[flashfic] BoP
Fandom: Birds of Prey
Characters: Oracle and a guest
Words: 1028
Notes: Spoilers for One Year Later arcs and revelations. Let's hope this doesn't happen. Let's hope it doesn't have to happen.
“Oracle.”
A gasp. Then, dryly, as if this were an expected event, “Don’t you ever use the door?”
“No,” delivered sharp, clipped, but with lips twitching in an almost smile.
They stared at each other.
From somewhere long past, memories whispered, almost lost in the many intervening years between them.
They each had lived too many lives.
“Would you… like to come in?”
The invitation met with surprise, then wariness. The hostess gestured expansively towards the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I could whip up some sandwiches.”
Before, they would not have hesitated like this.
“You know why I’m here,” the intruder-guest-said. The words were spoken softly, but there was nothing soft about them.
The hacker reached up and pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut tightly. That, at least, hadn’t changed. Not like the extra lines around her eyes and mouth-laugh lines, worry lines-or the tension in her posture. Small changes, but the small changes, the small movements, had always spoken loudest to her guest.
The guest inclined her head towards the older woman. “Okay. I could eat. Do you have any tea?”
The hostess let her guest precede her into the kitchen, rolling quietly behind her, hands perhaps lingering curiously close to the armrests of her wheelchair. Her guest looked around the kitchen slowly, perhaps unnerved by the brightness of the sun pouring through the generous windows, and then settled into a chair at the modest table, sprawling easily in her seat. She looked comfortably at home; she always did have a way of carelessly ingratiating herself.
The sandwiches were easy: cold meats, mustard, slices of cheese, all cut neatly into halves with the knife that weighed unusually heavy in her hand. They were simple sandwiches but she made them slowly, with care, maybe because she wanted to give the water time to boil, maybe because she was running the new images of her guest through her mind, noting the sharp cheekbones, the self-assurance, the stern lips, the brown eyes that pierced, hard and unforgiving. Different. Like the tea. They hadn’t drunken tea before. Juice, maybe, or water. The penchant for tea must have come later.
The teapot’s whistle was loud and startling in their silence.
They ate slowly. That was different, too. Her guest, instead of eagerly devouring her food with abandon, chewed thoughtfully, eyes watching closely. She was also the one to fill the silence, making small talk of the most inconsequential kind. The weather. How bright and clean Metropolis was. That Dalten Tower reminded her of the buildings in Gotham. That it didn’t seem as cozy as the Clocktower.
They’d never really needed words-her guest had never really needed words-but they had always felt necessary between them. Or maybe it was because that was the world Oracle had always known. Oracle knew words. Oracle was words, a voice, a vigilant presence speaking up to keep things in order.
But now she couldn’t think of anything to say. Funny, since she had always been the one doing the talking before. Teaching. Guiding.
Now she was the one with questions. And she couldn’t ask them, couldn’t learn the answers.
Maybe she had never wanted to know them.
Hers, it seemed, was a cursed legacy. Simpler to leave it at that.
Easier to convince herself that she wouldn’t follow the same steps.
That she couldn’t.
All she ever wanted to do was good. All she had ever wanted to do was change the world for the better.
She had.
She did.
She was.
“How long before your agents get here?” her guest asked quietly, intruding in her thoughts.
There was no answer.
“They’re not going to make it in time. And if they do… I don’t want to hurt them, but I will if they try to stop me.”
Her hostess slumped in her seat, one hand covering her eyes.
“You know why I’m here.”
Oracle closed her eyes and then laughed. It was bitter. “You know, I always thought… I always thought it would be Dinah. That she would….” She shook her head. “But you… you coming… it’s almost poetic.” She laughed again.
“… I know Canary will come after me. Her or the new Canary.”
“… No, she won’t.”
Her guest was silent.
Oracle shook her head. “And if she does, tell her… tell her I’m sorry. Tell all of them that I’m so sorry.”
“… So you admit that you’ve gone too far. Barbara.”
“No. No, but that’s what you think, isn’t it? That’s why you’ve come,” Babs whispered. “Because isn’t that what you do now, Cassandra?”
Her hand moved towards the armrest of her chair and her lips began to shape the first of three words that would activate one of her security measures when the other woman moved and there was a crushing pain in her throat and the air froze in her lungs and distantly her fingers were going numb and there was a clatter of escrima sticks hitting the floor.
And she tried to speak, tried to explain that she did what she had to do, that the world was going crazy, would have already gone crazy, and someone needed to stop it, someone needed to keep it from falling apart.
She had only been doing what she had to do.
Then Cassandra Cain swept aside her fiery bangs and brushed a kiss across her forehead, her eyes filled with a shadow of sadness, of a memory of fondness, of a streak of pity.
Barbara knew Cassandra had heard her.
But she wasn’t listening.
The problem had always been making people listen.
Their eyes met.
Cassandra never looked away.
And a memory whispered to Barbara, of being immobilized in her chair, of watching again and again as the child killed and learned about death, and she felt again the sorrow and fear and disappointment and gui-
Then there was darkness.
From the direction of the consoles, a voice called out for Oracle.
In the kitchen, a protégé closed the unseeing eyes of her mentor and tenderly wiped away the solitary tear on one pale cheek.
And the world moved obliviously on.
Notes: I was rereading parts of Batgirl today (like issue #45 where Cassie wears Babs' old outfit) and I really missed Cassie. I miss her even more now that One Year Later has made her into a whiney brat that hurts my soul. She and Spoiler as Junior Birds would have been great (alas, Stephanie ;_;). This fic idea, however, has been biting me for a long time. I don't know why Cassie does what she does now but I always picture her as killing the bad guys that Batman never could (even if that forces me to disregard everything that happened in Batgirl--I'm just trying to work with this new awful canon ;_;) and Babs scares me. A lot. I keep imagining what it would be like for her to really start using the power she has--innocently, of course. Path to hell paved with good intentions and all that jazz. It'd probably be something like that Elseworlds Worlds' Finest that stars Batgirl and Power Girl--and fascist Batgirl is as scary as she is badass (and Bruce is totally her bitch; it's great).
As I was telling Nemi, though, this fic kind of makes me want to write a fic in which Babs and Cass meet up for a conversation One Year Laterish. But I have no idea how Babs even perceives Cass now; "Batgirl" mentioning her really upset Babs. =( And Cass has changed so much... *lets the gears turn*
Characters: Oracle and a guest
Words: 1028
Notes: Spoilers for One Year Later arcs and revelations. Let's hope this doesn't happen. Let's hope it doesn't have to happen.
“Oracle.”
A gasp. Then, dryly, as if this were an expected event, “Don’t you ever use the door?”
“No,” delivered sharp, clipped, but with lips twitching in an almost smile.
They stared at each other.
From somewhere long past, memories whispered, almost lost in the many intervening years between them.
They each had lived too many lives.
“Would you… like to come in?”
The invitation met with surprise, then wariness. The hostess gestured expansively towards the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I could whip up some sandwiches.”
Before, they would not have hesitated like this.
“You know why I’m here,” the intruder-guest-said. The words were spoken softly, but there was nothing soft about them.
The hacker reached up and pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut tightly. That, at least, hadn’t changed. Not like the extra lines around her eyes and mouth-laugh lines, worry lines-or the tension in her posture. Small changes, but the small changes, the small movements, had always spoken loudest to her guest.
The guest inclined her head towards the older woman. “Okay. I could eat. Do you have any tea?”
The hostess let her guest precede her into the kitchen, rolling quietly behind her, hands perhaps lingering curiously close to the armrests of her wheelchair. Her guest looked around the kitchen slowly, perhaps unnerved by the brightness of the sun pouring through the generous windows, and then settled into a chair at the modest table, sprawling easily in her seat. She looked comfortably at home; she always did have a way of carelessly ingratiating herself.
The sandwiches were easy: cold meats, mustard, slices of cheese, all cut neatly into halves with the knife that weighed unusually heavy in her hand. They were simple sandwiches but she made them slowly, with care, maybe because she wanted to give the water time to boil, maybe because she was running the new images of her guest through her mind, noting the sharp cheekbones, the self-assurance, the stern lips, the brown eyes that pierced, hard and unforgiving. Different. Like the tea. They hadn’t drunken tea before. Juice, maybe, or water. The penchant for tea must have come later.
The teapot’s whistle was loud and startling in their silence.
They ate slowly. That was different, too. Her guest, instead of eagerly devouring her food with abandon, chewed thoughtfully, eyes watching closely. She was also the one to fill the silence, making small talk of the most inconsequential kind. The weather. How bright and clean Metropolis was. That Dalten Tower reminded her of the buildings in Gotham. That it didn’t seem as cozy as the Clocktower.
They’d never really needed words-her guest had never really needed words-but they had always felt necessary between them. Or maybe it was because that was the world Oracle had always known. Oracle knew words. Oracle was words, a voice, a vigilant presence speaking up to keep things in order.
But now she couldn’t think of anything to say. Funny, since she had always been the one doing the talking before. Teaching. Guiding.
Now she was the one with questions. And she couldn’t ask them, couldn’t learn the answers.
Maybe she had never wanted to know them.
Hers, it seemed, was a cursed legacy. Simpler to leave it at that.
Easier to convince herself that she wouldn’t follow the same steps.
That she couldn’t.
All she ever wanted to do was good. All she had ever wanted to do was change the world for the better.
She had.
She did.
She was.
“How long before your agents get here?” her guest asked quietly, intruding in her thoughts.
There was no answer.
“They’re not going to make it in time. And if they do… I don’t want to hurt them, but I will if they try to stop me.”
Her hostess slumped in her seat, one hand covering her eyes.
“You know why I’m here.”
Oracle closed her eyes and then laughed. It was bitter. “You know, I always thought… I always thought it would be Dinah. That she would….” She shook her head. “But you… you coming… it’s almost poetic.” She laughed again.
“… I know Canary will come after me. Her or the new Canary.”
“… No, she won’t.”
Her guest was silent.
Oracle shook her head. “And if she does, tell her… tell her I’m sorry. Tell all of them that I’m so sorry.”
“… So you admit that you’ve gone too far. Barbara.”
“No. No, but that’s what you think, isn’t it? That’s why you’ve come,” Babs whispered. “Because isn’t that what you do now, Cassandra?”
Her hand moved towards the armrest of her chair and her lips began to shape the first of three words that would activate one of her security measures when the other woman moved and there was a crushing pain in her throat and the air froze in her lungs and distantly her fingers were going numb and there was a clatter of escrima sticks hitting the floor.
And she tried to speak, tried to explain that she did what she had to do, that the world was going crazy, would have already gone crazy, and someone needed to stop it, someone needed to keep it from falling apart.
She had only been doing what she had to do.
Then Cassandra Cain swept aside her fiery bangs and brushed a kiss across her forehead, her eyes filled with a shadow of sadness, of a memory of fondness, of a streak of pity.
Barbara knew Cassandra had heard her.
But she wasn’t listening.
The problem had always been making people listen.
Their eyes met.
Cassandra never looked away.
And a memory whispered to Barbara, of being immobilized in her chair, of watching again and again as the child killed and learned about death, and she felt again the sorrow and fear and disappointment and gui-
Then there was darkness.
From the direction of the consoles, a voice called out for Oracle.
In the kitchen, a protégé closed the unseeing eyes of her mentor and tenderly wiped away the solitary tear on one pale cheek.
And the world moved obliviously on.
Notes: I was rereading parts of Batgirl today (like issue #45 where Cassie wears Babs' old outfit) and I really missed Cassie. I miss her even more now that One Year Later has made her into a whiney brat that hurts my soul. She and Spoiler as Junior Birds would have been great (alas, Stephanie ;_;). This fic idea, however, has been biting me for a long time. I don't know why Cassie does what she does now but I always picture her as killing the bad guys that Batman never could (even if that forces me to disregard everything that happened in Batgirl--I'm just trying to work with this new awful canon ;_;) and Babs scares me. A lot. I keep imagining what it would be like for her to really start using the power she has--innocently, of course. Path to hell paved with good intentions and all that jazz. It'd probably be something like that Elseworlds Worlds' Finest that stars Batgirl and Power Girl--and fascist Batgirl is as scary as she is badass (and Bruce is totally her bitch; it's great).
As I was telling Nemi, though, this fic kind of makes me want to write a fic in which Babs and Cass meet up for a conversation One Year Laterish. But I have no idea how Babs even perceives Cass now; "Batgirl" mentioning her really upset Babs. =( And Cass has changed so much... *lets the gears turn*