted onto the ground and began to slow as they taxied through the airport did Meara breathe with any comfort. Bruce did chuckle at her then, but Meara rolled her eyes at the gesture this time.
As they made their way around to another private hangar, Bruce watched out of his window with keen eyes until the aircraft had been completely stopped and the stairs finally could be heard opening into the boarding space.
"Welcome to Detroit, Mr. Wayne," the co-pilot came onto the speaker, voice cheerful.
Reaching over to press the white button on the wall, Bruce replied in his 'billionaire' voice, "Thank you, Hollis. You, too, Kelly."
"Enjoy your weekend, sir," Kelly pitched in more calmly than his co-pilot.
Bruce was already out of his seat and releasing luggage from its confines before the speaker cut off, settling every piece by the doorway while Meara far more slowly released her belt and picked up her tote bag. Once again, Bruce only let her carry the tote and floral suitcase. Everything else, starting with the light pieces, he took down the stairs before Meara could even consider reaching for them. Sighing amusedly and irritably at the same time, Meara made her way past the heavy pieces she knew she couldn't handle and then down the stairs to exit the cream-upholstered jet – only to stop in reluctance.
A shining gray Audi seemed at least partially less ostentatious than a Rolls Royce or a Bugatti, but it certainly didn't look unhealthy in the attention department either. Relegating herself back to the billionaire socialite world, Meara started walking again, setting her tote bag in the back seat amongst the other luggage Bruce had placed there. When climbing into the gray leather passenger seat, the brunette took notice of a black jacket on the storage between the front seats.
Bruce made two more trips up to the plane before he joined Meara in the Audi, now slipping a baseball cap on his head and sunglasses over his crystalline eyes. "I arranged for a house under the pseudonym Michael Black. That way we don't have to deal with inquiring staff while we're here."
"I'm glad of that," Meara confirmed, pleased by the ease of not having to deal with a fake relationship – family or otherwise – to cover up whom she and Bruce really were to hotel employees.
"That makes two of us," Bruce remarked dryly, starting the car and turning to head out of the hangar.
The drive was silent as they traveled through the airport and eventually out into heavy traffic. Looking around in interested observation on the trip to the row house, Meara realized the Justice League's Detroit didn't look wholly different from the Detroit Meara grew up in. A few more skyscrapers, a little more modern architecture here and there, but essentially a very similar-looking city.
Bruce finally pulled through a far more expensive neighborhood than Meara had ever lived in, parallel-parking in front of twelve three-story row houses situated nearer to the end of the street. The brown brick facings, red brick side walls, gray stone trim, and second level bay window all espoused a very comfortable charm Meara could appreciate. How Bruce had finagled a row house at the end without essentially 'tipping' the owner confused the brunette, until she recalled his words about the living space.
"Arranged for a house…" she said aloud, catching Bruce's gaze before he could move to open the door. Confused, the billionaire lifted a single black eyebrow in question. Exasperated to an extent, Meara clarified, "You bought a row house? For a single weekend?"
Snorting suddenly at the reason behind Meara's reaction, Bruce shook his head. "Of course. It's more privacy that way. I'll put it back on the market when we're done. At a much more realistic price, too, I assure you."
Scoffing at the dark-haired man, Meara settled for exiting the vehicle and getting her tote, floral case, and two lighter bags from the back seat. Bruce had a smirk on his face while he also pulled luggage from the Audi, his expression only dying off because Meara eyed him like a pest about to be swatted.
Forcing the look from his face, Bruce wordlessly walked up to the front door and unlocked it, somehow not losing the six bags in his grip.
"Utterly ridiculous," Meara found herself grumbling as she walked in ahead of her companion, once again eyeing him like an insect that kept successfully avoiding the flyswatter. Clear blue eyes glittered at her in sharp humor without a shred of remorse. Scowling, the young woman hurried to place her bags down in the entryway, only to stop just inside the black-trimmed doorway and stare at the beautiful work of art that was the interior of the corner row house.
"What's wrong?" Bruce asked her in mild confusion, stopping on a dime behind her still form.
"Nothing," she confessed, just glimpsing the fairly expansive living room and catching the slightest blink of the dining entryway and kitchen doorway nearer to the back of the main hallway. "It's just so lovely. The honey-colored floors, black and white staircase, white board and batten… It all has a very simple charm to it."
"Yes, thank you, Frank Lloyd Wright," Bruce sighed a little exasperatedly. "Now would you please step forward so I can close the door?"
"Oh, sorry!" Meara started, walking further into the house to allow Bruce to pull the black door shut behind him.
"Now you may look around in awe," Bruce offered with quiet instruction, moving a small section of bags towards the staircase, where he turned abruptly back to his companion. "Actually, I just lied. Come upstairs and choose your room first."
"Oh, fine," Meara sighed resignedly, leaving the two bags she'd reached for and carrying only her tote and black suitcase up the black stair treads behind the billionaire.
"Since it's a corner lot, it's more expansive than the other houses," Bruce explained as they stepped off the stairs. The hallway stood empty and spacious, fresh and creamy beige walls opening up the already-wide space even more. "There are three bedrooms and a bathroom on this level, and the same on the third level. The bathroom is at the back, on the left."
"I'll take the front corner," Meara responded almost instantly. "The one with the bay window."
Bruce looked well-humored on her reason for the choice, but made no comment. "All right, I'll take the one at the rear of the house. Truthfully, it makes for a much easier escape if I have to make a sudden costume change. You'll understand if a world crisis hits, won't you, Meara?"
"I believe I'll manage," the young woman remarked wryly, turning to her chosen room when a question popped into her head. "What would you have done if I chose the back bedroom?"
"Taken the third floor," Bruce replied immediately, no hesitation in his voice as he turned to the room of his preference with a natural swagger that Meara couldn't help rolling her eyes at.
Giving up on the billionaire's innate blazing confidence momentarily, Meara walked into her room. The space has been only sparsely furnished; there was a queen-size bed with a white arched frame, a modern white dresser without handles, and white roll shades over the windows. Despite its spartan effect, it was very bright, clean, and livable. Releasing a comfortable sigh at the atmosphere of the home, Meara began unpacking the basic clothes and necessities she would need each day of their trip – dividing the outfits and relative undergarments into separate drawers of the dresser for easy prep in the mornings.
That work completed a short thirty minutes later, Meara turned with a start as something thudded on the floor. Bruce vaguely smiled at her surprise, setting down a second luggage case with purposefully softer thud.
"Sorry I startled you," the dark-haired man said quite genuinely, gesturing at the larger of the two cases he'd brought. "Alfred insisted we bring clean linens and pillows. These are yours."
"And the second case?" Meara wondered, one golden-brown eyebrow lifted in curiosity.
"Art supplies and bath towels," Bruce shrugged. "The towels are one thing I didn't ask the decorators to install."
"I thought you brought sketching supplies in that small case you brought on the plane?"
"Those were actually for me," the hero confessed with a helpless tilt of his head.
"Oh, I see," said Meara understandingly. "Should I put all of that in the dresser as well, or leave it in the case?"
"Unpack it. We're staying three nights, so we may as well be prepared for mishaps. Whether it's an art spill or a scraped knee, we'd want to change the linens."
"That's true," the brunette agreed, reaching out for the larger case to place it on the bed and unzip the top. Flipping it back, she noted the crisp white sheets and pillow cases folded tidily beneath two large, fluffed pillows. "Is there anything else I'll need in here?"
"The rest is mostly for the bathroom or downstairs," Bruce informed the young woman. "Kitchen supplies, utensils, cleaning supplies, general tools, and the like. Anything left after that is for me."
"I'll help unpack for the main level," Meara suggested with ease, "I'll be looking around by then anyway, so we can just meet up in the living room."
"Then I'll get to my unpacking," Bruce decided, leaving her to the towels, linens, and art supplies she began to put away in the second row of the dresser. Art supplies furthest, linens in the middle, and towels at the end nearest the door.
Meara prepared to put off making the bed until she was ready to sleep that night, folding the last set of sheets neatly into the assigned drawer. Upon thinking of what they were to embark on that day, the young woman's fingers slowed to a mindless pace. Planning ahead as she always had, Meara stopped the motions of her hands only to remove that last set of linens with purpose, making the bed with speed and efficiency.
"For a minute, I thought you were going to leave it until later," Bruce's voice quietly broke the concentrated moment as Meara slid one of the pillows into a case.
Glancing up at the cross-armed man where he leaned on the doorjamb, Meara hesitantly responded, "I was going to… but if this goes the way I'm afraid it will, I won't feel any kind of mental or emotional energy to make the bed tonight."
"It might not be that hard, Meara," the billionaire allowed a sigh to escape him. "Since it's not actually the same places, it's highly possible that you'll feel completely different."
"Better to be practical ahead of time than to resent the responsibility later," the young woman murmured pensively.
Unable to argue such logic, Bruce simply nodded his understanding and moved out of the doorway, quietly leaving Meara to the last task she had set for herself.
A/N: Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed Chapter 8: Shadowed!