CALLIE WAS IN the bathroom, so now they needed to talk. Jason stared at Dinah, flabbergasted. "Harsh."

"She needs harsh. She'll be fine, she's not crying her eyes out in the bathroom. That's not her." Dinah sighed. "I learnt that lesson too late, though what she needed was some coddling and kind words. That's now how her brain works."

"Jesus," Oliver cursed under his breath. "I thought she was going to storm out."

"She wasn't. She didn't even think about it," Dinah huffed. "I know what I'm doing."

"Where you living?" Oliver asked, tilting his head.

"Booked a hotel suite. Need to keep an eye on her, can't risk her sneaking out on her own."

"Star's... relatively safe," Dinah said, pursing her lips. "Not that the airport incident might have been the best example of that. But it's safer than Gotham."

"It's not trouble seeking her out I'm worried about. She tends to go looking for it these days."

"Fair enough." Dinah frowned. "I don't think she'll want to see us again for a bit. But be careful with her in the next few days. She took in every word I said, and she'll be mulling over it for the next few days."

"I'm trying to get her into a life of... normalcy. Help her make friends. She's only twenty-two, she should be living like a twenty-two year old."

Oliver glanced at him. "Kid... you're only twenty-five yourself. Don't put too much pressure on yourself."

"The things I've gone through means my mental age is far older than that," Jason said glumly. "Besides, I'm still older. And I owe it to her and Cyrene."

Dinah lowered her head. "I shouldn't have let Cyrene go out with so little training. But she'd been so... eager, and she seemed like she knew how to keep herself safe."

"It's not your fault," Jason said hoarsely. "It's her nature. She's a hero. Always been one. She'll trade her life for everyone else's if needed. That's just how she works."

"Her and Callie, they're two extremes," Oliver hummed. "Cyrene would give her life for everyone, Callie would fight for herself and Cyrene until her last breath."

"They balanced each other out," Jason agreed. "But now one is gone."

Callie walked out of the bathroom then, and they changed the topic swiftly. "A honeymoon would be great," Oliver hummed, "but we don't know how long we can be away for."

Jason quirked a brow. "Roy and I could cover for you. Not like it'll just be us two anyways. The entire League could pop in and out, you don't even have to worry about that. I heard Greece is quite fun. And if you want to go further, you might want to ask Remiel and Odile about their little mountain in China. Dick and Damian keep raving about the peach blossom forest Odile has."

"Peach blossom?" Dinah tilted her head. "That sounds quite nice, actually. Maybe I'll give them a call."

"Call Remiel. Odile'll have her hands full with Damian and Jon."

Callie was doing her best to stay very still. She'd be confused, of course. She'd heard of Remiel and Odile, but probably not Jon. And she didn't want to ask because she wasn't sure if she wanted to know. Jason understood. She was trapped between perpetual curiosity begging her to know more, learn more, but at the same time the realistic part of her head knew that knowing more could get her killed.

Calypso Wan's rationality was constantly at war with her curiosity.

"It's getting late," Oliver murmured. "And we have lots of calls to make tonight. Callie, you're always welcomed in Star with us again. I hope you know that."

She gave a stiff nod in return, slowly shifting out of her seat. Jason followed, putting his jacket back on.

"We can drive you back to your hotel," Dinah offered as she bent down to grab her purse.

"We're good," Jason said, offering a tight smile. He rather thought they were already pushing the amount of time Callie wanted to spend in the two's presence. "We'll just hail a cab."

Dinah nodded. "Well. Good luck, then. I'll keep an ear out, but... the amount we could do with Swinton is limited. If we could do more, we'd have done it long ago."

"Come on, Callie," Jason murmured, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Let's go."

—

THEY HAD A two bedroom suite to themselves, with a rather spacious living room that had a kitchenette. Neither had brought much, so unpacking was easy. Callie laid down her makeup and skincare pouch, sorting through her clothes when Jason knocked on her door.

"I'm going to head out for a bit, shouldn't take too long," he told her. "Need to grab my stuff. Don't open the door for anyone."

"I'm not five," she snarled. "I know what to do."

"Go to sleep early tonight if you can," he told her, undeterred. "I'm thinking we go to the cemetery tomorrow morning."

She gave a small nod. There would be no going to bed earlier—that simply wasn't how she worked. But fine. Tomorrow it was. And after tomorrow, and after they met with Roy, she'd somehow convince him to let her go around by herself. Shopping trip, maybe, or perhaps he'd find something he had to do without her as well.

And then she could investigate Rebecca Smith-Howard. And locate the Thorne heirloom.

He left, and she heard the door of the suite click shut. Callie rubbed her eyes, letting out a quiet sigh.

She'd been trying to push Dinah's words out of her head all night, but the woman really knew how to get under her skin.

Self-destructive. That's not a word she'd ever thought could be ascribed to her. Most of her life, Callie had been the opposite. She was the girl who always got good grades, who balanced her extracurriculars with ease. Effortless. She got what she wanted and she was always productive.

And now she'd been told she was self-destructive. That she was punishing herself.

The painful part was that it wasn't a lie. She was self-destructive. She'd taken that productivity and channeled it into tearing herself into bits, forcing herself into emotional isolation in an effort to find vengeance for her sister.

And for the past five years she'd been failing.

She was dragging it on and on and on. She refused to let herself off the hook. Refused to let herself walk away because it was too easy. Because she didn't deserve easy. Because if she was the only one in her family to survive, then she had to make good of it. She'd find vengeance, and then she'd...

What would she do after? Would she be satisfied, channeling her energy into professional journalism, working an ordinary job, finding an ordinary man and marrying and starting an ordinary family?

She'd already been offered tantalising glimpses of a world she hated but couldn't escape. Turning her back to this world of intrigue and superheroes was never an option. It would come seeking her, of course, and she could never stifle her curiosity. She'd always want to look further, prod deeper.

That was part of why she'd chosen journalism as a career path. She liked looking for answers.

She thought she might want to cry, but no tears rolled down her cheek. She just felt empty. She just felt empty when she headed to the shower, when she dried herself and blowdried her hair. When she wrapped herself in warm pyjamas and did her skincare routine, and when she climbed into her bed with her laptop.

It was, perhaps, time to put the things Sylas Thorne had told her to good use. And if Jason knew about it, she might not be suspected of releasing the information.

Perhaps there's more to Rudolph Swinton's absence than meets the eye: one must wonder, with some newly learnt information, whether the youngest sheep is merely trying to stay away from some incredible family drama. One must wonder if the extramarital activities of a certain uncle have played into Rudolph's prolonged absence. In-laws seem to be Freud Swinton's type, and his activities are certainly fascinating even to his psychoanalyst namesake.

That, along with a few anonymous tips sent to a few other gossip rags and entertainment magazines. Get that out there, put even more speculation and pressure on the Swintons. The more chaotic things become, the better. The worse their reputation was, the better. That way, when she did inevitably find evidence to send Rudolph Swinton to jail, more people might believe it.

She was still awake and going through news articles when she heard the hotel door open again. Jason was back. She didn't climb out of bed to greet him.

He rapped his knuckles against her door softly, perhaps worried she might be asleep. "Come in," she replied, wrinkling her nose.

He poked his head in. "Don't know if you're still hungry, but I stopped by the supermarket and got some fruit and snacks. You can come out and have some if you want. Or take them back in, your choice."

"I'll come get them," she grumbled, pushing down her sheets and getting onto her feet. Suddenly she was a bit self conscious of the fact that her pyjamas were quite revealing—black and white cami top with a pair of shorts. Jason had already headed out the door, and after a moment, Callie threw on a jacket, zipping it up halfway.

He'd gotten grapes and strawberries, and was now washing them at the small kitchenette. On the coffee table were various packs of chips and a bottle of orange juice.

He glanced at her, looking a bit sheepish. "I remember Cyrene always used to stop by the supermarket before she went home to you."

She blinked. She had. Cyrene had, because she knew Callie could never quite properly go to sleep until she knew Cyrene was home again. Perhaps that was where her insomnia started, not just after Cyrene's death. Sometimes she'd be a little too awake, and the food Cyrene brought back would be a late night snack. If not, they'd work as breakfast and snacks for tomorrow.

"Yeah. She did." Her voice was soft. He remembered. She didn't think he would. It seemed so inconsequential. Even she'd mostly forgotten about it. "Did you get your stuff?"

"I did." He nudged his chin at the black duffel bag in the corner of the room. "I'll keep it all locked up in a suitcase later, just in case." After a moment's hesitation, he added, "I have a few pocket-sized guns in there. You could grab one if you want."

"I thought you didn't want me running around with tiny pistols."

"Well, for starters, I didn't think you could actually shoot one. You've proven yourself with that. And a tiny gun is better than no gun, I've decided."

Callie snorted. "Fine. Just pick one for me later."

"No preferences?"

"Not really."

He placed the bowl of fruit on the table, heading towards the duffel bag, taking out a pistol and twirling it around his fingers. She stared. Callie would be lying if she didn't find that cool as fuck. She might not be interested in any way shape or form in vigilantism, but it was still cool. And she'd seen Jason fight earlier. It was like having a front seat to an action movie—and his face was definitely enough for the main character of some spy drama. "This one ain't for you, I think. Jericho 941."

"I don't know my guns," Callie admitted. "I've pretty much just chosen a tiny one and stuck with it."

"You have a Beretta 30X. I don't think I have anything as small as that here, not going to lie... I feel like I should just give you a knife. You know how to use a knife?"

"Better than most average folk."

"As long as you won't accidentally stab yourself, good enough for me."

"I won't," she scowled. "Whatever. I shouldn't need to shoot anyone anyways."

"Today was an accident," he agreed. "And my fault. But you should have left along with everyone else."

"Didn't want to," she said with a shrug. "I don't know why. Normally I'd have immediately run in the opposite direction."

"Worried I might get hurt?" he teased.

"A bit."

He seemed to be startled by that sudden confession. "I'm better than that."

"I know you won't be like, actually in danger, but any injuries would still be annoying, you know?"

"Right." He paused. "You know what? You could offer me a hand. I got a few slashes on my back, bruises sprinkled here and there. I can't really reach it all that easily, though I've already cleaned the wounds to the best of my ability. I have some salve here, help me out."

"Sure." Callie got back on her feet. "You shouldn't be running around injured."

"I've had much worse," he said dryly. "This is barely anything. Barely an injury, really."

"Still."

"You used to do this for Cyrene?"

"Yeah," Callie sighed. "Bandages, salves, cleaning wounds... That was another thing I picked up from Oliver and Dinah. First-aid. Come on, sit. Where's the salve?"

He handed it to her, heading towards the sofa and pulling his shirt over his head. Callie hissed. "Jesus."

"I know, it's bad."

She was staring at a tapestry of scars and wounds, both old and new. Cyrene had a few scars too, but nothing close to this. And her sister had been more on the leaner side, relying on speed rather than strength. Jason was built—she could tell that even when he wasn't shirtless, but it was far more obvious now.

"Just the new wounds?" she asked, sitting down behind her as she unscrewed the salve's cap.

"Yep. No need for the old ones."

"Have you ever tried scar reducing treatments on those?"

"No point," he hummed. "Besides, it's like a symbol, a reminder of everything I've gone through, you know?"

"You sure? I have scar reducing treatment among my skincare stuff somewhere."

"What scars do you have?"

Callie snorted. "It's going to make me sound really bad... but acne scars."

"You have those?"

"Not that many, but they exist."

"It's fine," he insisted. "I get rid of some and others will show up again anyways."

"Right."

She took a bit of ointment on her fingertip, carefully smearing it on his back, one hand clasped on his shoulder to make sure he didn't move. He didn't. He was as still as a statue. It was suddenly a little awkward as she continued to work her way down his back. Between pauses, she glanced up at him—his head was bowed, eyes shut, facing down.

"How did you clean these yourself?"

"I'm flexible."

Callie let out a loud snort, continuing to apply the salve. "Anywhere else except your back?"

"Arm." He turned now, giving her his right arm. "Just here. Think that's all."

"Christ, I look like a twig next to you," she huffed, comparing her arm with his. "And I thought I worked out a fair amount."

"I'm a big, bad vigilante," he laughed, "who uses guns. Who's come back from the dead and who's crossed paths with it again on too many occasions. Of course I'm far bigger than you."

"Did that ever get to you? How dangerous it is? Have you ever thought about quitting?"

He paused, and then replied, "No. Not really. This is all I've ever known. I don't know what else I'd be doing if not for this. Before Bruce, before Robin, I was... I was just another orphan on the Gotham streets. Nothing important to me, nothing that mattered. This gives me purpose."

"It's so dangerous."

"That's part of the thrill, isn't it? Cyrene loved it too. Some of us are thrill-chasers. We're suckers for excitement and action."

"I'm not one of them."

"Clearly."

Their eyes met. He offered her a lopsided grin. It was strangely boyish, as if he wasn't a twenty-five year old who'd gone through enough for multiple lifetimes. As if he was just a boy, not a vigilante that struck fear into the hearts of Gotham criminals.

Her heart skipped a beat.

"No more wounds?" she asked, letting out a soft cough. "Maybe put your shirt back on, don't want you to catch a cold."

"Nah, it's fine." He turned away, grabbing a piece of grape and popping it in his mouth. "Need the salve to fully absorb or it's just all going to get on my clothes. Actually, I need a shower. Damn, I should have put the salve on after my shower. Whatever."

"I can redo it later," she offered.

"It's getting late," he frowned, "you should really try to sleep soon."

"I told you. I don't sleep much." She lowered her gaze. "It's fine."

"Right." He motioned to the food. "Eat your fair share, then. But at least try to get some sleep tonight. We'll go to the cemetery tomorrow morning and nothing else planned."

She gave an absent-minded nod. "After everything's done... I think I might want to go on a shopping trip. You don't have to follow me around if you want, I still know my way around Star."

"We'll see." He didn't seem to find the request suspicious.

Callie released a quiet sigh. This was going to be a long night.

happy new year folks!!!