the black raven|THE MEETING - PART TWO

I don't know whether I wanted everyone else in the room with me, including Rachel.

I could tell Rachel was nervous about letting me within a foot of the door simply because she stopped and waited for a second, pulling on my arm.

Her boost of confidence was gone and so was mine, as it dropped with each step from the bathroom to here.

We debated whether or not to go back into the bathroom, disobeying Dick's request, but since he was right in front of us as we stopped, we had no choice but to face the inevitable; Bruce Wayne.

My father. The one I hoped to find. And now he's here.

Fuck. 

Now he's here, and I don't know how to feel. It puzzles the hell out of me, alongside the circumstances of Jason's death.

I mean, the whole situation I'm in now makes no sense. And because of all of this, from my mother to Jason, I lost hope. Lost hope for finding Bruce, amongst other things.

All of this makes no sense; from the way, Tim came home, the way Bruce didn't, the way Jason died.

The how Jason died gets me speculating the most: no one specified who his friend was, nor did Jason have any. Hell, Damian had more friends than Jason, and still does.  

"Mara?" A soft voice asks, and I realize that Dick's standing with his hands on my shoulders. I look up at him.

"What?"

"Take a deep breath for me, and never listen to Tim again," he tries lightening up the mood with a jab at Tim, and it does get me to laugh, but only on the inside. I take a deep breath.

"Actually how about the part when he came home without Bruce," I don't think before I speak, and his face drops.

I don't think he expected me to go that far, and neither did I.

Well, news flash Dicky, welcome to my world.

Welcome to my sick, stupid-ass thoughts, most being things I'd never say aloud.

"A little piece of advice, Mara," Dick sighs heavily, taking his hands off of my shoulders, "and don't say that in front of Tim or Bruce, ever."

I can tell he's pestered with me, which just irritates me even more. Jesus, I don't even know where this irritation came from.

Dick opens the door and I follow him, not really in reality. My head is in my imagination, racing through different scenarios of how to react.

How to talk to him. How to look at him. How to look in front of him. How to respond to him.

I've been through it a thousand times before, yet now I've drawn a blank on what the hell I should, could, and would do.

And how badly this was gonna go.

As I enter I'm met with Officer Gordon first, and I give him a side hug, as he's like family now after seeing him so much with Dick.

He gives me a small smile which is one of the last few moments of pure peace.

Then it all goes to shit-- I suddenly feel the presence of a block. In my head of course, but I still feel it, and I can kind of see it too. It doesn't do anything except sit there, unmoving.

It's just great, you know, when your brain leaves you to fend for itself and face the pain it's been holding in for the past two years; let alone the past fifteen.

"Bruce, there's still someone left for you to meet," Rachel says quietly, but not quite enough so that I don't hear it.

And then he appears, and I see him for the first time.

He's tall, broad stanced, with his professional ironed suit, to complement his dark, slicked-back hair, as his chocolate eyes stare right at me.

I've got his eyes.

Bruce Wayne, my father, is standing in front of me. And I'm speechless. All that comes up is the foggy block, being upcoming with its superiority of nothingness.

It's a perfect silence at a standstill in the room as everyone waits, for me or Bruce is up to them, but they wait. For a split second, I get a flash of a thought; embarrassment.

And I can't help but feel that way, what with the stubborn silence I'm giving half the battle to, and the way I used to wish of meeting this man as a child, and yet now I'm speechless as I don't say a word.

And with not another perfect second to waste, I watch in horror as Bruce Wayne opens up his mouth to speak to me.

"Hello, Mara."

And the world seems to tilt, to pound down on me, to blow a breeze at me within those two words, as my world becomes clear.

I can't decide fast enough as I automatically respond, as any human being would do to another if in a greeting. 

"Hey."

And as abruptly the fog was there it was gone. Completely dissipates from my thoughts, and rush comes to the choices I could've done mere seconds ago.

I could've screamed, cried, smiled, walked away-- hell I could've just been ignorant of him. And honestly, if I were given the choice to, I would've chosen that.

Yet I settled for a simple hey.

And how I feel about how I said it, how it felt to say that, how I felt my lips part to how I felt the last of my voice vibrate against my throat isn't relevant whatsoever, not when that word means, in its sole generic form, that the one speaking is ok with the situation dealt.

And I am most definitely not okay with the situation at hand.

Yet, as time drinks away at my embarrassment, I watch Bruce Wayne do something familiar to me-- or do something that triggers my brain to say that it's familiar; he smiles.

Not a full smile, but a half one.

And I see him-- Jason. I see Jason in Bruce. And I feel the clench in my chest, just at the thought of my brother.

His unruly hair, his style, and his goofy smile albeit the opposite of Bruce's most of the time we spent together if any, but now I see him.

And it hurts.

But I can't show it; I'm a Wayne, I keep myself together. It's simply what I've been taught, and it's what I'll do for as long as I live, and that's that.

So I flip the channel to another memory; of a rare occurrence. Damian smiled exactly like that once, down to the exact number of wrinkles in his cheek as he did it.

And it makes me feel a twinge bit better, although I still feel an overload of fifteen years with of shit. From being treated like it to being told I am shit, I feel strength in that small, rare memory with Damian.

But it isn't enough to cover the insane vulnerability I feel.

"It's nice to finally meet you," Bruce speaks again, and I blink to look at Rachel who stands near him.

She winks, her nose crinkling as she does to give me a form of confidence, maybe hope for this drowning situation--

Stop that-- he's your father and this is what you've wanted for years. Be a polite young-- be his fucking daughter goddamnit.

To pass the unwanted anxiety, I practice what a previous teacher taught me; curl your toes, crack your knuckles, breathe in. Breath out, relax your fingers and u curl your toes.

I add an extra step; dig your nails into your palms if the feelings don't go away.

"Yeah."

And I become incredibly aware of my surroundings, how close Officer Gordon is to me, and how Harvey Dent is sitting a chair away from me, giving me his usual goody-two-shoes smile.

I don't mean it in offense to him, he simply just has a big heart, and an even bigger smile to showcase that. I don't know how the hell he ended up in Gotham, or how he's survived this long.

Bruce takes a breath in, "that's good, that's a relief."

His demeanor changes as he exhales though, which gets me in a loop of toes, knuckles, breathe, repeat.

Bruce seems gloomy suddenly, in the best way to put it.

"I'm sorry that it's taken me this long for us to meet formally, I wish we could've met much, much sooner. That was my plan, to meet you as soon as possible, but things got... derailed as buisiness became challenging out of the country. I was sent places left and right, people trying to make deals and--"

He stops himself short, his lips pressing together promptly as he brings his hands together, interlinking them together.

I wait before speaking next, to let him compose himself.

And I progress for the white lie, "that's alright."

The entirety of the conversation takes about thirty seconds, everyone still stays quiet.

Bruce nods, his half-smirk appearing again, "I know you probably have a lot of questions, and I will answer them, but I think we can do that in your choice of place. Does that sound good to you?"

I like that idea, I truly do, yet I've been through enough as is that I know when I'm being gullible at its most; I don't know which side of the family I get that from.

Then, I watch Bruce give me a polite nod. He starts towards the side door out of the room. I feel the urge on the edge of my tongue, peeling and prodding away at the resistance to speak.

As if he can sense it, Bruce stops his walk just before the door and slowly turns his head in my direction. His facial features remain light on his face.

I clear my throat, feeling the hairs on my neck raise with the sudden heat of the room burning into my skin. All eyes are on me, so if I screw this up, or say the wrong thing--, "Was there service where you were?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I can still see Dick's face contort into an irritated expression, while Tim looks away. Damian, I assume, remains still with his facial features.

My attention back on Bruce, I can envision the gears in his head churning, just like mine.

I might've just stumped him, Bruce Wayne; I'm not sure. God, what's worse, the "long lost" daughter of Bruce Wayne stumping him on day one, or his not resolving the question.

The longer he waits to answer, the angrier I get. If he won't answer me, then that's going to be a problem. I need this answer, whether it's shit or not.

The bare minimum is an explanation.

After my mother didn't explain as to why she traded me for drugs; why she indirectly showed me my place in her eyes, or how little love she had for me throughout my years and how it belittled to a worthless packet of dust: I'm worthless to her, and she never said why.

I need to know that I'm not worthless, at least in his eyes; the hard, groping want to have that feeling of belonging, love, acceptance is clawing at my chest, vying to rip out and pick apart Bruce Wayne's every living fiber for an answer.

I need an explanation from him, right now.

To add on, the only thing I hear from the governor of momentum himself is the ticking of the smallest hand on the clock, positioned perfectly on the wall, not a centimeter too far as to make it lopsided.

Each tick gets louder and louder, each time a new vine probing my heart at its weakest point, trying to get to the sweet spot of my desperation, misery.

It wants me to suffer; it takes great joy in ripping pieces of my heart away, devouring it in a driven, almost mad way.

But alas, "I wasn't able to access service in those parts of the world, but I will assume that being here, face to face, is a much better option than a phone call, right?"

In for fashion, Bruce Wayne strut out of the room, leaving me with that... Quip. Deserving of an answer, I got one. And I sure as hell better appreciate the time he put into it, even if it hurt me.

At least he's got more heart than mother.

Rachel speaks up at random, fastening me back to fact.

"I think everyone has a place to be, yes?"

And just like that, the hustle and the quiet chatter of the group come back to life; the room becomes alive with humans grabbing articles, executing something, going territories.

Everyone accept me.

I find myself at a stand still, as the world swivels around me. The world happens to find a quiet place in my head, as I stare thoughtlessly at the spot Bruce was just in.

And suddenly I sense the room growing cold, in the physical sense. It's only Rachel and I in the room now, with her Manila file sitting patiently for her on the table, presumably from a coworker.

Rachel slowly drags a smile, "Mara, I'm proud of you."

It's a minor sentence, but she knows the impact it has. She knows my mother sent me off to live with Bruce, but that was it.

And yet she always knows what to say, even if not given all the details.

God, I don't know what I'd do without her. What any of us would do without her, simply because she's Rachel Dawes. Rachel Dawes is the brightest star Gotham's ever seen.

"Thank you, Rachel," I confide her. I sense my norm of functionality kick on, like a heater turning in when a house temperature gets too low.

"You look tired. How about we go out and get a drink, hm?"

I can't help a chuckle, "yeah, I'd like that."

And then it's just like old times (or in this case anytime over the past two years), with the two of us just enjoying the oasis of simply just getting together and ridding ourselves of the most outrageous stress, even if it's terrible timing.

Yet nobody can stop us, let alone Rachel Dawes. Jesus Christ, that woman is one hell of a wrecking ball.

I'll admit I look up to her, as do I consider her a good friend, almost like and aunt to me. I just know it won't change-- she's the hardest working woman I've ever met, and it always seems to pay off for her.

She's probably the best thing in my life right now. She's the most stable, is more like it, and she always will be.