Meme response - Brute Beauty

[icarus_chained]

For Stalinglim.

Brute Beauty - The Annotated Version (DCAU fandom, Bruce/Shayera, rated PG-13)

Brute Beauty,

The Annotated Version

 

[This thing came in two parts. I got down to the fight sequence, and then froze for about two months. *shrugs* Sometimes they happen that way]

She was in love again. [Because Shayera/John is not to be ignored]

It hadn't snuck up on her, the way it had with John. No. This time it had fallen on her in one fell swoop like a raptor from the skies, one glorious burst of awareness that had stolen her breath away and rendered her helpless before his shrewd assault. She had lost that round badly, but it had been hard for her to care.

It wasn't the same as it had been with John. It didn't have that warmth, the softness and tenderness she had known with him. It didn't have the aching weight of that love. [In the early days, it was real. I'm nearly sad it fell apart] This feeling was harder, fiercer, tinged with need. It came more from the hawk than the woman, she thought, but she was both, and didn't mind. [She's Thanagarian, not human. I think it makes more difference than sometimes we think] It made her blood sing and her heart soar, and that was so much more than she had ever hoped for again. It was enough to feel it, and never risk his knowing.

It was the training that started it. The training that made it. She doubted they thought she knew it, but the others held back with her. All of them, save two. With J'onn and Superman, she knew it was instinctive. They had held themselves back all their lives, on earth at least, for fear of hurting someone. [Some instincts run deep. They couldn't bear to hurt a friend] Flash, of course, simply didn't have a mean or ferocious bone in his body, until you threatened someone he cared about. [*huggles the speedster*] And generally speaking, training didn't do that. John ... that was a whole other issue, and one she wasn't keen to talk about. No. The only two who fought her blow for blow, with intent to win, were Diana and ... him.

There were the others, of course. The newbies, as Flash called them. And she did train with them. But it lacked the ... the connection, the pride, of training with the old crew. It wasn't the same as training with family. And even if it was a family she'd betrayed, the family she'd failed, the Justice League was still her family. [Losing family ... something Bruce understands] And she wanted to fight with them, hard and fierce and proud, as a hawk should. ["My world of Thanagar is a warlike world ..."]

So she sparred most often with those two. And with him most of all. Because in her heart, Diana still had not forgiven her betrayal. [Amazonian justice is not gentle, after all] Because it showed, whenever they fought, in the strength and vindictiveness of their blows. And sometimes she craved that, the catharsis, the power of two strong women beating their grudge into the dust, in preparation to stand beside each other against a common enemy. Sometimes, she could see how Diana craved that too. [Sisters, even when they hate each other] But for the times when the grudge was too much, she fought him. The Batman.

He did not harbour a grudge. Or if he did, it was expertly hidden. [Professional Bat, but I think he does understand - Let's not forget comicsverse, and who stood before a panel of Leaguers there ...] But neither did he hold back. He was the closest to her, maybe, in terms of strength, in terms of vulnerability. They both lacked the raw power the other five wielded. They both had to make up for it with skill, with technique, and with raw ferocity when it was needed. And that was what they piled into their training bouts. Skill, technique, and ferocity. [Bats and Hawks don't play nice ...]

That was what she craved most.

He was good. He was the Bat. Of course he was good. But when they fought, he let it show. [This I think is part that he thinks she needs it most, but also ... he knows the others hold back with him too, and while he understands it, I think at the back aristrocratic Bruce views it as a little like contempt on their part, and returns the favour] When they fought, they pushed each other to the limits. They held nothing back. They couldn't. Both of them were all too aware of the other's weaknesses, and both of them took swift and punishing advantage of them, both of them strove to compensate for them, both of them strove to push the other beyond the reach of an enemy's grasp. No holding back. No sympathy. No room for sympathy. They had to win. Because it was the only way to survive. Neither of them had the powers to fall back on that the others did. And they both knew it. [Gods, they're beautiful. So fragile, so strong ...]

So there was method in their mutual brutality. There was a reason for the ferocity that had everyone abandoning the training rooms as soon as they saw the pair of them enter. There was an excuse to put up in the face of J'onn's consternation [I understand, just don't let it become serious], Superman's ill-hidden disapproval [Would you two please stop trying to kill each other], Flash's hesitant attempts to calm them [Ah, guys? Less of the, you know, killing each other?]. But that wasn't why she did it. It wasn't her reason, her real reason.

Her real reason was that it was fun. She loved training with the Bat. She loved the power of it, the simplicity beneath the science, the rush of strength and adrenalin through her every time she saw him come in behind her and get ready. [Because in a world that has become so complicated for her, I think she loves the simplicity and the trust] She loved the push for survival, the elemental thrill of fighting for her life that somehow he gave her, while at the same time knowing that he would just as soon die to save her. She loved fighting him. And now ... now she loved him.

She couldn't help it. It was something deep and instinctive, something that rose up from the part of her that was hawk, the part of her that even now, even after centuries of evolution, simply yearned for a mate, for someone strong and fierce enough to fly at her side. Someone to pull her fighting and bloody from the sky, and make her his. [She isn't wholly human, but at the same time, she is wholly woman]

She would never tell him, of course. He was not hers to have [She's not blind], and to him their training was just that. Training. A way to keep ahead of the enemy. A way to stay alive. He did not embrace the thrill of it as she did. He did not surrender himself to the pure thrill of the fight. He couldn't. There was a monster inside him, where the hawk rested with her, and he would forever guard against it's escape. [She embraces it, he denies it. Neither fully works. I'm hoping they can teach each other to meet in the middle] But despite all that, he was still beautiful in battle. Even if he did not embrace the thrill, he commanded the movement, the science, the flow of the fight. He mastered it's power and brutality, the keen edge of survival. He flew.

He flew. [He does, dammit! All the Bats do, and they do it the human way. I adore this about them]

With rope and muscle instead of wings, but he did fly. Instinctively, automatically, she could see him calculating airspeed, distance, drag, lift, momentum, wind vector ... all the science of flight. Everything she knew in her bones, every instinct of her people, she could see in him, striving to be released. He was a creature of the air, born without wings, and the injustice of it tore at her. Of all of them, he deserved flight, and of all of them, he was denied. [This is me, icarus, transfering. *weeps*]

Not that it stopped him. It was a long-running struggle between them, her ability to fly. It was her greatest advantage, her aerial ability. It gave her far greater range and far more avenues of attack. Conversely, once in the air, she needed space to manouver, sufficient airspace for turns and dodges, while he could move in a much tighter fashion, and make better use of terrain. But that didn't negate the fact that a lot of the time, she was simply out of his range. He had to wait until she got in close, or make use of his projectiles. And he did make good use of them. A time or two, a shot of his had knocked her out of the sky. That was one of the areas they focused on for improvement. By now, she could counter most of his shots, provided she saw them coming. He still managed to sneak up on her, circle until he saw an opening. But she had vastly improved. [For the longest time, I debated leaving this bit out. It was very action-oriented, in a romance fic. But ... it's Shayera. And Bruce. Fighting is such a huge part of who they are. In the end, I felt it was right to see them fighting each other]

As had he. He'd had a lot of practice, fighting things that flew. He was growing more inventive, taking to the air more to fight her. In the indoor bouts, where he had objects to climb, to use to propell himself into the air with her, they spent a lot of their time trading actual blows in the air. His manouvering advantage was negated, but in close combat he was deadly. And beautiful. So very beautiful. [On an elemental level, so much of what is deadly is also beautiful. For these two ...]

Those were her favourite fights. In the air. Face to face. Blow for blow. Dodging. Weaving. These fights. This fight. [Uneasy transition]

Her mace, striking his support from beneath him as he ran. His weapons, scything through the air as he turned at bay. The rush of air under her wings as she pulled up, gained height, denying him close quarters on the ground where he excelled. His line, snaking out to lift him into the air after her. Her mace, breaking it. His foot, whipping past her face, having calculated her move. Her wing, coming around to clip his shoulder. His body, flowing beneath hers as he fell. His hand, catching her foot to pull her after him. [Trying for intimacy, immediacy in this. Not sure it worked]

The branch, catching her wing as she fell, tearing it. Tearing into her wing.

She screamed. She didn't mean to, but it was a deeper instinct than she could fight. Pain in the wings overruled everything. Damage to the wings was the death of any Thanagarian. The fear rose within her, clawed it's way up through her. Not of death. She could face that. But the fear of the fall, of the loss of the sky. Her wing. Her wing. [It's her fear, the one Dr Whatsisface sent her in the nightmare. And I think it's almost racial, an instinct as old and deep as humanity's fear of the dark. The wings are what define Thanagarians in a lot of ways]

The air rushed around her as she fell towards the ground, and the sensation sent panic spiralling in her mind. She was still screaming, still caught in the tearing grasp of that fear, when she felt arms wrap themselves around her from below, as if to pull her into the ground. She twisted, fighting, but the motion sent pain shooting through her damaged wing, and then she couldn't think at all.

Because they hit.

The impact juddered up through her, lifted her a little away from her captor before she fell back again, those arms tightening instinctively as beneath her someone's gasp of pain was sharply cut off. She was limp for a minute, dazed and panicked, before she started twisting again, fighting. She had to get away. She had to, before it pulled her back beneath the ground, into that coffin that the dream demon had sent her to when he stole her wings. [I can't remember his damn name! Y'all know who I mean, right?] She had to get away ... had to ...

"Hawkgirl! Hawk-umph-girl! Shayera! SHAYERA!" His voice cut through her panic, a cool snap of command that demanded she obey. His voice. His. [Lay the Batvoice on 'er]

She stopped fighting, falling limp and shaking against him, her breath coming in sharp, juddering pants. Her wing flopped uselessly beside her, every spike of pain a reminder of the terrible, looming possibility that she might never again ... No! Stupid, stupid thought! She hadn't even checked yet! It could be nothing, a minor tear. This fear ... the memory of this fear ... this loss ... It was no more than that! Just a fear. Just a fear. Thanagar, so strong a fear ... [To have the sky and lose it ... to lose the only part of Thanagar she has left, to lose what makes her part of her people even on Earth ... to fall and never fly again ... *shudders*]

She felt movement beneath her then, as he regained his breath and began to move out from beneath her. The motion hurt her, but not nearly so much as the loss. No! Don't leave me alone with this! Don't leave me to fall alone!

Not again ... [*crying* Because that's it as well. She fell from grace, fell alone, lost the respect of everyone on either side that had ever cared for her. Because it hurts her, so much, and she's so afraid of it ... Not just falling. Falling alone]

But he didn't leave. He didn't even fully pull away. He simply pulled himself from beneath her, as gently as he could, easing her down to lie on her back on the training room floor. She shivered with its touch, with reaction, and watched his face come into view. Those white slits were narrowed in concern, that fierce mouth thin and angry. [I was trying to show ... he's not pretty, here. Not Bruce pretty. But to her ... it doesn't matter. There is beauty in severity, too] He leaned over her, took her face between his hands, that intelligent glare cutting straight through her eyes to the fear beneath. He saw her fear, and his hands went soft around her face. [He knows. Bruce would]

"Shayera," he said, harshly gentle. "I'm going to look at your wing." He did not add further instruction, not against her fear, but she could see the command in those veiled eyes. Think. Breathe. Control yourself. And she tried. Warrior born, she fought the fear beak and claw, and surrendered herself to this man. [I'll explain in a minute, but that surrender is so profound for me ...]

Turning his attention to the damaged wing, Batman's eyes narrowed, his focus zeroing in like the hunter she saw in him. But unlike the hunter, his hands as they moved to explore the injury were gentle, cautious. He smoothed torn pinions out of the way, traced the bloodied tear gently, his bearing fierce and attentive. And as she felt those powerful hands move over her wing, the most precious, vulnerable part of her, she couldn't help but shudder in reaction.

[I'm putting this out here because it may take a while ... This, for me, is the most important part of this fic. Her trusting him enough to let him do this, his understanding enough to be gentle and thorough. Because it's her wing. Because I don't know that I can explain what I think that means to her, to any Thanagarian, but Shayera especially. Maybe I'm oversensitive to this (Icarus, anyone?), but ... it's her freedom, the sky, Thanagar, her people, her strength ... without her wings, she might lose everything again. Not just the sky. Her position in the League. Her ability to fight. Her worth. Her freedom to be herself, and her connection to the only other home she has known. It's her wing, and it's damaged, hurt, and she's so afraid, and she lets him touch it. The intimacy of that ... it's beyond sexual. It's beyond trust. It's love, pure and simple. To let herself be touched that way, to surrender essentially all that makes her who she is to him ... I've never known that kind of intimacy, that kind of love. Maybe some of you have been so lucky, and I envy you ... it's a gift beyond measure, I think]

He froze instantly, looking back at her face in concern, and saw something there that she hadn't been able to hide fast enough. Some glimmer of what she felt for him, a shadow of the passion, the need.

The love.

He tensed to draw away. [It is Bruce, after all. That whole commitment issue ...] She could sense it, sense it as a warrior senses the intentions of their opponent, as a hunter senses prey, as a woman senses mate. She saw his retreat coming, and rejected it. Torn open, sick and riding on the adrenalin of fear and fight and fall, she refused to allow it. She surged up to meet him as he crouched over her, seized hold of him against the scream of pain that thundered through her, and kissed him. [She's hurt, she's terrified, she's just given him a sign of trust beyond measure, she's damned if she's letting him back away. She's no strength for that, not again]

She kissed him. Fear and pain and power and need, ferocity and passion, tenderness and love. Everything she had left, everything she could give. The need of the hawk for mate, the yearning of the woman for love. All of it. All for him, in that one instant. [Oh, Shayera. So much, and you count it so little]

His hands, which had jumped instinctively to her shoulders to ward her off, changed their grip. Loosened in surprise, then tightened around her with something else. A growl built in him, rejection and yearning all at once, tore loose from his chest and poured into her through that shared kiss. His nature, brutality and gentility paired, wildness and restraint, seared through her and crested above her heart. [The duality that runs deeper than Bruce/Bat, that drives it ... something she can understand]

The kiss ended. The surge of adrenalin fled, leaving her shivering and wounded, helpless before him, hopelessly in love. She drew in as deep a breath as she could, almost sobbing with the loss of him, the knowledge of his rejection pounding as deep and terrible as the pain in her wing. But she couldn't accept defeat. Not like this. Her pride, her own ferocity, rejected it, and she looked back up at him. Glared at him, challenged him to deny her. Dared him to see her broken heart. [Such courage, she has. Such pride, despite it all. It would have been a crime not to show it, not to see ...]

She should have known better than to dare the Bat.

He met her heated gaze, her proud heart laid bare before him, and said nothing. Instead, he let go of one shoulder to reach up. To take hold of the mask that hid his face from her and pull it slowly back, a revealing as terrible and meaningful in its way as any Thanagarian unmasking. [To Thanagarians, masking is dishonour in the hands of an enemy, and an incredible intimacy with a friend/lover. She's abandoned that for the most part, but you don't forget something that much a part of your culture. And for him ... so much the same. So alike, so proud. He would have made a fine Thanagarian, I think] She caught her breath at what it revealed, at the blue eyes that burned with an inner fire, at the stern profile that inclined itself gracefully towards her. [Again with the severe beauty thing]

"Shayera," he said, quietly, regret and determination and need. "Be sure. Be very, very sure." [Because once Bruce ever commits at all, he commits for life. I think it's a big part of why he makes sure to never do it at all. Because then he'll have to honour it]

"I am," she answered, instantly, absolutely. Her commitment was complete, a hawk to the flight, a warrior to the death. She had no more room in her heart for the slow and cautious love she had once known, the gentle settling of weight on her chest. She could only offer ferocity, completeness, love, blood and air and battle. She could only offer everything that was left of her, and hope it would be enough. [Oh, Shayera. Anyone would be lucky to have any part of you!]

He stared down at her, a war raging behind his eyes, knowledge and fear and desire and compassion, and then, an instant before they settled into determination, there was love. A faint flash, a gentle softening, and then the fierce determination of the man masked it beneath the weight of a decision. But it lived in him. She saw that, and when he dipped his head the second time, infinitely gentle, she felt it. Pride and understanding, anger and fear, passion ... and love. [He's not stupid, either]

"Alright," he whispered, resting his forehead against hers, his hands cupping her cheeks. "Alright." And she wept. [Emotional and adrenalin rush ... such a bad combo]

She had fought with him, lived with him, learned from him. She had betrayed him, hurt him, almost destroyed his world. She had loved another, failed another, left too many pieces of her heart with that other. She was not whole, coming to him. But she was herself. She was fierce and bloody and torn from the sky to land in his arms. She was damaged, and he accepted that. [And understands it. He's not whole either. So few people are. Perfection is not wholeness. Perfection is the strength of the pieces]

He cradled her for a long time, holding her against the pain her sobbing caused. His face was bare, stern and open and free, and his dark wings covered hers and sheltered them both in a private eyrie. [Because I cannot get enough of that image] When she stopped, exhausted and quiet, he scooped her up, gathered her damaged wing gently up, and carried her to the infirmary. No-one questioned him. No-one dared. [Would you?]

And when it was finished, when J'onn's gentle and efficient hands had eased the pain of her wing and the fear in her heart, he leaned in. Bruce, Batman, blue eyes bright and fierce, savagely beautiful. [He is. She is. Godsdamn, but they're beautiful!]

"You will not fall alone," he said, so very quietly, taking the fear that had lived for so long in her breast in his hands and crushing it. "Never again. You will not fall alone."

And when she slept, and the dreams came, and she fell helpless from the sky ... his arms wrapped around her from below, and dark wings swept up around her in lieu of feathered ones, and in the nightmare darkness of the earth blue eyes remained to show her the sky and call her heart to soar. [*wibbles* I adore this pairing, these two ... *adoring sigh*]

It was enough.

[Finis]

And a bonus ficlet!!!

Title:  Preening
Rating:  PG-13 to light R
Pairing:  Bruce/Shayera
Summary:  Because I got so affected talking about her wings, earlier. Bruce grooming them.

She sat in front of him, his powerful legs wrapped loosely around her. The window ahead of her opened out onto the silent beauty of space, the endless skies, but all her mind was turned inward. To him. To herself, and the sensations that curled through her.

He was touching her wings.

Humans called it preening, in birds. But in themselves the word meant vanity, undeserved pride. It was a shameful thing. It was a part of them she didn't understand. On Thanagar, it was necessary, for the upkeep of the wings. It was essential, a point of pride, and a Thanagarian with messed wings was showing that they were without pride in themselves.

But between lovers, it had a deeper meaning. A meaning Bruce seemed to understand, instinctively. Between lovers, it was a sign of ... trust. Love. It was an opening of self to the touch of another, a gift of the most vulnerable part of themselves. It was so ... so strong ... Thanagar! She arched, feeling all the muscles in her wings tighten, spreading them wide around her. His hands ... The touch of those rough, strong fingers ... stroking, touching ... granting pride back, accepting vulnerability ... so firm. So gentle.

"Shayera," he murmured, a deep rumble, a kind of joy. He loved seeing her like this, she thought. He loved her power, loved waking the passion in her. He was a hunter, her mate ...

He stopped, and she almost flinched in surprise. "Bruce?" She tried to look back, over her shoulder, but he stopped her. Instead, he drew one of her hands back, and let her feel what he had picked up, what he held. She traced it lightly with her fingers, feeling the sharp cool of it, the narrow edges. The distinctive scalloped edges ... she knew this thing. All too well. But why a Batarang ...

"My fingers aren't fine enough, Shayera," he murmured, leaning forward to hold her close to him, to rest his stern face against her shoulder. So tender. "I want to go deeper," he whispered, a deep, rough purr. "I want to do it right."

She shuddered against him, the whisper curling through her, the thought of it ... A blade, on her wing. Fear curled up through her instinctively. But wielded by his hand, by Bruce ... he would never harm her. She knew that, deep in her bones. He would never take what meant so much to her, not when he had given back so much of the reason why.

"Yes," she said, faintly. That was all.

He pressed a kiss to her cheek, then, reached forward to trace her features, to trace the shaking fragility of her. "Shayera," he murmured. "Shayera."

And when he pulled back, she felt the cool metal touch her wing, and flinched. He waited, patient and sure, gentle, for her to be still again, for her wing to settle against his tender weapon. She stilled, trembling faintly, shaking, and closed her eyes as she felt the blade whisper over the feathers. She felt him slip the razored edge beneath one, felt him lift it and realign it, so delicate, so fine, the blade resting against the sensitised skin but never breaking it. She trembled fiercely, her back arching, her eyes locked closed. He settled his other hand around her hip, cradling her, supporting her, and moved again.

She lost track of time. Her world narrowed indescribably, every ounce of her being focused on that narrow blade, on the openess, on the unbearable sense of vulnerability. On his hand behind the blade, and the searing focus she could feel, on the care and the power of him as he held her. She shook uncontrollably, the sensations so powerful, the feeling of so deep a trust, of so strong a caring ... the blade moved, and her heart moved with it.

And behind her, she could hear his following.