alwaysroomforhope | Entries tagged with suite 138

Suite 138 is large, airy and light. The far wall is entirely windows, opening out onto a balcony that overlooks the lake; the others are mostly white, punctuated with pictures and postcards. There's a series of photos blu-tacked up of a three-year-old girl with red hair and Steph's blue eyes, just below a large, slightly dog-eared poster of Superboy. (Tim might recognise that; in his time it's still hanging above Stephanie's bed.)

The couch is obviously where most of the living is done; it's rumpled and surrounded by pillows and throws, and the coffee table in front of it stacked high with books and movies and the odd dirty coffee cup. Steph's jacket is tossed halfheartedly over one of the armchairs. The kitchenette in the corner is nice and clean, although the shelf holds more half-empty liquor bottles than a sixteen-year-old can really be expected to own. (Steph blames Goldy.)

Although there are two bedrooms leading off the hall, only one of them appears to be in regular use. (That's the one with the door standing open, obviously Steph's -- unless her roommate wears Robin boots too, or leaves batarangs lying around.) And the only belongings scattered around the apartment clearly belong to Steph, although several of the ornaments and some of the books (Alchemical Principles?) don't really look like her style. The only underwear on the bathroom floor is hers, and the second toothbrush in the jug has gathered rather a lot of dust.

There's a cracked photo frame facedown on the floor, slightly under the bookshelf; apart from that and the scattered pillows and books, the place is relatively tidy. Steph wasn't expecting visitors.

Suite 138 is warm and cozy, and there's snow drifting against the windows and piling up softly on the balcony. Inside, the lights are soft. There's some Very Important Work going on.

"...you haven't brushed your hair for how long?" Steph asks, sitting back on her heels and dropping the brush in shock.

Gifr and Gheri: twin bundles of fluff blessed with boundless energy. The slightly less-than-pristine state of the apartment can be attributed to that - chewed cushions, scattered books, and so on. At least there's no pee on the carpet yet ...?

When Steph opens the door, they both bound towards the newcomers, yipping gleefully. They like Angie! Does Steph have meat? Is there food? What's going on? Talk talk talk talk talk!

... Steph points Angie at the couch and goes to get them food. That seems the easiest way to quiet them down.

Suite 138: Steph hasn't been back here in a while. She's half surprised when her key still turns, but the door slams behind her with as pleasantly familiar a thud as ever.

Everything's just slightly off familiar; she hasn't been here since before what she's just been calling The Thing. And even before that, she'd been staying at Zuko's, looking after the turtleducks.

There aren't any animals in 138. The white couch is clean and the carpet practically glows, and there are no dog-smells or turtleduck-damp. It's almost sort of lonely.

She goes to her room, shifts a heap of clothing aside, and flops face-down on her bed.

Stupid fire prince.

She hadn't planned to sleep, but that's what she does.

If you sleep, you wake up. And often you wake up with a clearer head, and realise you've been a bit of a bitch, and maybe you could've been a wee bit more understanding. Just a wee bit.

Zuko's not there when she goes back, though. Just the puppies, well-fed and watered, whining and scratching and complaining of loneliness.

She looks around his empty suite.

Well ... this sucks.

The puppies are scooped up, water and blankets grabbed, and she locks the suite carefully behind her as they gambol and yip their way into the corridor. Stupid fire prince, leaving them alone!

(...stupid Steph, for making him.)

It's like herding flies - they're so energetic! But she gets them to the 138 corridor without mishap, and attempts to juggle blankets and bowls and various bits and pieces in one arm so she can open the door with the other.

She hopes Ed likes puppies.

It's nearly 3am. And Steph can't sleep.

And she can't do anything else, either, because there's a stupid brother camped out on her couch, and he's locked the windows somehow, and -

- wait, his breathing's steady and regular. That means he's sleeping, right? And he can't have locked the door, because Ed needs to use that too. Even if he shouldn't be either.

She slips out of bed silently and slides her feet into her Robin boots - best for sneaking. Pyjamas'll have to do for the rest, though - her wardrobe doors squeak sometimes.

And she's just a shadow, as she glides through the main room towards the front door, one ear cocked towards the figure on the couch.

This has been one hell of a weird day.

Steph yawns as she trudges up the stairs, mind whirling. Zuko and his ... weirdness, and that note from Billy, and ... Angela's still not okay ... and what had Dick meant, looking out for her, anyway?

She'll figure it out in the morning. Right now, time for sleep. She fumbles for the Batflat keys, and opens the door.

Steph's curled up on the couch, wearing pyjama pants, socks and a t-shirt that definitely doesn't belong to her, and watching Star Wars again.

No, she's not missing Billy at all. It's just ...

She's just ...

It's boring without him here, okay!

Everyone leaves.

Steph's not getting out of bed today. Not like there's any reason to, anyway. It's grey and dull outside, and grey and dull inside, and everything just sucks.

Everyone leaves, and you can't stop them, and it's always going to hurt.

No, that's not true. She is getting out of bed. Bed sucks too. Restless, irritable, dismal, she pads bare-foot out to the living room and glares at the TV's blank screen. Fictional characters never have to deal with this kind of thing. It sucks.

Because you care about everyone.

The couch is kicked over and the door to the balcony slammed open, leaving a crack spidering across the glass pane. It's cold and gusty outside today; the wind catches her hair and chills her all over. The floor's icy to her feet, and her pyjamas consist of tracksuit pants and a sports bra, but who cares? It's only weather. She's dead anyway, and people are just going to keep leaving. They always leave. What's physical cold matter?

Everyone leaves.

Even Billy. One day he'll want out, too. It's too good to last. She's too screwed up, and he's too normal, and he's a real hero, anyway, not just a wannabe like her. What's she really got to offer? Not enough to keep anyone. Just enough to catch their interest, and then get hurt by them.

Everyone.

The wind, at least, catches any tears before they fall, and whisks them away from her already chilled cheeks.

The Batflat awaits, all shiny and clean. Steph curls up on the couch, leaving the door open, and waits for Angie to arrive.

Even in April, the lake's cold, and so it's a slightly blue-lipped Steph who pushes open the Batflat door and gestures Billy inside. "You wanna go first in the bath, or me?"

Things, right now, are better than Steph can ever remember them being.

She's draped across the couch, legs hanging over the backrest and head dangling upside-down off the front, and fiddling with the silver bracelet she always wears.

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.

The in-kitchen bar counter thing in Suite 138 is nice and well-stocked. Steph has no doubt it's coming out of their tabs ... but why worry? She grabs a six-pack of pre-mixed vodka cans, tosses another six-pack to Ed, and perches on the corner of the bar.

"Here's to ... the BatFlat!"

Steph's on the balcony, lying along the rail like a cat, resting her head on her hands and staring down at the iced-over lake below. One leg's wound through the railings to keep her from falling off. Her face is almost hidden in the hood of her oversized jacket - hey, you gotta keep warm somehow.

Back inside, the door's standing open, and from the corridor outside passers-by can see through the french windows out to the balcony, should they be so inclined.

Steph's sprawled on the couch, watching Wendy the Werewolf Stalker - old episodes, but they're always good for a re-run. There is popcorn nearby. Also, chocolate.

And the door's invitingly open, spilling sound and light into the corridor. Stop by, if you're passing. Her flatmate's randomly vanished, and she could always use company.

It is morning. It is very early morning. Steph is sleeping soundly, sprawled out precariously at the edge of the bed. Her hair is stuck in her mouth. She is TOTALLY NOT SNORING, either.

...maybe just a little. But they had a hard night, with all the unpacking and moving in and stuff, so she's allowed.

Having deposited Ed in his room, Steph comes out into the living area and looks around, rather pleased with the new living quarters.

The living room is mostly cream, with wood floors, and one wall is almost entirely french doors and windows, opening out onto a small balcony that overlooks the lake. The kitchenette is tucked behind a bar in one corner; the barstools save space that might have been needed for a table. There is a couch and an armchair in the first two-thirds of the room, gathered around an empty bookshelf and a TV set; there's an oven and a microwave and a stove in the mini kitchen; apart from that, the room's almost bare. Steph looks around it thoughtfully, mentally interior decorating already - pink, maybe...

The bathroom, laundry and a storage closet open off one side of the living space; the two bedrooms open off the other. Ed is snoring happily on his bed; Steph goes to look inside her room.

Bar, as always, is several steps ahead of her. Her clothes and uniforms are hanging in the wardrobe already; her clutter and mess is already scattered on the floor. Steph laughs, and sets about cleaning it up. There's no fun in having a new house unless it's clean and shiny!