Wren had slipped Robin's shirt off, bared his shoulder to her view, and she smiled when he tried to look at the injury. He was sweet, this young man trying to save the world, and she got to work cleaning the bullet wound. It had been a good hard graze, and it would leave a dip when it was healed, an indented memory of the evening. She wondered how many more he'd get, this young man, in return for his braveness. Her fingers were light, as painless as she could make them, and she bandaged him up with the ease of someone accustomed to the practice. She ran her fingers over her handiwork once she was done, and she smiled at him over his shoulder.
When Eve gave her name, Wren repeated it softly, as if capturing the taste of it on her tongue. She would have mentioned that Eve was the only one of them in the room that wasn't named after something small and winged, but she kept it to herself, not wanting to give away his name if she hadn't heard it.
When Eve ruffled Robin's hair, Wren couldn't help but groan quietly. She didn't think he was going to like that. "I'm doing what I can," she said honestly, "just like you two."