ichoosefight | 22 - At least nightmares are better than daymares

22 - At least nightmares are better than daymares

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[ Stephanie is an old hand at nightmares, but doesn't let the horror of those deaths haunt her too far into her day. She still dreams about her own death, after all. She has the suspicion that the nightmares are the Admiral's doing, and it feels wrong somehow to let other people's pasts weigh her down - a weight she has no right to carry.

So she goes about her day as ever, patrolling as needed with Bucky and Helena, visiting the gym to practice both gymnastics and fighting, going for a run in the Enclosure just for a change in scenery. She always eats in the dining hall these days, like she's making up for the time she lost keeping to herself as an inmate. She can even be found in the art room playing the piano from time to time. She knows that the best way for her to fight nightmares is to wear herself out during the day, so that by night she's too tired to dream.

Sometimes it even works. ]

[ Private to Iris ]

Can I ask you a time traveller question?

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You’re in bed when the phone rings, a couple of motherhood magazines in your lap, a plate of celery sticks and an almost empty jar of peanut butter on your nightstand. It’s too much work to check the caller ID on the phone’s base. You just grab up the hand set and let the magazines fall to your side.

“Hello?”

“I thought you might be up.” You smile. You know that voice – it’s Robin, the young superhero you suspect you’re falling in love with. You figured it might be him. He’s been so good since you told him you’re pregnant, always checking up on you and taking you to your Lamaze classes.

“Well, if it isn’t the runaway Boy Wonder.”

“I really miss you, Steph.” You can hear a fridge open in the background, and know you’re on speaker phone. Given how quiet the room is, he must be alone.

“Miss you too, Robin.”

“How’s things in babyland?” You aren’t in the mood for jokes, or you might have laughed. Instead you settle a hand on your massively swollen belly.

“Getting close.” You’re due in the next week. You’re grateful for that, because your back is hurting like a bitch. It’ll be nice to not be pregnant anymore.

“I’ve been thinking since you left Gotham Heights,” you begin, running your hands over some of the magazine articles as you prepare for the conversation you’re about to start.

“About us?”

“About the baby.”

“Yeah?”

“About keeping it.” You hear a plate break as it hits the floor, and chew the inside of your cheek. You knew he would react like this. You don’t know why you hoped for anything different. Maybe you were only calling him to talk you out of it.

“Am I talking to Stephanie Brown or Murphy Brown?” Combined with your mood and back pain, the comment is enough to piss you off something serious.

“What?”

“We talked about this, Steph. You arranged for adoption through St. Swithin’s. It’s the best thing to do.”

“What’s this ‘we’ stuff?” You know he’s right, but it’s the same argument you’ve been having with yourself lately. And why should he get any say in the matter at all? It’s your body, your baby. You’re allowed to change your mind. This is your child you’re talking about, the child you’ve been carrying around with you for almost nine months, the child you’ve been playing music for and telling stories to, even though you know it’s stupid. The child who’s kept you from being the Spoiler, when you know there’s trouble out on the streets you could be taking care of. The baby has always been, will always be, more important.

“It’s not like you’re the father.”

“But I am your friend. And that’s my point. Your baby won’t have a father.” You’re not furious anymore, just sad. You recognize the mood swing as one of those pregnancy things, but note that it doesn’t change your feelings. You’ve wanted this baby from the start. Sure, there was an hour or two of shocked disbelief, but you had always wanted kids. You want the chance to bring something wonderful into the world, to take care of it, protect it from the horrors that the world has to offer. Wouldn’t it be better, without a father? Your own father is a terror. You would take good care of the baby, give it everything you never had growing up. You see a future with this baby, nights reading stories, shopping for educational aids, advice for every problem you’ve ever had that you wish your parents had warned you about growing up.

“There’s me and Mom,” you insist reasonably.

“Have you talked to her about this?”

“No…” He’s the first person you’ve told. His opinion matters more to you, honestly.

“You know how that is. Your father was in Blackgate half the time you were growing up.”

“And not much of a role model when he was out.”

“I can’t tell you what to do, Steph.” From his tone, he would anyway. “Mostly because you wouldn’t listen. But if you really love that baby, and I know this is the hardest thing you’ve ever done… you have to let it have a chance with two parents.” You feel tears running down your cheeks and flop back onto the pillow, fed up with yourself. You don’t feel like you can make a decision anymore. You don’t feel like you can do much of anything. All you know is that it feels like killing a part of yourself, imagining this baby going home with someone besides you. Like you’re cutting it out and throwing it away, something precious and irretrievable, something vital to your very existence.

“I know that’s the right thing, but… will you be here?” All you really want just now is comfort. You wish he was here, just to hold you. You know that’s unreasonable. He’s Robin, he has better things to do than sit around with his pregnant girlfriend while she sobs into a jar of peanut butter.

“I’ll do my best, Steph. I really will. I have to go.”

“I know. Love ya.”

There was no more goodbye than that. There was a click, and the buzz of a broken line. You put the phone back and roll over to cry. Pregnancy has made you so emotional, but you already love this baby. It kills you to know that you really can’t take care of it. You know all the reasons. You’re in high school. You’re too poor. Your father is a menace. It’s just that right at this moment none of that means anything.

You feel a great heaving sensation in your pelvis, like menstrual cramps, but far worse. Contractions? It’s so hard to tell when you’ve never had them before. Then you feel a wetness between your legs – also like menstruation, though you know that’s not possible. You worry that you might have wet yourself, however mad that sounds. You sit up and pull the covers away from your legs, just to check. There’s something liquid, to be sure. Did your water break? You press a hand to the crotch of your (fantastically comfy) sweatpants and pull it away to inspect the fluid – blood.

“Mom.” You glance from your hand to the wet spot, which has started to spread from the dark black fabric of the sweatpants onto the lighter blue of your sheets. You don’t really feel the sheer panic until after you’ve screamed, “Mom!”

Suddenly, with the force of an injury you’ve only just noticed, your stomach and back twist with excruciating pain. You’re clutching your belly and moaning by the time your mother rushes through the door, a phone handset already in her hands. Moments like this it’s so nice to have a mother who’s a nurse.

“It hurts,” is all you manage to say when she comes in. You can hear her dialing 911.

“Where does it hurt, honey?” You point to the stain on the sheets. It’s amazing, how calm your mother sounds. She has experience with this sort of thing. Even knowing that, the sound of a 911 dispatcher on the other end of the line is terrifying. Your mother asks for an ambulance. You wonder distantly if you’re going to die before another jolt of pain calls your attention away. Not the baby, you beg silently. I can die, just not the baby. She’s innocent. She deserves to live.

By the time you reach the hospital you’re sobbing outright. You hurt so much, from your neck to your knees, and all you can think is please not the baby. They aren’t allowed to give you painkillers yet. They’ve only just gotten you onto a stretcher and hooked up to an IV when a thought makes it through the fog.

“Is he here, Mom? He said he’d be here.” She clutches your hand. It’s the only way you can tell how scared she is, despite the calm. She squeezes your fingers tight.

“Try to relax, Stephanie. The doctors will take care of you.” A doctor injects something into your IV tube and almost immediately you feel a wave of exhaustion wash over you. You’re vaguely aware of your mother talking with the doctors, worry starting to creep into her voice.

“He’s not here,” you whisper, mostly to yourself, as a surgeon pushes your stretcher in the direction of the OR. “Hurts so bad… why isn’t he here?”

“I am here, Steph,” says a soothing voice from somewhere above her. She knows that voice, and feels her heart squeeze.

“Robin?”

“I’ll be with you the whole time. You let me do the worrying. You just have the baby, okay? Everything’s going to be all right.” Your vision starts to lose focus as you look up into those worried eyes, capped on one side by a green cap and the other by a face mask, thinking… so why am I more scared than I’ve ever been in my whole life?

It’s the last thought you’re aware of having.

The man looks nasty, no two ways about it. He may once have been muscled, but now he’s shriveled like a prune, or a mummy. His long blonde hair is equally gross, pulled back into a ponytail but still obviously greasy, bangs clinging to his face like its covered in sweat. The worst thing is the metal mark in his chest – something like a demon head, shaped into a brand, just sticking out of his sternum. But the thing you notice first is the fiery orange streaks of energy which must be telekinetic, because they seem to be physically picking objects up off the ground.

You blanch.

“My God. Who are you? What are you?” He hangs in the air like he’s been crucified, and you start to regret asking. One of those fiery arms picks up Robin by the wrists and your heart squeezes with fear for him.

“Time for your flying lesson, little birdy. Now pay attention, while I play whack-a-mole with your girlfriend.” You’re more than a little alarmed to see that the magic arm things not holding your boyfriend have picked up not one but two cars, and several filled garbage cans that also look pretty heavy. You move on instinct. You roll out of the way of the cars, handspring clear of the explosion of fire and debris that results. Moments like these you’re glad you wear gloves – concrete is so much harder on the hands than gym mats.

You hear Robin shout.

“Stop it, you monster! For God’s sake! You’ll kill her!” You think that’s probably the idea.

“That’s the whole point. Now mind your manners, or I’ll have to punish you.” That’s the man – not the tinny voice. You can’t help but think ‘called it’. Then Robin screams, and you start seeing red.

“See? Smarts, doesn’t it?”

“Please stop,” he begs, his voice weak. You start imagining all the ways that you can hurt this guy. Nut shots come to mind. If only you can get past that weird telekinetic power of his.

“It’s me you want, and you’ve got me. Spare her. I’m begging you.” If you weren’t so indignant you might find that sweet. Instead you steal up on the man, quiet as a mouse under all of their shouting and speechmaking.

“Begging’s good, kid, but the whole point is to not only kill you, but everyone you’ve ever cared for.”

“Both of you quite talking like I’ve got no say in the matter!”

You find your moment, remember your lessons, and spring up from the ground with a high kick that snaps his head half off his shoulders.

No, seriously. That just happened. His head is hanging by fleshy strands, like Nearly Headless Nick or something. It’s pretty nauseating, and the only thing that distracts you long enough that he gets the chance to pull your feet out from under you with his telekinesis.

“Babe’s got some moves. But so do I.” You’re halfway to your feet when the motorcycle comes at you from the side like a baseball. You think fast, rising up and jumping out of the way –

Excruciating pain hits you first in the head, then your right leg. You’ve never felt anything so painful before, not even when you’ve broken bones in the gym. You aren’t even conscious of grabbing at that calf, rolling to the side, trying anything to make the pain just a little bit less. You see Robin coming towards you.

“Finish you now,” says the blonde man, his head still hanging all the way to one side. Your head falls back and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out the pain. You feel like everything is spinning, which is weird, with your eyes close. You can still hear Robin shouting.

“No you won’t! You won’t touch her again! Never again! Do you hear me?”

It’s hard to tell when you lose consciousness.

of course darling, what can I do?

it's kind of a weird question. you know how the admiral can do pretty anything?

weird questions are what I live for. yes, I do. I've seen him alter history in ways that I would have found very tricky, if not technically impossible.

well, you know. you can. but should you? how do you know what should be changed and what should be left alone?

that is exactly where the Admiral seems to have an advantage over me. I saw him undo three deaths that were crucially formative in the life of someone I love, without undoing him.

I don't like to say I couldn't have done that, but it would have been a very delicate and difficult bit of work to do without messing up a lot of other things.

how I do it is basically an awareness of all the connections between one event and another. careful research into what affects what and how it happens. the ideal intervention is one that disturbs the overall pattern of time as little as possible or not at all. when you remove a domino from the line you need to take into account every other domino that falls because of your domino's fall.

except it's not one line of dominoes, it's a great four-dimensional web of them.

practically, the most efficient way to reverse a death is to insert a really cleverly faked death in its place and resign yourself to the people closest to your reversed death never learning the truth.

I've actually done quite a few of those.

what are you actually thinking of changing?

we all did as much as we could with the gang war, but a lot of people still died. i don't know if i want to change that, if i should, or even if i'm morally obligated to.

hmmm. that war happening is a Gotham fixed point; undoing it would be a bad plan.

we'd have to take each death on a case by case basis. some probably shouldn't be undone if only for the sake of not undermining the fixed point, some probably could be.

I'm not going to speculate about moral obligations or shoulds, but I have a suggestion: rather than dump it all in the Admiral's lap, let's make it a family project? Babs can use her fancy new synaesthesia to rummage the records for details on those deaths, you and me and Cain can go do the legwork. Be good practise for him and his timeship - he's always someone that learns best by doing and this would be a long and excruciatingly fiddly job.

which is just what we like :D

Edited 2015-01-26 23:22 (UTC)

...i think i like that idea. it's kind of poetic.

I hoped you might. Can I run it by them now?

[filtered Cain/Babs/Steph]

HEY HEY I HAVE AN IDEA.

THIS TIME IT'S A GOOD ONE AND I NEED BOTH OF YOU FOR IT.

Edited 2015-01-27 00:03 (UTC)

'this time' she says

She's had some horrible ideas. [BUT IT IS TYPED WITH FONDNESS.]

I like this one, though. But - Steph, you need to be prepared for the failures. All of the people we can't save, for one reason or another.

yes well. they're not always winners.

not like this one :D

it seems like a good compromise

idk maybe i'm a bad person. i want to take responsibility. of course i want to save lives too, but wiping it all away feels like cheating, or hiding from what happened and what i did to make it happen. i feel like i owe these people their lives. this way i can be responsible for each and every one of them.

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22 - At least nightmares are better than daymares

Birthing complications, cw: teen pregnancy

Hit by a motorcycle

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