WHO: Andrea and Snake WHEN: BACKDATED: When the ghosts arrive. WHAT: A lot of thoughts and then talk with a dude who is supposed to be dead. WHERE: Her apartment Status: Long. Narrative. Completed. RATINGS: PG-13
Andrea bent down to pick up the pencil that had rolled out from on the couch. She slipped it in her back pocket before she turned to continue brooming around. She had been on a steady flow of chores since she had come in from sparring. Actually, she had taken a shower first, hoping to wash away the slow thrum of agitation that settled in her blood. When that hadn’t worked, she started on the cleaning. Despite what people might say about it, she enjoyed it. Andrea could become so focused on, so lost in a task sometimes. The joy of cleaning, sometimes the compulsion to do it, steadied her - and better yet, even, it helped her ignore whatever might be bothering her. For all her words of advice and attempts on being a helpful friend; a hyperactive puppy had more emotional growth than she did. She suppressed. That might come as a surprise for those who viewed her as aggressive but if Andrea wasn’t - Dios, she was coming to hate that word - a balancing act she would have been in a bigger mess than she was in right now. Control was the ruler over her knuckles , as much as rapaciousness was her respite. That night she hadn’t thrown Luthor out that window, when the emotions had been rushing in her head to do so, proved that among other things.
Besides, it - this - was familiar. The cleaning, not the suppressing of the emotions. Although, that in the past two years truly was too.
A woman, no a person, was only as good as their clean home. Her grandmother might have been old-fashioned but single-motherhood, by fate rather than initial choice, had made a pragmatic woman even more realistic. If you had hands you cleaned, if you had feet to stand in front of a stove you cooked -- if by God’s will you lucked out in feet sit your culo self down and get to chopping the onions. A neat home made for a happy life. A home was made neat to productivity, ergo life needed work - or something. Her abuela had more tips and suggestions and ‘live by’s for life than her seven year old self had been able to tuck away. By the time she had been old enough to properly store them, she had thought she was too cool for school. And her abuela had been gone before she could properly reconsider that. Still, there were some of the woman’s sayings that Andrea swore by; both consciously and semi-consciously. One of them had to do with never allowing a mind to stay idle.
Sometimes, she thought that her grandmother had made that one up on the spot to give a ten year old her something to do. Even then she had been a little shit that could never let things go, let matters lie. Always wanting to know, far too prepared to make an enemy of some other girl who slighted a friend of hers, singularly giving ‘too many frowns’ over why their lighting had been cut off. Again. It had been: Wash the dishes, Andrea. Deja de hablar y doblar la ropa, Andrea. Beata María y el Espíritu Santo, Andrea! Look what you made me say! Go do your homework before I knock your lights out.
Andrea liked her habits. They were memories that she could keep.
That was why Andrea was ironing again. The brooming was finished. She hadn’t liked how the clothing sat, therefore, that mean they had to be ironed again before simply being refolded. It wouldn’t do to have unnecessary creases in them, would it? Better to do it now when she had the time. When she had nothing to do with her time but her own thoughts or reach out to somebody to be her hunting partner … patrolling, whatever (personally, she liked the word hunting better, it was what she did some of the time.)
Before the brooming, and after the shower … Let’s see, she had: cleaned the kitchen, straightened the furniture, which had then led to the thought of brooming. Although, since we’re listing things and catalouging, the brooming had occurred after she had spent a lot of time pondering a bathroom you could, probably, eat from. At the very least, sit on the floor in your underpants and not worry about dirtying it. Or catching anything.
There had been the thought of cooking, or baking, but she had just cleaned the kitchen. Even she wasn’t that bad. That is, to make a mess that she’d only end up having to clean again so she would end up having to clean again.
Needy had been right.
The woman had had a point in having Andrea told to calm down. Her thoughts left idle to run rampant, pounding like the sound of drums (like a super sonic heartbeat) in her head, only increased her worries and her fear. It was a cycle, that sadly where with most people it would knock them out, with her it made a reasonably rational woman highly irrational. It was worse case scenarios up the whazzoo. Because she almost always went worse case.
In the situation at hand, well, at thought - worse case had been the thought of death. To be fair, despite all her being obsessive, death hadn’t been unnatural assumption. There were bits and pieces that Andrea remembered about Lawrence from before. It wasn’t a clear window like a memory from her life in Metropolis would be. It was more like a cracked frame or a grainy old television; a sepia stained, and bent photograph … there were a list of comparisons that barely hint at her frustration at not being able to keep hold of her memories. Nevertheless, she dealt with it, like most everything and it didn’t constantly turn out to be a big deal. Except in that time it had felt like it, in that moment went Jack Harkness had given the news about Needy it had been.
If it had been news that Needy had gotten hurt - if she had remembered with a surety that Needy could heal - she would have been pissed but she would have been better about it. Better, of course, was a relative term. However, Andrea definitely wouldn’t be fixating over a blouse. At two o’clock in the morning.
She knew how to cope with things. She knew had to function. The fact that she still didn’t flash back to horrible moments in her life whenever she saw a gun showed that. And even though there were plenty out there who’d disagree, quipping at a demon who tortured you and then proceeding to bitch about the bed rest afterward was functioning. What she had never gotten the hang of was the concept of people dying. Not just any people, but her people. It was selfish, maybe. Natural process of life, yadda yadda. They went with God, what. utter. bullshit. All that rot, she got it, she knew it, she processed it. She didn’t have to like it. Furthermore, she certainly didn’t have to deal with it.
Her maturity knew no bounds.
It didn’t help that she had to stay in. She wasn’t the sort to easily reach out but she wasn’t the sort to make others taken her on as responsibility either. Andrea absolutely refused to do the second, which meant, if she was to carry on her responsibilities as a vigilante she would need to come to a decision involving the first.
Breath, quick and almost harsh, in nature puffed from her mouth as she shook her head once at herself. Andrea carefully tucked her blouse around a clothes hanger as she went about wondering who she would ask; before having to decide on the how.
She might not talk as much as she used to when she’d first been around but she still payed as people attention. She’d come a long, long way from the prying ten year old girl. Her inherent noseyness was firmly under thumb. Truth be told, she had other things to do than spend reading backlogs on the comm and that was spent mostly for need of research. Or to - for other stuff. A lot of her time was spent working on her savings, relearning Lawrence, finding out who was who on criminals in the city and surrounding areas, and pining over shoes she would never never ever be able to afford. Throw in hanging out frickin H.G. Wells (so she still got excited over that, even if she was learning how human (yet still awesome) the other woman was; sue her.), getting re-acquianted with people she’d once known after two or so years …. Her noseyness was too occupied in other things to, well, be nosey.
Yet that, as said, didn’t mean that she wasn’t paying some attention. Which, really, had to be some sort of irony because it was only because she wasn’t paying any attention that she’d missed the shuffling by her bathroom door. A girl learned to check for strange noises when she grew up in the Slums, when she spent less than year learning about new abilities while learning about the weaknesses of men who wouldn’t blink over seeing her dead. A girl could also get lost in her own thoughts. After all, this was Lawrence, this was the complex. It was … safer, it was safer in the complex than anywhere she had ever lived. That included that apartment in Metropolis she’d gotten when she’d moved out of the Suicide Slums. Yeah, that hadn’t been Lex Luthor’s suits protected. She’d made certain to complain to her landlord.
“This is nice. Domestic. Cozy.”
It was an amazing thing about the human heart. The way it could go from calm to ready for flight in the space of a second. Yet somehow it managed to keep from bursting out of a person’s chest.
Her fingers twitched around the iron. Andrea told herself that it was to hold it tighter, to … throw it? She told herself that it wasn’t trembling. She also told herself that she was tired and she was upset and she was thinking far too hard about her mother. Her mind had been stuck too much on Metropolis. That maybe she had fallen asleep and she had missed it. That … rarely ever happened. Sleep was a decisive choice for Andrea. Almost like everything. Because her life was a constant ball of angst, so of course, even when she slept her mind didn’t rest. That had to be it, though. Because there was no way she had reached the end where she heard that voice while awake. Maybe over two years ago but not now. Her life stopped being his the moment she killed the man.
“Oh, come on!!” She flinched before she could grasp herself the way she was currently bending the handle of the clothing iron. Andrea let that go. No. No. If she didn’t look at him, he would go away. However, she was some kind of masochist; or maybe her grandmother was right, she was too stubborn for her own good. It really would be the death of her. Maybe she had that instinct - that cue that sent people walking down alleyways after dark (when preservation beckoned different). Andrea looked up. That was what mattered in the end. She looked up and he was there.
Wearing the same exact thing he had been when he’d died by her hands. She’d killed him. He was dead. That thought, a voice called conscience told her, felt good - more than it should.
“You’ve never been good at -” He continued, a grating laughter coloring his words, when he saw that she was finally facing him.“There we are! For a moment, I thought you were going to start ignoring me. We both know how bad you are at that.”
Everything was settled. Andrea could think when she looked upon a face that had her waking up in cold sweat. She could clearly navigate her thoughts without feeling as if they were all rushing at her.
One thought: When she remembered her dreams, he was never here. Never in Lawrence, definitely never in the complex. Which meant that this was happening, that she wasn’t asleep. It was a leap but a leap that she would rather go with than be sorry. After all, she wasn’t bullet-proof.
The thing was, if this wasn’t a dream, what was it? Something mystical? Was he … actually in front of her? He couldn’ - well, he could. However, she was pretty damn certain that no one had ever appeared in the complex. Even with her memory full of holes. Plus, to show up in her room. She hadn’t been so lost in her thoughts to have missed the door open. Had she? … Besides, how would he even have known that she was in Lawrence. Cruel, sadistic, the ruiner of her life he may be, but it wasn’t as if he would have thought to check the backlogs. It wasn’t a common thing people did. Most people didn’t have the need to know or weren’t suspicious of everything funny looking.
“Now you’re being silent. What happened, cat got your tongue? Don’t tell me you’re scared. You? Haha. I remember. I remember you real well. It’s kind of hard to forget you. That look in your eyes. Almost like looking in a mirror.”
She stopped him there. “I actually forgot how much you liked to talk.” That was a lie. She had spent months devoting herself to finding out who this man was. When she had finally gotten him up close and in his face, he had been a rambling mess. All so eager to throw Lionel Luthor under the bus. His voice, however, his words had gotten stuck her head in a bad way. In a way, it hadn’t when he had killed her mother. Andrea hated that.
His voice that had goaded her, that had driven her - mocking, snide, pushing her and centered her - had changed that night. His fear. It turned so easily rambling, stumbly, when she was the one standing over him. What once was the fuel for her vengeance haunted her and brought guilt. Actual guilt - for him. Could you believe that? His death had been a favor to the city that she never wanted them to pay back. His death should have been a pleasure but it had left her numb for a moment. Andrea still couldn’t figure what upset her more. Guilt over his death or the fact that she didn’t really regret it at all.
“Don’t you worry. I ain’t planning on staying for long. This time. This was more of a … social call.”
There was a part of her that wanted to lunge forward and stab him with the pencil in her back pocket. She had to swallow it down. Andrea reminded herself that she needed answers. He probably wouldn’t give them to her but she had to trust -- what? Herself? -- that she could figure out something by talking. She might have relied so long on violence but she hadn’t chosen reporting just for the easy access to a police radio. The Daily Planet hadn’t chosen her as an intern out of all the applicants simply because she looked like Nerdy Former College Student With Heavy Glasses ™. Digging was something she could do and she could do subtle -- maybe. It was like re-working a muscle.
“Consider me flattered.” A corner of her lips curved upward, as she crossed her arms and cocked her a hip slightly. Her weight shifting and ready to move should she needed to. “Why go at all? Stay for a little bit. You’ve already made yourself familiar with my bathroom, I see. I hope that you didn’t use the towels.” She had just washed those towels.
“You really haven’t changed a bit.”
“I’d say the same to you but you being dead, that part is kind of obvious, isn’t it?”
“Always quick you were. Quick on violence, quick with words.” That was true. Her default came in two variations: pissed off and sarcastic. She was a mix of both but heavily relying on the second one. “I’m surprised that you haven’t started beating on me.”
His disappointment was palpable. It was something that Andrea picked up and set her unease spiking high.
“There’s no reason for that anymore, Jacob Marley. You’re dead. Even if you’ve been brought back from the dead by the Seal, you died.” She said that and made it sound convincing.
“The part where you think that spells that it’s over goes to show that you got stuck on the brawns.”
“Yeah, this could fall into a whole ‘pot, not-quite-kettle’ thing but that’ll just get us nowhere.”
He smiled. He had been standing by her bathroom. Bald, steadily growing frustrated, and wearing the very same clothing as that night. Andrea felt out of control the moment for yet another time that night.
Her eyes had been cataloguing everything that was the same and everything that might have been different - that was fact and not what she remembered from the rush of emotions that was two years ago. Her concentration being a boon this time. Even with her thoughts, set on trying to find a way to keep him in her apartment that didn’t involve his death, redux. She very well couldn’t let him - a criminal, a murderer - leave. The unwillingness to stop a murderer with murder was not lost on her. That was a good thing.
“No, you haven’t changed.” He repeated with a smirk. “And I’m going to enjoy showing you how much you haven’t.”