Cats Eat Birds - Damian Wayne/OC

76 | FROM THEIR TOWER...

SPACE; THE WATCHTOWER | SOMETIME LATER | CRISTEN

     CRISTEN WOKE TO the smell of ozone burn. Heat vision.

She pried herself sideways off of the mattress, blinking at her dark surroundings on her side. A looming shadow waded through the murk, and then the lamp on the bedside table popped to life, gushing honey-colored light across her half-hidden face. The Watchtower's metal walls were filled in with hand-me-down furniture that could have been from any bedroom in Kansas. When Cristen felt along her shoulder, a heavy, dusty quilt pinned her to the cozy bed. It smelled like an attic, which meant it also smelt like Clark.

"Hey, girlie," he said. Cristen swatted around for where he was, and when Clark gave her his hand, she pinched it to check if she was dreaming. She wasn't anymore. "You get some sleep?"

"Enough," Cristen replied.

"Good. We're gonna be shipping out here in an hour or so. Jon's meeting us up here in a minute, but I wanted to make sure you were alright."

Finally, Cristen let her eyes open in full, and awkwardly woke up her still limbs. Pink creases were embedded in her skin where her clothes had pressed too long and the blanket had sunk in too deep. For a moment it was before dawn and Clark was waking her up so they could walk the Kent property together, but connected to the hand shoving at Cristen's shoulder was the azure alien armor that put a bullet of memory in her gut. Her insight cringed. She remembered.

"C'mon, kiddo," Clark said. "Up. I got you food."

She ignored Clark to sit up on her own, curls hanging in her face. Sleep evaporated from her figure as quick as a whipcrack, and then Cristen was up and moving, marching around the room to collect her things. Unsettled waves mingled with the air around Clark, but Cristen ignored him. At times, Clark's worry was a monstrous, towering thing, that bit into the ache in Cristen's neck, whether that be as a surface worry or deep-seated anxiety, like now. She didn't need it. Especially not tonight.

"Not hungry," Cristen said.

She was shaking her hands out to work off the sleep in them, hunting around the room for where Zatanna had put Damian's sword. Finding it with her insight would be a piece of cake, but Cristen wouldn't dare waste what remained of it today.

Zod had drained her of her powers, leaving her in his memory of the clones like the vast husk of an oil mine. Still, Cristen knew that she would choke out every drop of her spirit to find Damian. These people—these fucking madmen—had turned her city upside down, pillaged it of the destitute kids Cristen had once belonged to, killing and stealing what Cristen loved, putting Bullet in the hospital, sacrificing Lucy to her father, taking Damian. All for a ridiculous scheme. Taking over the Justice League. Who did they think they were? Cristen knew that the person behind all of this needed help, but her hands trembled when they closed Damian's cape over her back. Not with fear. They were the ones who should be afraid.

"Could you at least take a few bites?" Clark asked, waving the bowl of oatmeal in her direction. "I warmed it up just for you. I even got the apple cinnamon kind. That's your favorite, right?"

As disgusted as her stomach was at the thought of food, she sees and feels Clark's guilt like an itch she can't kick. A few spoonfuls seem to satisfy him, and finally, Superman dips under the bed and comes out to knight her with Damian's sword. When his back is turned to unlock the sliding door, Cristen kisses the hilt. Going without it is almost as severe as going without Damian, so the moment its weight is back on her hip, a molecule of stress in Cristen's back retracts. This will be over soon. Soon, Cristen will be able to pass it into Damian's hands, and see Damian's face again, and feel Damian breathe in the same space as her again, and hear his heartbeat alive in his chest again. She will find him soon.