Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.
He's staring at me.
I wasn't in the room when Wayne woke up. I was arguing with Ducard about getting the man his own room, because God knows I'm not sharing forever. Then I walked back in to find him sitting up on my bed, rubbing his ribs.
Neither of us has moved since I opened the door. Finally, his stare is too much for me.
"Haven't you ever seen wings before?" I ask, faking annoyance.
"Yes," Wayne replies carefully, "But never on a human."
"Get used to it," I say, but my voice falters. I take a deep breath, and plunge forward, "My name is Bree. I'm going to be … your guardian."
"Bree? Is that short for anything?" Wayne asks politely. I give him points for retaining his composure.
"It's kind of a joke around here," I admit, "They call me Breezy."
"Breezy. That's nice," Wayne says, half-smiling. I half-smile back. I'm pretty sure full-blown smiles aren't allowed in the League of Shadows.
"What does being my guardian mean?" Wayne asks, beginning to stretch.
"I'm in charge of keeping you healthy and feeding you and stuff like that," I reply.
"Oh," was all that Wayne said.
I continue to talk, my nerves morphing into babble, "One of my only rules is that I can't interfere with your training or anything. I'm really only here if you need me, so if you don't or anything, I get the picture." Did I honestly just say that out loud?
"When do I start?" Wayne changes the subject quickly, and I feel eternally grateful and incredibly stupid. My social skills are sorely lacking.
"Um, Henri wanted you to see him as soon as you woke up," I say shyly.
"Where can I find him?" Wayne asks.
I shrug stiffly, "He's in the main foyer. Probably."
"Thank you, Breezy," Wayne says sincerely enough, before squeezing past me in the doorway.
As soon as he is out of sight, I flop on my bed and think about how much I miss living a life of hermitage, never having to interact with anyone. I never talk to Ducard or any of the others here. I do what I must than I retreat to my haven of a room. It's been so long since I've actually had to carry out my side of a conversation that I fear I've lost the ability.
Later that night, Wayne makes his way back to my room, knocking lightly. I leap from my bed as if it was covered in hot rocks, and throw the door open, a planned look of irritation sliding onto my face. When I see that it is in fact my subject, the look melts into one of submission. I hold the door open for him, and he steps inside and goes to sit on my recently vacated bed, lifting his shirt over his head as he does.
I freeze for a millisecond, and then remember what I mean to him.
"Decided to go with me after all?" I ask lightly, shooting for a joke.
Wayne actually smiles, and I think the man may have missed his calling as a saint.
"What have we got here?" I ask, remembering what exactly his success means to me.
"Just a little stitching job," Wayne grunts. Sure enough, a three-inch long gash flashes bright red along his side. I patch him up easily and quickly and step away from him as soon as I'm done.
"Thanks, again," Wayne says. Ducard must have shown him to his own room, because he leaves without another word. I am about to run after him to offer dinner, but I figure he'll come to me if he wants it. Instead, I sneak out my window for a calming flight across the mountains, mostly because I don't actually want to see him again.
The next day, I navigate to his new room, breakfast in my hand. He answers, and grabs the food from my hand and hastily eats it.
"Missed dinner last night, did we?" I say, attempting another half-baked joke. He just nods, too hungry to answer correctly. I trail along to his training today, curious for once to know what they do. Ducard seems satisfied to see me there. Of course, I had to take the same training, but those are memories I generally block from my mind. But I figure that knowing what he's doing will only help me in helping him.
Ducard is intruding Wayne to ninjutsu, honing his already considerably-good fighting skills, and teaching him how to take a hit without showing pain and face his fears. Ducard's words dredge up my own memories from my training, and I let them fill my mind, using the same reason I used to come watch Wayne.
I focus on Wayne again, mentally going over what I would need tonight. Ice, lots of it. Some sort of Neosporin product for some minor cuts. Maybe I can even sneak him some painkillers. I feed him a small, sustaining lunch, and then go to collect my materials.
I meet Wayne at my room after his second training with dinner, which he gratefully takes. Then I begin to work my magic. I make him lie on a cot now instead of my bed, because I don't want him messing it up. He talks to me casually while I work sometimes, but I don't respond with more than three syllables. Most of the time, he broods. The next few days pass like this, easily and mostly wordlessly, and then one night he comes in with a dislocated shoulder and half of his minor scratches opened again.
I hadn't been there for his second training, so I drill him on his injuries.
"What the hell, Wayne?" I ask, "You had been doing so good."
"Yeah," Wayne says sheepishly through the pain, "They brought out sticks today."
As I set about fixing him up and giving him some much-needed painkillers that I had guilted someone into giving me, Wayne pops the question that I know he must have been dying to ask.
"How did you get like this, Breezy?" My mind registers at that moment that he hasn't once called me Bree, but that is only an avoidance technique, because I don't want to answer. Actually, I just don't know what to say. It has already been a few moments; I can't ignore him for much longer, so I shrug my shoulders.
"Breezy?" he says again, trying to pry the answer out of me.
I give in, not wanting this to become a rift, "My parents gave me up to a science as an embryo. When I was just a little puddle of goo they added some bird DNA to me to see what would happen." I gesture to the snow white wings that protrude from my back.
Wayne mumbles something. I barely even catch the sound he made, much less what he said.
"What was that, Wayne?" I ask politely, trying not to become angry.
"You can call me Bruce, you know," Wayne says, sidetracking. I give him a pointed look and he sighs before saying, "You must have been a part of the Avian Experiment."
"The what?" I blurt, my hands stopping their massage of Wayne's shoulder. They fall limply to my side.
"When I was about three years old, some scientists came to my father, pleading with him to fund this experiment they were planning. All they told him was that it was a project dealing with genetics. One of the scientists was my father's close friend, and he told Thomas that they were playing this so close to the chest so that others wouldn't find out and copy them. My father believed his friend, and gave them all the money they needed. Only after the fact did he find out what they were doing to human embryos."
He is looking at me with a new light filling his eyes, making the usual brooding look dissipate. He must be insanely curious now.
"Really?" is my witty response.
Wayne nods and then continues, "They added ten percent of a bird's DNA to you. I think they went through more than one hundred embryos before my father found out."
"One hundred?" I ask in disbelief, "That's like manslaughter."
"You must be the one that made it," Wayne says softly, reaching out to touch the soft feathers of my wings for the first time since that first night.
"How do you know all this?" I ask dumbly.
"I studied much of my father's career while in college," Wayne explains, "The Avian Experiment was always a favorite topic of debate in my classes."
"Oh, what did they always say?" I say, feigning polite interest even though my insides were burning with curiosity. I take up massaging his shoulder again.
"That it was unethical and inhuman … but if they could see you, I think they would change their minds." My hands are halted one more.
"Why … why do you say that?" I stutter.
"Because you're beautiful. A true miracle," Wayne says simply.
"But one hundred little babies? All ruined for no reason?" I say incredulously.
"Yeah, you're right," Wayne says to the floor, "The price outweighs the product. No offense," he adds jokingly, looking at me in the eye.
"None taken … Bruce," I try out his first name on my tongue. It tastes funny, but nice. I finish with him, and pat his back. He sits up, and stares at me again. This is a different stare though. He is looking at me in admiration and wonder, not fear.
"So, how do they … work?" he asks hesitantly.
"Well, the wings work like wings. I flap them and they make my fly. They are so big because that is the only way they will be able to carry me. But there are a lot of other components. My bones are hollow, like any bird, but they're stronger. My wing bones are especially strong. My heart beats almost three times as fast as yours and it gives me more endurance for flying, which I need. The same thing goes for my metabolism," I smile, thinking of all the food I consume just to walk around.
"That's amazing," Wayne breathes, thoroughly enraptured by me, the freak.
"Yeah," I say, shrugging off his enthusiasm with a blush rising to my cheeks. He takes my subtle hint, and rolls of the cot.
"Goodnight, Breezy," he says, walking stiffly to the door.
"Sleep well, Bruce," I say to his back, my eyes on my intertwined fingers, "You'll need it."
I am beginning to really like Wayne. He is anguished, life does that to people, but deep down he is sweet and unobjectionable. That's not good though. I don't want to get attached to him, knowing that he could die at any moment. I remind myself once more that he is my ticket out of here, and that that is the only reason I stand him. But that already sounds like a lie, even in my own head.