Nightwing: Heartless

Part 62: New Normal

Bruce Wayne bought Willa a new apartment, much nicer than her old one, and free of the memory of being kidnapped in it. Three weeks in the hospital had gotten her to a healthy-ish weight, Bruce Wayne had gotten her a nutritionist and physical therapist, and she could eat solid foods now. Her ribs were still bandaged and hurt but there was nothing really to do for ribs, just lots of rest. Her wrist and fingers still had a cast but it didn't really hurt anymore.

Clark helped her move in. Really though Willa sat at the kitchen counter while Superman moved all her stuff in. He was practically her personal bodyguard. He really was super sweet, always attentive to when his presence calmed her and when it unnerved her.

Ms. Lance, her therapist, told her she suffered from PTSD, anxiety, and depression. More pills were added to her medication. She went to therapy three times a week for the next month. It was hard getting used to her new normal.

"Why don't you tell me about your brother," Ms. Lance started at their first session.

Willa couldn't help but laugh, "that's what you want to talk about?" It seemed so long ago.

"Would you like to talk about something else?"

That silenced Willa. No, she did not. She didn't want to talk through her experience in hell, no matter if that was how she could process it. She didn't know if she was strong enough to relive those months in the day and at night.

"Are you part of the Justice League too?" Willa asked after a few minutes of silence. Ms. Lance seemed perfectly comfortable sitting there while Willa shifted uncomfortably, used to silence ending with punishment.

"I am," Ms. Lance answered, "Black Canary, but you can call me Laurel."

Wow. Black Canary had a psychologists's degree. Who knew. She was surrounded by League members, purposefully done by Bruce Wayne.

Willa drew her knees up to rest her chin on, "are you going to talk about me at the next League meeting?"

"No," Laurel answered gently, "anything and everything you say here is between you and I. Bruce will never know."

Willa nodded. It did make her feel better. "My brother was shot," she said finally, "almost a year ago." Was that really all? It seemed like a lifetime ago. Laurel waited for her to say more. "It's weird," Willa said, her mouth going dry, "all these people waiting on me to speak first."

She had changed the subject but Laurel didn't miss a beat, "how so?"

"Because for five months I was punished for speaking without permission." She traced the design on the arm of the chair, "and now everyone wants to know what I think, all the time, when sometimes I don't know what I think or what I want. It's all of this concern at once."

"I imagine it can be overwhelming."

"It's just not what I'm used to. When I was... there, Deathstroke would be gentle up until a point, and then he would just snap. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Are you comfortable speaking more about Deathstroke?"

Willa shivered, "do I have to?"

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to." Willa laughed a humorless laugh again. "If it helps, his name is Slade Wilson."

It actually did. Knowing Deathstroke had a name like her helped her see him as another person rather than an all knowing god. She pushed out a breath, "I wish I could hate him," she said softly, "but I can't." She had tried. When she was in her cell, when he was hurting her, when she was in the hospital bed, but she never could.

"Why not?" There was no judgement in her voice.

"He's evil, cruel, and he enjoyed being evil and cruel to me... but he was also the one to give me bread and light, even comfort sometimes. He gave others permission to hurt me... but he also protected me. It's stupid."

"It's not. He was your captor, but he also kept you alive."

Willa wiped at her eyes angrily, "it would be easier if I could hate him."

"Your experience comes with complicated feelings. That's why we're here: to work through and process them."
"I don't know if I can."

"I'll help you."

**
1 Month Later

It didn't matter how warm it got, Willa was always cold. A permanent chill seemed to always be in her bones, especially at night, when it got dark. She tried not to be out this late but she had lost track of time at a coffee shop near her apartment. She had enrolled in two online classes through GU, trying to catch up. It was a small thing, but she was sad to know she missed out on the nonprofit program she was excited for before... and now she was struggling to just live.

Mr. Wayne of course had done as much as he could. He paid the medical bills, paid for her nutritionist, therapy, physical therapy, tuition, everything really. Lois came by every week with Clark, and Willa was sure Batman and Superman kept an eye on her, not that it was hard. Her routine kept her sane, and she stuck to her routine. She went to her appointments and stayed at home the rest of the time, occasionally she ventured out to a nearby coffee shop or restaurant, content to just sit in the midst of a happy crowd. She wasn't sure if she was ready to talk to a friend or family member.

But tonight it was darker than usual. Willa kept her eyes on the ground as she walked, a hard habit to break when it was beaten into you. A warm breeze rustled her hair but she still shivered and clenched her fists around her backpack straps. It was getting too dark, too dark, too dark. Bad things happen in the dark. She was in the dark for four months.

"You alright, sweetheart?"

She froze. The voice came from behind her. It stopped her in the middle of a stride and caused her to start shaking. Move, move, move, she said over and over but her body wouldn't obey. A hand touched her shoulder and she spun around. It was a man, just a man, not Deathstroke, but she still couldn't move. She kept seeing his face; his fist.

Her breath came quicker. No, no, not here. Her vision tunnelled and it felt like her backpack was crushing her, shrinking her. Suddenly the man was gone, knocked back by a pair of hands. She gasped as she fell back, holding her hands to her head and rocking back and forth to try and breathe.

"I wasn't going to touch her, man, I swear, she looked sick!"

"I don't think that's any reason to put your hands on a young lady, sir."
Willa's blood pounded in her ear as she tried to control her breathing. Sweetheart, she kept hearing. Pet. Bitch. Stupid. Mine. Sweetheart.

"Willa." Alfred's voice was kind but firm. "Willa." She finally looked up to meet his concerned gaze. "Did he hurt you?" Willa shook her head, still trembling, but his questions helped her focus. "What did he say to you?"

"H-he called m-me s-sweetheart." Alfred furrowed his eyebrows, not hearing the threat. "H-he always c-called m-me s-sweetheart." Understanding flushed across his face. He waited with her, on the ground, for her panic attack to pass, then helped her to her feet and to his car to drive her the rest of the way home.

"Why were you here?" She asked him once they were in her apartment. She took out her phone and wrote 'sweetheart' on her list of triggers. It was frustratingly long.

"I was bringing you a gift," Alfred chuckled and handed her a bag of chocolate chip cookies, "a house full of superheroes is not the ideal place for baking." Willa smiled and took a big bite of a cookie, easily finishing it and eating another. "Thank you, my dear, I don't know if my pride could handle it if you didn't eat one."

"You're the best cook I've ever met, Alfred," Willa said, mouth still full of cookie. She knew he gave her food to make sure she was eating but she didn't mind. "Thank you." They both knew it was for more than the cookies.