Stephanie Brown (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alwaysroomforhope) wrote2006-03-12 03:20 pm
alwaysroomforhope) wrote2006-03-12 03:20 pm
OOM: Things She's Already Regretting
After Tim's left, Steph lies awake, fists clutching at the sheets in the darkened room. Nagging guilt is a slowly solidifying presence in her stomach, lying beside last week's nightmare and last year's sojourn in Gotham, with the label THINGS NOT TO THINK ABOUT.
Sometimes you can't help thinking.
When Steph was alive she'd always slept well; patrol and schoolwork, pregnancy and patrol, every day of her life - she'd always worn herself out, living fiercely every waking moment. Now - the days are growing steadily longer. Time drags. She's got nothing to do except what she makes herself do, and sometimes - more often, lately - she just can't make herself do anything.
And then at night she can't find the peace and oblivion of sleep. She's not sure whether that's due to the years spent training herself to need only a few hours of sleep, in order to have time to patrol, or just the overwhelming lethargy that's taken over lately.
She rolls over, curling up reflexively in the remnant of Tim's body warmth, and wraps her arms around herself. It's warm inside Milliways; the heating system is so well designed it's hardly worth commenting on, most of the time. Steph feels cold anyway. It's not phsyical, she's pretty sure.
Tim warms her up. Doesn't make her happy, exactly, but - it's contact, human contact, and it's a way to avoid feeling so miserably alone. At least temporarily. Even though they've been as close as two humans can get, there's still a vast gulf between them, and sex doesn't quite bridge it.
It's not a Tim-specific gulf, either. Steph just feels - isolated, from everyone. From the whole Bar. Life goes on, below and beside and around her, and she just - watches. She can't do anything. Someone - some mysterious benefactor - paid her tab for her, and she's not sure whether to be grateful or miserable. She could have worked it off, if she'd been alive. She could have gone back to Gotham and worked in a grocery store or something. Dead, she's just another burden on everyone.
And every time she looks at the Door, she remember's what's waiting on the far side. The light, the warmth - the place backstage where she should already be. And she wants to go, she does, it's just - she's terrified.
She really wishes she could talk to Barry, or Billy, or Mel. But Barry and Billy and Mel are gone, and although she might once have talked to Jason, she hasn't seen him for months now, and she doesn't want to think about what he'd think of her now anyway. She doesn't know what she thinks of him, any more. Insights, snips of conversation, things she saw when she was melting into Gotham's air ... eight heads in a duffel bag, a taser to the eyes - just another thing not to think about, another thing to give her that gnawing, nagging feeling of guilt.
The bars of moonlight slip slowly up the wall, and eventually Steph manages to fall into an uneasy sleep.
Sometimes you can't help thinking.
When Steph was alive she'd always slept well; patrol and schoolwork, pregnancy and patrol, every day of her life - she'd always worn herself out, living fiercely every waking moment. Now - the days are growing steadily longer. Time drags. She's got nothing to do except what she makes herself do, and sometimes - more often, lately - she just can't make herself do anything.
And then at night she can't find the peace and oblivion of sleep. She's not sure whether that's due to the years spent training herself to need only a few hours of sleep, in order to have time to patrol, or just the overwhelming lethargy that's taken over lately.
She rolls over, curling up reflexively in the remnant of Tim's body warmth, and wraps her arms around herself. It's warm inside Milliways; the heating system is so well designed it's hardly worth commenting on, most of the time. Steph feels cold anyway. It's not phsyical, she's pretty sure.
Tim warms her up. Doesn't make her happy, exactly, but - it's contact, human contact, and it's a way to avoid feeling so miserably alone. At least temporarily. Even though they've been as close as two humans can get, there's still a vast gulf between them, and sex doesn't quite bridge it.
It's not a Tim-specific gulf, either. Steph just feels - isolated, from everyone. From the whole Bar. Life goes on, below and beside and around her, and she just - watches. She can't do anything. Someone - some mysterious benefactor - paid her tab for her, and she's not sure whether to be grateful or miserable. She could have worked it off, if she'd been alive. She could have gone back to Gotham and worked in a grocery store or something. Dead, she's just another burden on everyone.
And every time she looks at the Door, she remember's what's waiting on the far side. The light, the warmth - the place backstage where she should already be. And she wants to go, she does, it's just - she's terrified.
She really wishes she could talk to Barry, or Billy, or Mel. But Barry and Billy and Mel are gone, and although she might once have talked to Jason, she hasn't seen him for months now, and she doesn't want to think about what he'd think of her now anyway. She doesn't know what she thinks of him, any more. Insights, snips of conversation, things she saw when she was melting into Gotham's air ... eight heads in a duffel bag, a taser to the eyes - just another thing not to think about, another thing to give her that gnawing, nagging feeling of guilt.
The bars of moonlight slip slowly up the wall, and eventually Steph manages to fall into an uneasy sleep.