InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "I've always wanted a peg leg."

mk robinson wants to be a star. (hitjackpot) wrote in doorslogs,
@ 2012-05-05 11:01:00

Entry tags:

alfred pennyworth, catwoman, mary jane watson

WHO Wren, Iris & MK.
WHAT Prison chattin'.
WHEN Today-ish?
WHERE Women's correctional facility.
WARNING Nothing big!

Florence McClure Women's Correctional Center was nothing like the small jails Wren was accustomed to. It was in the middle of the desert, with nothing at all for miles, and it felt like the ends of the earth. It was wide open, all the cells facing into an open common area, and Wren had quickly lost count of the other prisoners - thousands, she thought. She knew it was temporary, anyway, this place. Kidnapping, her lawyers had informed her early that morning, was a federal crime. This was just a holding cell, a temporary stop in the desert, and if things went poorly she would be shipped to a federal facility, one likely too far away for visits, and maybe she should be worried about that more than she was. As it was, she was numbness and little else, the orange of the prison uniform doing nothing to hide her pallor or the memory of bruises left behind by Luke on her neck and shoulders. She rubbed one of the bruises as she sat at the metal picnic table in the common area, pressing her fingers hard against that spot, not stopping until it hurt enough to make her hiss, to make her feel something. Only a day gone, and the bruises beneath her eyes had already darkened with lack of sleep, the reminder of Gus’ screams keeping her awake long into the night. She wondered- But no, because wondering would only drive her crazy. So she sat quietly, and she said nothing, even as the bolder women in the prison tried to stake their claims and promise protection. Protection, she thought, as if anyone could protect her.

Iris hadn’t been in prison for very long, but as a climax to weeks of worry and police investigation, her incarceration had taken its toll. Never robust to begin with, she’d gotten thinner, features sharper, the skin under her eyes often appearing so thin as to be bruised bluegrey. She moved through the prison (when allowed), with a quiet sort of detachment that some other prisoners found unsettling, especially with the possible conviction of child murder hanging over her head and the whispers of her mental illness. Even among criminals, there was a hierarchy of acceptable crime, and hers wasn’t one of them. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t done it - everyone thought she had. Things began to change with the arrival of Wren, but she was still avoided by the general population - most of the women didn’t realize that their crimes included the same boy, and that one canceled out the other. Unlike Wren, she hadn’t been offered much in the way of protection, as indicated by a bruise here, a scraped elbow there. Her glasses had gone missing for over a day, but a guard had eventually found them and returned them to her. She hadn’t fought any of it; she simply didn’t have the energy, and she was hoping that good behavior would be to her benefit.

And so the woman that wandered ghostlike through the prison was a far cry from the one that had accompanied a vibrant four year-old to the park not long ago. Iris wore a similarly bright color to Wren (orange wasn’t good for pale hair and pale skin on her, either), and behind thick glasses with hair pulled back into a regular ponytail, she was nearly unrecognizable to people that might have otherwise known her. There was nothing about her that told of wealth or style or upbringing, especially not when she kept quiet enough to hide the educated softness of her voice. It was this nearly anonymous woman that sat herself on the other side of Wren’s table, as far down the opposite bench as she could be while still seated there. The other prisoners had drifted away for the moment at Iris’ approach, but they lingered within a close distance. Iris knew that it was Wren at the table, had sat there for that exact reason, but was hard-pressed to find words once she did.

Sleep had eluded MK for days even before the cuffs snapped around her wrists, and the arrest only worsened all of her problems. She had never been to any sort of prison, and the adjustment had a clear toll on the model, the dark purple bruises underneath her eyes testified to her absolute exhaustion. There was a stark difference between the beautiful redhead splashed all over the tabloids and the willowy woman, no girl, that drifted throughout the dull halls of the facility. She was thinner in person, women of the prison remarked, or she seemed a lot more boring. Maybe she was having a mental breakdown like the blurbs published next to her pictures said. Maybe she was as crazy as everyone claimed. What kind of person would help in the kidnapping (and possible murder) of a young four year old child?

MK was always thin, but she had lost more weight over the last few weeks, and the issued orange jumpsuit hung loosely on her frame. Rumors of another arrest regarding Gus’s case flitted around the prison yard, and MK could only think of the worst, looking for Wren at meal and recreation times while trying to dodge the advances of some of her flesh-hungry fellow inmates. She was a supermodel, after all, and there was a sick fascination in all of that, that someone so perfect and above the law could stoop as low as they had. They pulled at the orange fabric, and they brushed their fingers over her jaw and her chest, and each tried to snatch a little piece of the little princess. All the while, the redhead was as quiet as she had been in the interrogation room, only offering a smile or two to the ones that pushed hard enough. Survival tactics, she reasoned, even as she winced against their rough touches and grabs that bruised her delicate skin. The panic attacks that plagued her in the weeks prior sneaked in again, though only at night in the quiet safety of her own bunk bed.

That day, MK managed to dodge the most persistent women during rec time, instead floating towards the edges of fenced in yard until she spotted a flash of blonde hair sitting at one of the tables nearby. With more energy and determination than any of them had seen since her arrival, MK bounded over to the table, red hair swinging from the high ponytail it was pulled up in. (If the orange suit did little for Iris or Wren, it positively clashed with MK’s tone and hair.) She took no notice of the woman sitting on the edge and sat almost direction across from Wren without a word. She just stared, words hanging on her lips but refusing to actually come out.

Wren had seen Iris approach, out of the corner of her eye, just as someone much taller and broader brought her something to drink, which Wren left untouched in front of her. She’d survived prison in Seattle, in Florida, in Reno; she knew the rules, but she wasn’t willing to play that game, not yet. And, so, she was bruised and cool calm as MK sat down, all red hair and nightmares from so many years back writ across her face. Wren said nothing at first; she stared at the juice box in front of her, and she tried to think of the right words, but what did you say? I’m sorry you’re in prison because of me, but really I’m not, because if I had to choose, I’d do it again? Okay, she wouldn’t have involved MK. She would have driven to that church on her own, but she would have still taken Gus from those people, no matter what. Even at the tail end of those screams, the tiny ones that haunted her nights, lived the reality that he would end up with Luke; Thomas and Silver would see to that.

Looking up, finally, Wren turned her attention to MK first. MK, whom she had last seen during a glorious fight, who she was still a little mad at - at least, until she really looked at her, all broken and pale and more shattered doll than grown up woman. “I spoke to them,” she said, numb calm and no emotion in her voice, “and they’re willing to release you if they can verify my story, the DNA, everything. My lawyer says it shouldn’t take too long,” she said, gray eyes dull and nearly lifeless. It went unsaid, the fact that MK’s release was part of Wren’s condition for telling her story, for turning herself in, for handing Gus over. She didn’t say it, but she didn’t think she needed to. “You can tell them the truth. I turned myself in. They didn’t come for me.”

Iris was harder, because Wren had known the other woman was in jail for days. Luke had told her, and she had been confident Iris’ lawyers would see her released on bail. She hadn’t worried about the other woman, hadn’t been concerned. Wren knew little about her; she had no idea what Iris’ secrets were, what she hid. She knew there was money, and that was all, and she hadn’t paced the living room with concern there, thinking someone else would take care of that for her. Clearly, she’d been mistaken. More importantly, she’d thought Iris would have been released immediately. “I don’t know why you’re still here,” she told the blonde honestly, still that dead calm, no inflection, a very careful distance and coolness that spoke of survival and mechanisms learned over the years to cope. “I’m sure it will be taken care of directly.” Luke would need her on the outside, after all, Iris.

Iris looked over at MK when the woman sat down, and it took a minute for her to recognize her as someone on the tabloids near the grocery store checkout. The appearance of a celebrity didn’t phase her, causing only a blink of recognition. After that single blink, she turned her attention again to Wren, magnified lens-eyes taking in details of change since they’d last encountered each other. She didn’t hold the sort of animosity toward Wren that many might, even the conflict regarding the background check long lost in her memory. Far more important things had happened since then to chase it from her mind.

She cleared her throat, and felt the other prisoners’ gazes on her at the sound. She had yet to say much of anything to anyone outside of visitors and her lawyers, and she knew that her voice was in some way a point of curiosity. She kept it low, though, barely carrying past their table. “I’m a good suspect, even with a confession. And paperwork moves slowly.” Her voice wasn’t quite as flat as Wren’s, but it was sad, resigned. Part of her had begun to take on her accept her false conviction as much as everyone else had, and she wasn’t surprised that she was still in prison. There was a cavern of a pause as Iris wondered if she should even ask. She didn’t have any right to know, but not having an answer made her ache all over. “...is he alive?”

The moment MK sat down, one of the girls sitting nearby slid down on the bench and tried to whisper sweet nothings in her ear, but the redhead swatted her away like an annoying bee. She would pay for that one later, she knew, but Wren was her main focus. Wren had been her main focus over the past few days, thoughts of the blonde and her son flickering in and out of her mind as she downed another drink at another bar surrounded by strangers vying for her attention. She was still furious with her friend, too, but before she could snap back, Wren addressed another woman down the bench. Eyeing the woman, a delicate little blonde, warily, there was a spark of recognition. Hadn’t she seen her somewhere recently? And then it clicked, and her heart ached terribly. She was the nanny, wasn’t she? The one who had been arrested instead of she and Wren. She wanted to reach out, wanted to comfort the broken woman, but people stood between them, and a hug could hardly make up for what happened. Nothing could, not really, and instead of looking at Wren, she continued to look at the other woman with a sad, regretful look on her face.

“Of course he’s alive,” MK chirped up before Wren could respond, glancing back at her before eyes fell back to Iris again. “She would never hurt him. Only a sick person would.” The implications of that statement weren’t something she considered when she said it, but it was said with such a detesting and angry tone that it was clear she thought it was true. Turning to Wren again, she said, “Doesn’t matter. I haven’t said anything either way. Threw me in here because I wouldn’t open my mouth. That’s a first.” She laughed then, something mirthless, dark, and oh so tired. And as absolutely pissed off as she still was with her friend, the emotional void in her eyes and the way she spoke concerned her greatly. She didn’t ask how Wren was as much as she wanted to, but the look she shot her conveyed everything.

It was a good thing that MK chirped up, because Wren was just staring at Iris with an expression that had gone from numb nothing, to shock, and MK’s response gave Wren time to move through shock and rage to pseudo-calm. Is he alive? What kind of a question was that? It made her angry, and maybe it was just all that anger that was already there brimming over. Her voice, though, was still pleasant, distant, nothing of warmth in it at all. “Yes, my son is alive. I didn’t kill him, but thank you for inquiring,” she said. “I brought him with me, and he’s in the custody of the state, so you should be released shortly,” she assured the other woman. She considered adding a plea that Iris help Luke, but she didn’t, couldn’t bring herself to, despite knowing that Luke needed the attention, and that Gus would appreciate the friendly face.

Instead, Wren turned her attention to MK, and she gave a fleeting look to the woman who had tried to whisper in her friend’s ear. She knew this was going to be too much for the redhead, knew this would only send her deeper into the abyss, and Wren rubbed her temple and closed her eyes a moment, as if she could shut it all out. “You should tell your lawyers, MK. It won’t be long. I promise,” she assured her. “And you can tell them anything they need to know. It can’t hurt anything now.” The words were as distant as they were with Iris, as removed from anything with emotion as possible, but dampness shone at the corner of her eyes, and she pressed her fingers to one of the bruises at her collar again. “Get yourself out,” she added a second later, softer. “I’ll be out on bail by next week anyway. There’s no point in you spending time in this place.” This hell.

Again, Iris’ eyes moved over Wren and MK as they spoke. As usual, she was left attempting to put the rest of the story together, and while she was curious, it didn’t reflect in her eyes. MK’s comment about someone sick actually drew out a twitch of her lip, barely visible, that was the closest thing she’d had to a smile in the past weeks. While Wren attempted to force back the rush of changing emotions at her question, Iris caught a good number of them, especially the moment of rage that flickered in her eyes. Even under the combined anger of MK and Wren, Iris didn’t quail or pull away. She’d held in the face of worse, after all.

“I was curious,” Iris finally continued in response to Wren’s words, her own tone still quiet and even. Some of the closer prisoners were listening intently, and Iris angled a glance over to them. “Since they were attempting to charge me with homicide.” She paused, her gaze moving over Wren and back over to MK. “I believe that is why the release is delayed. You don’t simply turn a psychotic possible murderer onto the streets without a bit of paperwork, I assume.” Her light blue, magnified eyes stayed steady on Wren’s.

MK couldn’t help throwing a dirty look at Iris then, at the I was curious. No one in their right mind could murder an innocent four year old, and Wren was a lot of things, but Wren was not the type of woman who would kill a child. The line her lips drew looked wholly unimpressed, as did the eyebrow that cocked up in tandem, and as guilty as she felt towards her, all of a sudden, she was very angry with the other blonde woman, the one whose name she didn’t know. “You’ll be out soon,” MK reassured, her voice a little more strained and forced than before. “I’m sure of it.”

MK’s attention focused back on Wren. “I don’t want to leave you here alone,” MK whispered harshly, eyes flickering over the women watching the conversation like hawks. The bold bruises on the blonde’s neck made MK doubletake, and she gave her friend a long, questioning look. “I don’t think they’ll be too quick to release me either. It’s not like I’m just in for DUI or parole violation, y’know. Besides,” she continued with the same mirthless, cutting tone, “I made a couple friends here, haven’t I? Not every day they get a supermodel in here.” But the look in her eyes, one of fatigue and fear, and the tone in her voice told a completely different story. She feared what some of these women could do to her, and some already roughed her up a little when she refused their advances.

“He’s not dead,” Wren insisted when Iris called herself a possible murderer. It got to her in the way nothing else had behind the bars of the prison, the image of Gus dead and lifeless. Iris had called it to mind, and she couldn’t shake it. Maybe it was the little boy’s screams as they’d pried him away from her that did it, but it was all she could think of just then, and it made her want to bury her hands in her own hair and scream until she couldn’t anymore. Instead, she tucked her hands away on her lap, where painful welts reminded her who she was, where she was, and once she was calm enough she regarded Iris once more. “You aren’t psychotic,” she reassured the other woman. “Gus is fine,” which was an overstatement. “He’ll likely need a nanny when he leaves here,” she added, tone cool. “One that doesn’t think his mother is a murderer would be very nice.”

MK was harder to look at, to address. Wren noticed her friend taking notice of the bruises, and her hand slid up to a slice on her shoulder, one that had nothing to do with beds or sweaty bodies. She’d had a hard time explaining the bruises to the admitting officers, the ones who catalogued and detailed everything. The women had just quirked brows at her claims that they were all work related injuries, and she had a feeling they might hurt her case in the end. But what was she supposed to say? I have someone in my head who likes to get bruised in Gotham, and Gus’ father and I like rough sex sometimes. No, work injuries, and no one had believed her. She shook that all away in favor of MK’s comments about making friends, and she leaned forward and reached a hand out for the redhead’s across the table. “You’re going home just as soon they verify DNA. It was one of the agreements when I turned myself in,” she promised MK, because she knew that look on the other woman’s face, knew broken when it looked back at her through those eyes. She wanted to offer to take care of her, to defend her from the other women. She could, she knew, but she wanted bail, and it was one thing or the other. “Did you call Adam? Simon?”

The wash of MK’s angry gaze did little to affect Iris. She’d had rage directed at her before, and the redhead’s was nothing in comparison. She didn’t doubt the woman was angry, but in this situation, Iris doubted she was the true target. She was the target for Wren’s words, however, and the emotion behind them (even though Wren attempted to hide it), made Iris nod. She had to give a twist of an almost-smile at the thought that she wasn’t psychotic, but other than the shift in expression, she made no further comment on it. There was talk of DNA, and Iris’ thoughts flashed to Luke, another piece of the possible puzzle snapping into place. Of course. Gus could go to him if they could prove paternity. The possibility of a better ending made her glad that she’d kept quiet about certain things like names and adoptions. “If I thought Gus’ mother,” she echoed Wren’s phrasing, “was a murderer, the police would have had a lead the very first day they took me in for questioning.” Her gaze rested again on Wren, letting her words hang. Confirming that she’d had her suspicions and kept them quiet the entire time. “He needs his family.” There was a weight to it that indicated she didn’t mean the Johnsons.

Her piece said, Iris finally let her gaze slip away, and stood again. She smoothed her hands down over her stomach, fingertips against the orange fabric. It was a delicate gesture, one that didn’t fit in the setting of the prison. “I wish you both a speedy release,” she said, voice back to something quiet, and turned to walk away. Her steps carried her past the close-lingering prisoners, ones that had heard her voice and begun to suspect her innocence. One peeled away from the group as Iris passed, and fell into step next to her as she walked.

MK listened to the other woman speak, watched her as she spoke, but refused to say anything again because there was no point. She was tired and couldn’t even attempt to offer the stranger any more comments. She did shoot her another look, one of intermingling anger and guilt. Anger because how dare anyone accuse Wren of murdering her son, and guilt because a woman like that, who looked like a strong gust of wind could topple her over should be nowhere near something like a prison yard. Her eyes followed the woman as she strolled away and tracked her for a moment longer before turning back to Wren.

“She’s the one they were talking about on the news, huh?” She hadn’t realized Wren took her hand, and in an instinctual movement, she flicked her wrist to rid herself of the hold. There was still resentment there, still lingering underneath the surface like a parasite gnawing away at her insides, but in the end, she squeezed Wren’s fingers quickly before bringing her finger to rub at her eyes. They stung under her touch, though she wouldn’t admit there were tears threatening to fall. Those weren’t allowed in this place, not in the daylight. Instead, she kept her eyes squeezed tightly shut and groaned quietly. “What did you tell them exactly? Or can you not tell me? Or not around our new friends?” One eyelid fluttered open to give the woman next to her a sideway glance. “I called Simon when I was brought in, but I haven’t gotten a chance to call Adam yet.” Another guilty look with a sigh, and she began chewing on the inside of her cheek at the thought as her hand finally fell from her face. She regretted, at least a little, that she hadn’t called Adam first, but what if he was busy? His clinic needed him more than some stupid model who got tangled up with the wrong business.

That flick of wrist, even followed by the squeeze of fingers, was enough to keep Wren’s hands beneath the table and on her lap from that point out. “I told them the truth,” she said, because she had, and there was no need for MK to worry about corroborating a story. “You can just tell them exactly what happened, and it’ll be fine.” It would be. None of it implicated Luke, and that was the only thing that really mattered. She lifted her gaze from the table, where it had settled as MK spoke, and she focused on the other woman. “Call whoever can get you out of here the quickest,” she said. “If that’s Adam, call Adam.” She smiled a little, a sad and wistful smile. “Or, even, whoever makes you feel better. Check on Luke for me once you’re out? And tell Roger to make sure Damian is okay. I think Selina wouldn’t like it otherwise.” Which was just a hunch, based on the growing number of meetings with Damian that were ending up on the calendar of the shared cellphone. She figured MK would feel less guilty about leaving her there, if she was helping in other ways. And, the truth was, Wren wasn’t sure how much longer the redhead could handle prison. Iris was a leaf in the wind, but MK was a glass, so prone to shatter.

“I’ll be fine,” Wren assured again, and it was true (to a certain extent). The news had already made it through the prison yard that she’d lost her child and stolen him back, and there were too many mothers in here, separated from their children by the law and hard time, that had compassion for her. No, her bruises and marks all came from Gotham and Luke. This prison, at least, wouldn’t break her like it would the other two. The guards, maybe, but not the prisoners.

MK’s lips drew into a line again, and she considered Wren with a sad tilt of the head. Her friend was so much older then, so unlike the girl that curled up on that crappy couch with a bottle of wine. The girl who she tried to fix the world with, or at least their world. No, the blonde, she was an adult, grown and shouldering responsibilities far beyond her capacity. “Who would have thought we’d end up here when we were sitting in our apartment in Seattle?” The question had a bite of sarcastic amusement to it, and MK flashed Wren the smallest smile with it. She would claim she was whole too, even if it was the farthest thing from the truth, even if she was more and more like the scared little girl who emerged from the week with Briggs every single day that passed.

“What else can I do?” Contacting people, that was easy. MK’d go to each of them and make sure everything was falling into place perfectly so that Wren could get out easily. Resting her head in one hand, she drummed her fingernails of the other on the metal of the table. Tick, tick, tick. “I don’t think it’s about who makes me feel better, not here. Nothing would make me feel better right now. And I didn’t go to him first, to Adam first, and I feel so shitty about it. But, that’s not the issue of the day,” she continued, letting the hand supporting her head drop. “If there’s anything else I can do, tell me. Find me, okay?” She pushed herself off the bench then, and one of the women surrounding the conversing friends mirrored her move. Rolling her eyes, she looked back at Wren with the ghost of the girl she should be -- playful, happy, strong. “All the orange makes it hard to find the hair, but look for the posse. I won’t be too hard to miss. We’ll talk for real,” she added. “Once you make bail.” Not about her problems, of course, but of Wren’s.

Wren gave her a sad smile. “Seattle feels like a good memory just now,” she admitted, and that was a sad thing. They’d thought they were holding each other through a maelstrom of hell then, but some of it was so much easier than now, and they’d changed so much over the years. She hadn’t realized it until just then, sitting there in horrible prison orange and waiting to see what fate handed them next. “I miss those girls,” she said, and she meant it. She was pretty sure life would never be that easy again, never be as simple as curling up on a couch in pajamas with a bottle of wine, and she wasn’t sure either of them were ready for that truth.

Wren nodded at the statement that they would talk once they were both free, because okay, and maybe it would go better this time around. She hoped. “Okay. I miss my best friend,” she said, and that did sound very young, very teenage girl. A second later, the cool and calm was back in place, a wall slipped back over who she really was, and she inclined her head just a little. “I’ll find you,” she said, though she wouldn’t. Here, at least, any troubles she took on would be her own. It was enough that MK was going to check on Luke outside, and it was enough that she would save herself, and Wren was thankful for those things. A soft smile later. “Just be happy for five minutes,” she said in closing. Simon, Adam, it didn’t matter. “For me.”

Seattle did feel like a good memory at this point, though the wounds still felt fresh to MK even after all these years. She wouldn't agree to the sentiment later, probably, but she nodded at that, and nodded at missing their younger selves. That she would always agree with. "I miss mine, too," and she did. She really did miss her best friend. MK wished, more than anything, that they could have one of those simple lives people always spoke of. One without Masks or doors and keys or prisons. She wanted Wren to get that picket fence. Maybe she still could.

Wren's last request earned a tiny, genuine laugh. "I'll try my fucking best," MK said with a smile, the kind she used to give her best friend when she would tease her about a boy in a mask. She shot Wren a fleeting look before moving away from the bench as Iris did, trailed silently by a few of the women vying for her attention.