InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "I just had a Twinkie for lunch"

It's a Graves thing (soundofwings) wrote in doorslogs,
@ 2012-07-22 14:54:00

Entry tags:

alfred pennyworth, plot: memories, violet harmon

Who: Iris / Alfred Pennyworth
What: Memories Plot
Where: Passages
Things to avoid: Are you kidding, this is Iris. When have I avoided anything with her? (Translation: Nothing.)

Was she stable? By a medical definition, she doubted that she ever was. But her moods had calmed and everything had retreated once again into its cotton swaddling. It was enough that she could at least function, and function meant that she needed to let Alfred back through the door. No matter what Luke had said, she knew in her heart that Bruce needed Alfred, and it was what she could do to deliver.

The dizziness and slight roll of her stomach was ignored, blamed on the once-again rising levels of medication in her system. It would take a while for everything to settle again, and she sighed at a slight wave of nausea. The abrupt turning of the cab she'd called to take her to the hotel did nothing to help, but she ignored it as they pulled up to the front of Passages. Climbing out of the car, the ground seemed to shift again with her vertigo, and she clenched fingers tight around the car's door frame. A moment passed, the driver peering back and asking if she was alright, but she simply waved his questions away and headed for the front door of the building. Her steps wove and she finally began to worry, because that wasn't quite normal, not even as a pharmaceutical side-effect. She hurried, wanting to be inside, and made it as far as a dusty chair in the lobby before she needed to sit down, her legs giving out beneath her.

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doorsanon
2012-07-22 09:10 pm UTC (link)

You're happy, despite everything. You hurt, and you're pretty sure you need to be stitched up, and you're so exhausted that you can barely keep your eyes open, but you're happy. You're so happy you think you might burst, and that extreme feeling of pure joy is mingled with an almost inconsolable sense of loss for the boy who isn't standing beside the bed, where he ought to be. And somehow you never realized those two feelings could go together that way, so much happiness that your heart could burst from it, and so much sadness that you don't think you'll ever be free of it. But that's okay, because the sadness is the only thing you have left of him, and you'd rather have that than nothing at all.

Across the room, the baby cries, and he sounds small but strong, and you finally do start crying, because you were so sure he wouldn't make it, and you didn't even realize how much you wanted him to until that moment.

The baby cries again, and you try to crane your neck, to lift yourself up off the bed on your elbows, to finally see him. But the doctor's pushing you down, and telling you to stay still, and there's a sting in your arm as he injects you with something. Your eyelids begin to feel heavy, and you hear the door close, and the baby's cries become softer and softer, further and further away.

"No," you manage, but it's barely a word as your body fights the sedative in your system. "No." And you know. You know he won't be there when you wake up, you know, and the tears of joy become a different kind of sobbing, and you can feel every jab of the needle as the doctor stitches you up, and you can't move, and you can't fight. And you're so cold, and more alone than you've ever been in your entire life, and the utter despair that courses through you makes you feel like giving up. What's the point? And then darkness drags you under, and the memory fades.

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doorsanon
2012-07-23 01:33 am UTC (link)

You don't sleep much, everyone tells you to sleep more but at this point you're not even sure how anymore. You arrive home late, the house is quiet and you're careful not to make any noise as you put your work down and make your way to your bedroom. It's been a long day, tomorrow will be longer but you love what you do and that makes a difference. The house is cold, but that's your fault you keep the place at subzero which is a hindrance in 500 degree summer weather. But you don't care.

You change quickly into your pajamas, just some pants and a t-shirt avoiding looking in the mirror at the scar that goes from navel to neck, you are about as vain as they come and that nonsense is just a daily reminder of your biggest shortcoming of all. So, like everything else related to yourself, you ignore. And you ignore it happily. Then you do your rounds...Two full bedrooms out of the spare six in the house and you check them dutifully every night. Quietly. In the first room you are greeted by a mongrel who wakes up, but the lump under five tons of blankets and no less that forty-nine pillows doesn't stir. This one snores. All is well.

The next room you have to be a bit quieter, but you crack the door and look in anyway. She's sleeping, better than she had on past nights, past night she'd caught you. But tonight you seem to get away with it so you wait a bit and watch. It's utter devotion really, not unlike the feeling that drives you to look in on the girl in the room next door. Frustrating, amusing, wonderful and terrible devotion. Family.

You doubt either of them have any idea, and you prefer it that way. Things would get sappy and everyone would cry. They'd have to go to a boxing match, the other one would get drunk, and that's all fun and games until someone pukes in the car. You smile to yourself closing the door, just as it's about to click you hear your name from inside the room. Busted. "Wake your ass up I want to bake a cake," you say and it's totally and completely true.

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doorsanon
2012-07-23 05:31 pm UTC (link)

You don't let yourself want anything that you can't take for yourself. You learned a long time ago that the world won't hand you anything, and you only let yourself want the things that you can wrap your own hands around. You don't depend on anyone. You don't care about anyone. You don't have causes. You don't sit up nights watching windows to make sure the person inside is safe. You don't follow someone along the rooftops at a far enough distance that he can't sense you there, just in case he runs into trouble. You aren't grateful when you hear the door close in the morning, the one that means he made it home in one piece again. You don't regret things. You don't miss what isn't yours anymore. You don't care that you don't fit anywhere.

You stare at the safe in front of you instead, and you listen to the soothing clicks of the spinning wheel surrounded by numbers. Uncrackable, they said. You smile as the safe's door swings open, and you stare at the documents inside. Death certificates, property documents, his mother's pearls, bank notes.

Uncrackable.

You don't take anything; you just close the safe, and you spin the lock, and you leave the way you came, without tripping any alarms.

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doorsanon
2012-07-23 07:07 pm UTC (link)

You collapse into a tired heap on your mattress on the floor of your studio apartment. You’re finally home from the bar you work at and your body aches from exhaustion. It feels like years since you’ve rested. It’s not far off the mark.

Turning your head you stare at the clock. It’s an ungodly hour and you can only manage a few hours of sleep before you’re up again. You’ve got a bus to catch at dawn to get school on time. Morning cafeteria shift and then classes, you think. You shift a little to glance at your calendar to be sure. Tuesday. Cafeteria. Class. Bookstore shift. Class. Bar again.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Just thinking about your schedule makes your body ache all over again and not for the first time you wonder if things could’ve been different. Like winning the lotto and not having to work so hard. Or not marrying so young. Or not leaving Jersey and your family behind.

But that kind of thinking always gets you nowhere and you grumble as you bury your head in the pillow and kick off your shoes. This is adulthood. This is your life now. This fucking blows.

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doorsanon
2012-07-24 02:42 am UTC (link)

You're leaving. The doctors have told you for the thousandth and last time that there is nothing more you can do for her except give her time to heal and recover, from the trauma she's been through and her slow decline into instability. You still feel, somehow, that your appearance was what set it all off, that this is your fault, but what more can you do?

You stand at the doors to the institution. It's a very nice place, you think, a little numb. This city hasn't been good for you. Coming to America is, in general, beginning to feel like a serious mistake.

Perhaps it makes you a coward, leaving her behind. You're not sure. But you know that staying there won't make her better, and you have a sneaking suspicion that your presence might very well make it all worse. So you're leaving. But next time, you're going to be there when she needs you to be.

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doorsanon
2012-07-25 04:30 am UTC (link)

The wail of sirens is distant, barely audible, and you listen to the radio feed in your ear with grim disappointment at the slow response of law enforcement as you traverse the maze of rooftops over the slum which requires your presence. The distance between rooftops is short, easily cleared even with the weight of kevlar adding to your bulk, and you reach the apartment in question as the sirens continue to gain volume somewhere beyond the immediate area. You drop down onto the balcony silently, a caped shadow, and your boots crunch over broken glass as you step through the shattered doors and into the gloom. The first thing you notice is the smell of gunsmoke; you first learned it as a child, the scent, and it is one you will never, ever forget. Then comes blood, sharp and metallic in the air, and it only takes a few more steps for you to spot the first body. A woman, face-down on the streaked tile, surrounded by a widening pool of blood. Upon closer inspection you see the bullet wound, the torn flesh of her back, the smears of blood around her hands and knees that tell a silent story. You do not know her, this woman, and yet you take a brief moment of silence, only a second, before continuing onward.

He is in the bedroom, the man. Her boyfriend, according to his information. His blood splatters the wall, he is missing a large chunk of his head, and the gun is still clutched in his hand. You cannot make more than an educated guess, but based upon the woman's bullet wound, and the make of the gun, you are confident that you know what happened here. Despite what this man has done, you hold all life in regard, regardless of who it belongs to, and so he receives a moment of pause as well.

Someone is missing, however. There should be a child. You do not find him, however; he finds you.

"Batman?" You are in the doorway of the child's room when the voice rings out, breaking the silence, and you turn slowly. You are not expecting him to be familiar. It takes a moment, but you remember. He's older now, this child, but you recall a night when he saw you, when shouts could be heard from within, and he told you the other kids would never believe him. He steps forward, no longer so young and hopeful, but his eyes are wide and scared, and he reminds you of yourself the night your parents died.

You intend on telling him the police are coming, on drawing him away from the bodies. You intend, yet he has other intentions, and the boy is hugging you before you can speak a word. Batman does not hug, and he does not offer comfort, but the boy is crying against your armor, and you must do something.

"It's okay," you tell him, as a good man once told you when you thought your world had ended. Your cape hangs heavily over your shoulders, and he is still small enough that it covers him as well, and the boy clings tighter as the sound of sirens finally grow louder.

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doorsanon
2012-07-25 07:04 am UTC (link)

The dark-haired boy you're sitting next to seems ill and worn, and you try your best to mask your concern behind your usual sibling-like taunting. He looks around your age now, even if he's supposed to be much younger. It's still something you're adjusting to, but some things never change. There's always that teasing. Always that sense of protection you have, and the duty to make him realize there's more to life. It seems, however, that with age, he's realized that a little himself. Commandeering a little kitty and falling for a bigger (and sexier) kitty isn't something you would see him do before.

You both sit on the floor of his bedroom in the big mansion that's not really home for either of you, and as the little ball of fur marches under your fingertips, you smile at each other. This is what the fearsome Batkids have been muddled down to: two teenage kids cooing over a tiny kitten. And, you find yourself not minding. He's important to you, and you suspect he feels the same way, even if he won't admit it. (As little brother like people are supposed to do.) He's in deep, but aren't you all? You'd figure it all out together, you decide, as your fingers rub the soft fur and you counsel him on his chaotic love-life. You're the only ones from your old Gotham. You have to stick together.

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doorsanon
2012-07-25 03:45 pm UTC (link)

The muzzle of the gun is cool against your temple, but you feel no fear, and the click of an empty barrel makes you laugh. It is not a sane sound, and your voice wavers too much, but you don't care. Your attention is focused on the woman beneath you, the one who taught you what hate was, who put the faded scars around your neck, and you hate as you have never hated before. "You're mine," she tells you, gasping for air, and your mind screams in denial. You are not hers. You will never be hers. "No," you hiss, the glass in your hand digging into your palm and making your grip slick with blood. "I'm not." She is already weakening, and you've seen that look in her eyes before. Death is already on its way; why not speed up her journey? She took the girl you love and let men use her, she took the man you admire and tortured him for you to hear, and she killed a friend, a good man, all in your name.

Oh, how you hate.

"You'll have nightmares about me," she says, but you're not listening anymore. You drive the jagged glass into her stomach with as much force as you can muster, and you twist, feeling warm blood spurt beneath you and seep into your clothing. Her hand pulls you down, somehow, as you push the glass in deeper, and her blood coats your face as she speaks. "I made you a killer. My killer." You want to tell her she's wrong, but you can't speak, and as her head rolls back and her hand falls away you let out a strangled sob, loosening your hold on the glass and leaving it embedded in her stomach. Everything around you is a haze, and you feel oddly numb, though the surface is unsteady. A cry builds in your chest, but your throat is too tight, and so it echoes within the confines of your mind instead as the memory falls apart.

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Reactions

soundofwings
2012-07-25 07:51 pm UTC (link)

Iris had barely made it to the chair in the hotel lobby when the first memory hit. She had her eyes squeezed shut, but it didn't make any difference as things appeared in bright, sharp detail. Her first thought was that something had gone very very wrong with her medication, that it was bringing on hallucinations that were even more realistic than she'd suffered in the past. But something about made her think that maybe this wasn't a hallucination at all. She came out of it with tears on her face and a hand pressed low on her stomach, where she felt a sharp ache of absence. Despite her time with Gus, she'd never actually wanted to have children of her own. But this (whatever it was), left a yearning in her that was hard to push back.

She didn't have to try for long though, as things shifted again when the second memory came. She knew this one, though not completely. He remembered waking up, finding Anton demanding cake in the middle of the night. The emotions surrounding it, though... She knew that Anton acted, put on a front for everyone including himself. But she never thought (despite everything) that she might be on the receiving end of those hidden emotions. She always thought she'd been forced into his life because he knew Orin, and that somehow that had turned into the obligation of looking after her when things inevitably went wrong. She hated the thought that she was someone's obligation, but this didn't feel like someone who felt forced to do things. She thought maybe they were going to need to talk, even if it did lead to sappiness.

Iris didn't think that there were many people in any world that could crack a safe as easily as the owner of the next memory. The mantra of "don't"s felt like she - no, not herself, the owner of the memory - trying to convince herself of the things. The names on the documents were too familiar. "Selina," she whispered into the silence of the hotel lobby. She didn't know why she was getting that memory, and she frowned as the next one came right on top of the last.

Jersey and working hard made her think of Sam, but it didn't seem quite right to be her. But close. Iris tried to relax her fingers from where they'd clenched around the arms of the chair, trying not to think of how she'd never had to work that hard. The priviledge of her adopted family.

Her tears had started to dry from the first memory, but they sprung back after the next one. Her own, not those of the owner of the memory. She wondered if she knew the owners of all the memories, since she recognized this as well. Not from being in that exact moment, but the building was familiar. 2 years worth of familiar. Trying to wipe away the tears, she fumbled for her phone, needing to talk to Louis.

She wouldn't get the chance, though, and she wondered how many more memories were going to wash over her. For a moment, the sirens seemed to be outside the hotel, but the memory solidified into another city that she knew. The smell of blood was familiar, both within the memory and without, something her mind could never let go of, and the sight of the bodies left her hands shaking and breathing unsteady. She knew that there could have been so many worse memories from Bruce, that the one she received was tame. But it still threw her off balance and made her wish for it to be the end.

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Reactions pt 2

soundofwings
2012-07-25 07:51 pm UTC (link)

It wasn't the end, and she gave a frustrated little sob at the next memory. Alfred knew the tiny cat, and they both knew the tired young man sitting there. The owner of the memory (Miss Stephanie, Alfred provided, even though he's not her Alfred) was worried, and it only made Iris worry more. She was still dealing with the strange disconnect of knowing people through the door well enough to possibly consider them a friend, but that distance didn't make her worry any less. In a city like Gotham, it made her worry even more. They both seemed so young in that moment, and while there was nothing awful happening immediately, she wished desperately for both of them to take care of each other.

There was a pause, enough of a break for Iris to begin to catch her breath and hope that it (whatever it was) had passed. She was shaky, both mentally and physically, but was clinging on desperately. And it was working.

But then the last memory reached in and turned her inside out. Once she was herself again, she found herself with her arms wrapped around her stomach folded over them so that her forehead nearly touched her knees. Eyes squeezed tight, she let out the screams that the owner of the memory could not, echoing around the hotel lobby. Shoulders shaking, the screams tapered off into harsh sobs as the memory refused to completely let go of her. She could still see the woman behind closed eyes, feel the warmth of blood on hands and face. The hate was stronger than anything else she'd felt in too long, and her entire world vibrated on a tightly wound string. In those moments, still half caught in the memory, she wanted to find someone, anyone, to hurt. Her fingers dug into her arms without even realizing it, sobs still harsh and loud.