seen from Malaysia
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seen from Netherlands
seen from Mexico
seen from Türkiye
seen from Australia
seen from Mexico
seen from Singapore
seen from United States
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I am finally back to working on Hymn chapter 24
(on that note, does anyone have anything they’ve been particularly hoping to see happen/get talked about/be funny in the next arc of the fic? it’s recovery arc + chaotic hobby time for the batfam)
Alright.
I need to share a series that has utterly shattered me, and makes me so happy that I wish I could read it for the first time again. I’d even live thru the week again just to read it for the first time again.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Shutterbug” by @goldkirk ripped my heart out in the best way possible, I am not ashamed to admit I cried a few times and came closer than I’d like to admit to crying in the middle of class reading this.
I’d like to thank them for writing this
I’d like to share this with as many people that will listen to me
I’d like to read this a million times over for the first time.
I’d like to feel my heart break and mend all over again the exact way it did when I was reading this.
Absolutely heart wrenching, earth shattering, punch in the gut fic, but it’s also a warm hug, a whispered sentence of comfort, and a warm drink on a cold day surrounded by the people you love, family or not.
Hands down, one of the best fics I’ve ever read, I’d like to share the emotions.
I’d also like to go cry in a corner for a bit.
This is a heavy series, I would very much head the warnings at the warnings of each chapter, but it’s worth it (if it’s not triggering for you)
Thank you for your time ❤️
I don't know anything about canon DC Fam. I consume only fanfiction. But damn. I love that idiot family so much. Why are DC fanfic writers so good? 😭
Why even bother doing crime when these two are there to whoop your ass — or help you (and their father is very proud of them and their siblings).
@goldkirk
Bravado, ch. 8 - FINAL CHAPTER
guys I'm so sorry, it's too long/too many text blocks, so tumblr won't let me share the chapter in the body of this post.
[ Read on ao3 ]
Bravado, ch. 7
and it's half my fault, but I just love to play the victim
Read on AO3 Content warnings: Implied and non-graphically discussed CSA; mention of puking but nothing really described.
There's not any specific single thing that leads to it in the end. There's no one shiny moment of revelation. No one experience that lights the circuit, no conversation that suddenly makes her pour her memories out and realize.
It's a hundred small things that all piled up. A simmering sauce pan on the back burner, kept just-barely-warm for as long as it took. Steph has been led to the knowledge—the horrible, awful, searing, tearing, knowledge—by a thousand steps she didn't know were taking her there.
Memory + facts + pattern + understanding = knowledge.
It's simple math. She can do math. She's not dumb.
It was always going to lead to this, because Steph is not a person who can avoid putting pieces together once she knows they exist. Steph is a champion at putting her own jigsaw pieces together. Steph is old hat at understanding terrible things. Steph has known this in her bones for far longer than she first heard any words that could describe it. Steph had the feelings and the memories and the terror inside her long before she ever had the words.
It was always going to end like this. She was always going to figure it out. It was just a matter of when.
---
It's years before Steph sits up straight, suddenly, at her desk, and throws up right across her spread of chemistry notes as it hits her. As she realizes exactly what she didn't have the knowings to know.
She is four, she is six, she is fifteen, she is eight. She is twelve, and she is a thousand years old.
She is body and fear and shaking and spell-speaking, and when her teacher waves a hand in front of her face, Stephanie lunges out of the chair, neck over ass over teakettle over heels, melting onto the floor, crashing under the wave.
Steph scrambles for the door.
No hall pass. No permission.
She bursts out of the school, running with no words to be found before anyone can snatch her, grab her, dig their nails in high up on her arm, her neck. She runs for the only place this body can think to run—without her, carrying her.
Her body takes her home.
---
It's there in patches. So many moments. All the catcalls, all the looks, all the hungry hungry eyes. All the touches, all the statements, all the following in vehicles and on foot and into Ivy's forest. The ignoring and the telling and the way it made things worse. The lesson after lesson after lesson that taught her the same thing, over and over.
Good girls do what other people want.
They don’t hurt feelings.
And they don’t say no.
And the other moments—the others that filter in—down to the final one, that made her puke, that made her realize, that made her understand—the one that made her finally admit that she knows now, she knows—or at least, she thinks—she thinks she knows—what she knows now.
Molly at the clinic. Leslie at the clinic. Both of them reacting with firm outrage when Steph mentioned what happened with the report she made at work while they drank tea together in the supply room. Both of them telling her about the fight to create Title IX and workplace protections, and how next time, next time, Steph has resources and the law to go to if she needs it.
The one time she saw someone's mother witness them harass a woman on the sidewalk.
How Steph was afraid for her life when a girl in her class invited her over for a movie, and at the end of it reached out and wrapped her arms around Steph's, told her she liked her, and pointed out that she'd had Steph over special, watched a movie that Steph loved, and that was for a reason, and the reason was that she wanted Steph. And Steph's body, in that moment, had frozen, and burned, and thought it was in mortal danger, and it got her out of that house with minimal words, almost totally on autopilot, until she could run home.
Reading the vigilante homework from Bruce. And Jason. About abuse. About predators. About grooming, and signs, and who to tell, if a kid is in danger. What to look for. Bruce's calm voice in the car on the way back to the cave one night as he explains what he noticed, what made him call off their stakeout and ring Gordon's office to come help him save a kid he spotted in the apartment nearby instead.
The feeling of nails digging into her neck, a stronger body pressing her in, in, the way she can't use or feel some of her thighs, her chest, the way she can't walk with her body open anymore even if she tries.
The way she could trust the Bats to save her from villans, trust them to have her back, and be good to children, and be kind to citizens, and help her when she's sick, and feed her when she's hungry, and yet she can't stop watching Bruce, and Dick, and Jason, and sometimes even Tim, and wondering if there'll be a moment she wears the wrong thing or is a little too alone, and they'll be tempted a little too much, and—
The memory of how much she loved him.
The memory of how much he made her afraid.
Her desperation to never force any of the children she interacts with to hug her, or smile, or talk, or even just give a wave or high-five. The way she only ever offers them multiple options—fist bump, high five, hug, wave, nothing at all—and never, ever acts upset or disappointed no matter what they choose. Even if their parents try to guilt them into something. Especially then.
The crowded subways. McDonald's. Strangers on the street. Men in her building. Boys at school. Grabbing, groping, touching, calling, hooting, barking, whistling, howling, hunting.
Smiles and royalty and gift after gift after gift.
Camera flashes. Wings pinned like dead butterflies in a display case.
The strange uneasiness, the caged tiger feeling, the hunted prey heartbeats, that crept in when her school, recently funded by yet another Wayne Enterprises educational initiative—this time for youth safety and health education—called an assembly this morning and handed out business cards about Consent.
The list of what is consent. The list of what isn't.
At the bottom of the card, thick white text over a black box, damning, damning, digging into her brain: Not saying "no" doesn't mean "yes".
She stared at the consent card for a long time before they finally let the students out of the auditorium and she picked up her bag to head to Chemistry.
---
She feels, as she always feels, like she's maybe about to die.
Steph walks off the subway and wants to rip off her skin. She wants to claw her own face. She wants to be ugly. She wants to be invisible. She cannot hold the knowledge she knows. She cannot have this body. It's not hers. She can't own this. It's too much. It's just a trap.
Her clothes are a prison, and they're the only thing protecting her from the world. Steph yanks at her collar and pants for air as she takes the steps out of the station two at a time. Three at a time.
Then she misses, and her knee goes down, and there's pain, there's the bone-rattling shock of a jolt, but it's barely a glancing fly off of her outer shell. Unimportant. Mildly grounding.
Steph hops back up without hearing a fellow traveler's words of concern.
Two at a time now. Two at a time only, she takes the steps up.
In the sunlight, Steph pants, and she goes to try to run, and the strap on her flip flop on her left foot tears, nearly yanking her ankle with it.
Steph stops just long enough to rip her shoes off and move them to one hand. She's watching out through the windshield of her eyes, piloting her hand, piloting her vision, and her body grips the flip flops, turns sideways against the sun, and starts to walk.
---
She's quiet by the time the automatic doors slide open with their usual hiss.
Her body isn't panting now. She's been walking for—a while. She's been walking for a while.
No running. No reason to be out of breath.
Garett looks up from the desk.
"Steph?" his voice asks. And there's something in his face and in his voice that she's not used to, and she doesn't understand, because she is Steph and he is Garett and he's worked here for three years now and he sees Steph all the time.
And when he sees Steph it's always Stephmeister! and a quick grin, unless he's already talking to a patient and has to focus. And he's never looked at her like this. Like Steph is someone on a ledge.
She isn't on a ledge, is she? Steph is on a floor. She looks down at her feet to double check.
Ten toes. Wiggle against laminate. She has it right, it's just a floor.
There are three people in the waiting room.
"Steph?" Garett asks again. He stands up.
Steph steps back.
The laminate floor feels cold. It's usually cold in here. Garett is standing and Steph is fine. Garett sits back down and pushes a button. Steph knows that button, it's one of the intercoms.
"Molly," Garett is saying. He says more words.
There are three people in the waiting room.
They are all watching Steph.
A woman. A child. On the other side of the room from them, an older man. Steph steps sideways this time.
"Steph," says Garett. "Do you need help?" He's looking right at her.
Steph is looking. She is looking. Does she need help? Steph doesn't even know why she's here. She's supposed to be—in school. She left school. Oh, god, she's going to be in so much trouble.
"Honey, are you okay?" It's the woman with the coughing child. The child sounds sick. Someone should help him. Steph should get Leslie, probably. Tell her her next patient is here, and they're going to need a dum dum sucker. Or a sticker. Both, maybe.
"Stephanie Brown?"
That's a voice Steph knows, a voice like Garett. That voice lives in this building. Steph knows it.
Garett is standing again, but he's not moving. Molly has the door open that goes to the hallway, that leads out of the waiting room, the door for patients, and this isn't the right way to come in. Steph is supposed to come in the back. She messed it up. First she left school, and now she came to the clinic wrong, and she's—she's—
"Stephanie Brown?" Molly asks again. It's still her usual patient voice. Steph doesn't understand. But Molly is holding the door open like she always does, and her free arm is still, held out and aimed into the hallway, and she isn't looking away from Steph. So maybe she just wants Steph to come in the front way instead of leaving and walking around the back.
Steph comes.
There are three people in the waiting room. Garett is behind the desk. The door swings shut and they're all gone from the world.
Molly is looking at Steph, and Steph is looking at Molly.
"Room three," Molly says.
Molly doesn't tell Steph to follow her. They walk there side by side. Does Molly need Steph to help clean? Or re-stock some of the drawers or cabinets? Steph doesn't think the rooms would be running too low this early in the week, but maybe she's wrong, something could have happened.
"Why don't you sit on the exam table, Steph? It's a lot more comfortable than the chairs."
What?
Steph stands just inside the doorway of room three. Molly is a few feet further inside, where she walked after making sure the door clicked shut. She's watching Steph, and Steph is there, and Molly is there, and what are they supposed to do right now? Steph isn't even supposed to be here. She's supposed to be at school.
"I'm going to be in so much trouble," is what Steph's body says.
"Trouble?" Molly asks. "Can you tell me what's wrong?"
Steph is a marble stone statue where she stands. She's going to have to face the principal. He'll be so angry. He's going to have to call Bruce away from his job, and Bruce's job will be mad, and Bruce will be mad, and everything will fall apart, and Steph is just making everyone mad today, it seems, because Molly is here and now Molly is frowning too. At Steph.
"Steph," Molly says. "Are you in danger right now?"
Is she? She feels like she might be about to be murdered. But she always feels like that. Is she in danger? Steph doesn't know. How can she tell?
Molly shifts her weight to one leg and asks, "Should we call the police?"
Police, Steph hears, and—
Ice.
Ice and fire and fear and blood and bone.
"No police!" Steph's voice is desperate, cracking, almost a shout.
She can't. She can't. Inside voice. She's a good girl. She'll be in trouble. She has to use her inside voice and Best Behavior.
Good girls don't draw attention. Good girls don't cause problems and get in trouble.
"No police," she tries again, at a more normal volume. "Please. Please no. They're dangerous."
"Okay," Molly says, hands up in the air slightly, palms out. "Okay, Steph. No police right now. But if you're in danger, we need to know so we can keep you safe."
"No police," Steph echoes flatly. "No danger."
"No danger?" Molly asks. "Steph, are you sure? You look like…you might have been running away from something. Did something happen at school?"
School. School. She's supposed to be at school, and now she's way across town, and she's going to be in so much trouble.
"I'm going to be in so much trouble," Steph says again. "I'm going to be in so much trouble. I left."
"You left school?"
"I left," Steph repeats.
"Why did you—"
There's a quick double knock at the door, and Steph physically jumps away from it. She knows that knock, she knows that knock, and it doesn't matter, because she still jumped, whipped around, and backed across the room till she hit the exam table with her back and nearly fell over.
Steph crams herself, standing rod-straight, into the corner behind the exam table, and tries not to think about the way everything is about to fall apart forever. She's ruined everything, and everyone is going to be so angry, and she's going to be in so much trouble, and it's going to start right now, right in here.
Molly's eyes are wide, and she finally looks away from Steph to face the door again.
"You'd better come in," Molly says to the doorknob, and Steph wishes she could close her eyes, or turn invisible, or crouch down and make herself small, or play true-dead like a possum, but once again her body has frozen, and it leaves her standing, standing, tall and exposed, eyes open and fully making contact with the person who enters.
"Stephanie," Dr. Thompkins says, much more quietly than Steph expected.
Stephanie can't say anything.
If Steph were a braver girl, her body would be trembling. This is it. The start of the end. The start of everything. She's going to be in so much trouble, and the first blow is about to fall. Right here, right now.
"Molly, thank you for getting her in here," Dr. Thompkins is saying, and Steph could scream with relief at the blessed, blessed break from eye contact. "I've got her. If we need you, I'll let you know."
Molly looks at Steph once, then looks back to Dr. Thompkins, then nods and slips right out the door. The latch of it shutting echoes like thunder behind her.
Steph wishes she were brave enough to tremble.
"I'm sorry," she blurts out.
Dr. Thompkins raises her eyebrows, and doesn't come any closer. Her arms stay by her sides.
"What are you sorry for?" she asks Steph.
Steph can't speak. She stares.
Dr. Thompkins watches her for a few moments more, then turns around and steps over to one of the plastic chairs and sits right down.
"Steph," says Dr. Thompkins. "I don't know what's happened today, but I can see you're scared. You look like you're hurt, too. Could you sit down?"
Steph is still marble. She can't.
"Sorry," she says again. "Sorry."
"You don't need to apologize," Dr. Thompkins says. "Take your time. You're safe."
No, she's not safe. There's nowhere safe.
"I am a little worried about you, honey," Dr. Thompkins adds. "Your feet are hurt."
"Hurt?" Steph asks.
Dr. Thompkins moves just enough to lift a hand a bit and point with one finger. "You're leaving blood on the floor."
Steph stares at her for a moment longer, then slowly drags her gaze to follow the finger pointing at the smooth, cold floor. Sure enough, Steph's left a trail.
She's going to be in even more trouble. She came here and she's causing problems and leaving biohazard material all over their floors, and that's so much extra work, and she needs to clean it up, because it's her mess, and she's so bad, and she doesn't understand where the blood is coming from, but it's from her and it's on the floor. It's from her, and it's on the floor.
"Sorry," she croaks out, desperately.
"It's okay," Dr. Thompkins says. "I'm not upset at all. I'm worried for you, not upset about the floor. I want to check on your feet."
Stephanie stares at her.
Dr. Thompkins breaths in and out very deliberately a few times, closes her eyes, and tips her face up at the ceiling. Then she lets out air in a big whoosh and looks at Stephanie again, facing her straight-on.
"Steph," Dr. Thompkins says. "Drop the flip-flops. Get on the exam table."
Steph's hand releases the shoes she didn't realize she was still holding, and they make an almost comedic slap sound as they hit the floor. Steph's body moves around the exam table and hops up to sit down. The paper crinkles and bunches under her, and it's so loud.
"Thank you," says Dr. Thompkins. She smiles. "I'm going to stand up and walk over to the wall to get gloves. Then I'm going to put them on and check what's going on with your feet. I'll be very gentle."
Steph watches Dr. Thompkins pull on her usual size-medium gloves and tries to keep from cringing back as the doctor drags the rolling stool close and drops down on it right in front of Steph's legs.
"I'm going to touch your left foot and ankle now," Dr. Thompkins warns. Gentle hands lift Steph's lower leg a bit, bend her ankle, skim the top of her foot. Then one touches the bottom of her foot, and there's a burning sting, sharp and nauseating, and it rolls up through her to the top of her head.
"Ow," Steph says, dully.
"I'll bet," Dr. Thompkins murmurs, and she gently lowers Steph's left foot to let it dangle again. "I'm touching your right one now, I'll be gentle again."
The right foot gets much the same examination.
"Oh, honey," says Dr. Thompkins, and Steph can't help it.
She says, "Please."
"Please what, Steph?" Dr. Thompkins asks, so gently, brow furrowed, and she kneels down in front of Steph off of the stool. She's looking up. Steph's looking down. Steph doesn't understand what's happening, but she knows she wants to get the end of the world over with.
Steph automatically pulls her feet up to tuck them in front of her, heels to her thighs, chin behind her knees, squeezing her arms around her legs like they're the only thing holding the tattered scraps of her in one place.
Dr. Thompkins makes a cut-off sound when Steph's first foot touches the exam table paper, but holds back from saying anything more.
"Please," Steph begs. "Please just do it."
"Do what?"
"Please," Steph repeats. "Please."
"Steph, what do you need me to do?"
Need? Steph doesn't want it, but Dr. Thompkins is right, she does need it. She's been bad. This is the consequence. He told her. She knew what would happen if she ever messed up and showed something was wrong.
"Stephanie," says Dr. Thompkins, and Steph's throat chokes.
"I know you gotta punish me," Steph bites out. "Please. Please just do it."
"Steph!"
Steph closes her eyes.
"Steph."
"Please," Steph begs.
"Stephanie." Steph can't help the flinch. Then there's a pause. "Steph. Why do you think I need to punish you?"
Steph opens her eyes. Dr. Thompkins is looking right at her still. Steph hasn't felt this exposed since she was seven and in front of the whole world and the lights, lights, the music and waving—
"I messed up," Steph says, quietly. "I can't act like I'm okay."
"Why is that bad?"
Steph's throat chokes again. She swallows. Swallows again. Dr. Thompkins won't look away and her stare pins Steph's eyes like a butterfly's wings on cardboard.
Steph whispers, so quietly, "I'm not allowed to talk about it."
"You're not allowed? Who told you that?"
"He told me. I know the rules."
Now Dr. Thompkins looks like someone who's marble, too.
Steph breathes shallowly through her nose and hopes it's enough to not make noise in the silence.
Dr. Thompkins doesn't move closer, but she doesn't break eye contact with Steph either.
"Steph," she asks, quiet and serious and steady. Her business voice. Steph knows this one. "Who's he? Who told you you're not allowed to talk about it?"
Steph can't speak. She stares at Dr. Thompkins, and Dr. Thompkins stares back.
"What are you not allowed to talk about, Steph?"
Steph's throat, her whole body, even, some muscle deep, deep within, keens.
She folds in even further, with pain, pain, and the crushing weight on her chest. She can't breathe.
A concerned exclamation, and then a hand is landing on her shoulder, one finger just brushing a bit of her neck, and Steph knows pressure and pinning and hands and nails and she jerks backwards with a scream.
Dr. Thompkins is back in the chair.
Steph is marble-still, huddled on the back edge of the exam table.
"Please," Steph begs. "Please, I can take it. Just don't hurt my mom. Please just don't hurt my mom."
Dr. Thompkins is watching her and not talking anymore. Dr. Thompkins is sitting very, very still.
"Steph," Dr. Thompkins says, softly, gently. "I am not going to hurt you. I am not going to let anyone else hurt you, today or any other day. I don't know what's happened, but I'm going to help you. I know you're scared right now. We'll sit in here together until you're feeling okay."
"Please," Steph gets out, but she doesn't even know what she's asking anymore.
"I will not hurt you. I will not let anyone else hurt you. Do you understand?"
Steph keeps staring at her from behind the curtain of hair that's fallen out of what used to be her ponytail a few hours and an whole era of her life ago.
Dr. Thompkins sighs.
"Sorry," Steph says, and it's a voice crack.
"You're not in trouble with me. I'm not upset. I'm just worried for you. Can I call Bruce, Steph?"
"No, please," Steph says. "Please."
"Steph. You need help. I don't know how to help you right now."
Steph buries her face in her knees again, and her curtain of hair falls shut.
There are a few rustling sounds. The door clicks open, and there are hushed voices that Steph can't understand. She's being left alone, like she should be, like everyone should do, she's a liar and a failure and a bad, bad girl. She's only causing trouble. She should be alone.
A heaviness is settling into her skin and bones like a buzzing, dragging blanket.
There are more sounds, but she keeps her face buried. She'd rather not know.
"Steph, look at me for a minute. You can go back to hiding after, but I need you to pay attention."
It'll be worse if Steph doesn't. She knows. She knows what grown-ups can do. Especially ones that can tackle her and grab her and pin her down.
Steph slowly lifts her head.
To her surprise, the room is dimmed. The overhead light is off, and only the lights under the cabinets are on, plus a side lamp she hadn't remembered existed. Dr. Thompkins is—on the floor?
Stephanie can't help leaning sideways a very little bit to get a better view.
"Hi, Steph," Dr. Thompkins says, from where she's sitting on a thick quilt, spread over open floor. "I'm here with you. We're going to keep you safe."
Nowhere is safe.
"You and I are together in this room, and I'm not going to hurt you. No matter how many times you ask."
Nowhere is safe. Everyone can hurt her if she gives them the right motivation. Steph knows. She knows.
"I know you like floor time, so I set up a spot for us here," Dr. Thompkins is saying. She pats the large quilt. "I have some pillows, and a few blankets, and some graham crackers and juice from the storage room. Molly is going to bring us tea soon."
It's a trap. He was nice too. There was a blanket then, too.
"Steph, your feet are hurt, and you're very scared. I'm glad you're here with us where we can help you. Do you remember why you came?"
Steph breathes out. She breathes in. Her skin is buzzing and her bones are full of lead.
Dr. Thompkins tries again. "You know me, Steph. You've been coming here for years. I like to think we trust each other. Do you remember how we've worked together?"
Steph can't help the first noise that comes out of her throat, but she chokes down the next one that follows.
"You're a joy to have here. You're wonderful with kids. We have tea in afternoons if it's not busy, and you know my sorting system, and your ninth grade photo is on the staff room fridge. You've come here for help before, and I've always given it. And you've given help to me too. Do you remember, Steph?"
Steph, feeling like something is an edge, an eggshell, a lake of thin ice, just about to crack, takes a deep breath and finally nods.
"Have I ever hurt you any of those times before?"
Steph shakes her head.
"Did you come here on purpose today?"
She shakes her head again.
"Okay." Dr. Thompkins shifts her weight a bit. Off her old bad leg, Steph thinks, and she remembers that it always gives Dr. Thompkins extra trouble when there's a storm coming. There's a storm coming this evening. It must hurt.
Steph's arms feel like they creak as she finally lets go of her legs to brush back a chunk of hair.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Dr. Thompkins says again. "I only want to help you. It's still just me, Steph. I'm just the same old Leslie."
Leslie.
Dr. Thompkins is Leslie. She's been Leslie for years now. Since the first time she had Steph stay for tea. Since the first time Steph brought her report card to show Leslie before she even brough it home. Since the first time Leslie let her help with a scared patient. Since the first time Steph asked for help, with a sprained wrist she couldn't wrap and brace alone.
Something in Steph dares to hope for the very first time that day.
"Leslie?" a voice asks, and it's from her mouth, and it vibrates in her throat, and it's very very small.
"It's just me. It's just Leslie, honey." And Dr. Thompkins pats the quilt near her one more time. "Come down here and get some juice."
Steph, slowly, at every moment ready for things to fall apart and the offer to change, lowers one leg off of the edge of the exam table. Then the other.
"We had a picnic like this in the staff room once, do you remember?" Leslie asks.
Steph slides off the table and doesn't let herself wince when her feet hit the floor.
"You brought cookies," Steph says. She can't take a step forward yet. "They were from England."
Leslie nods. "That's right," she says. "Alfred brought them back for me. They were good, weren't they? I'm afraid all I have today are graham cracker packets, but I know you like them too. Can you come sit, and get off your feet over here?"
Slowly, slowly, Steph steps forward one foot at a time to the edge of the quilt, then kneels. She's still out of arms reach from Leslie, although the doctor could just lunge forward and grab her if she wants to.
Instead, Leslie tears open the juice box straw wrapper and pops the straw through the metal foil on the box. She holds the juice box out to Steph.
Steph is staring at the juice box when she suddenly notices it's Strawberry Peachy Keen flavor. Her favorite. Leslie still remembers, and she grabbed Steph's favorite, just for her. And now it's here, on offer, held in midair.
But what if it's another trap? What if Leslie is just waiting for her to try taking it, and then she'll take it back, or destroy it instead? What if she just wants Steph to get close, and she'll grab her, and then hurt Steph anyway?
"I just want to help," Leslie says again. "Please, honey. Take your juice."
Steph reaches out, hand shaking, and closes her fingers around the juice box. Leslie lets go. And then it's just hers. It's just her juice.
Steph snatches it close, and holds the juice box against her chest.
"I have another one here if you want more," Leslie says softly. "Drink your juice, Steph."
Steph forces herself to lift the juice box up, put the tiny straw between her lips, and take a sip.
It's so sweet. It's her favorite. She hasn't drunk anything in—in a lot of hours. Her hands are still shaking, and the juice is so sweet, and the box is empty, all of a sudden, and she stares at it in her hands.
"Here," says Leslie, and there's another juice box already waiting for her, held like the first one between them in midair.
Steph reaches out and takes the juice.
After the second juice box, Leslie makes her drink a mini bottle of water too, then hands over a large handful of graham cracker packets.
"Your hands are are already less shaky," Leslie says, approvingly. "How do you feel right now?"
Steph blinks at her, and holds one of the graham cracker packets between both hands. "I don't know."
"That's all right. Take your time."
The thin plastic crinkles loudly as Steph's hands squeeze. She frowns.
"You have…patients. In the waiting room." she tells Leslie.
"I do."
"They need you."
"They have Dr. Elliot. He's been here all day today, too."
"But you have patients."
"Yes. I do have a patient right now."
"You need to go," Steph says, with urgency now. "You need to go help your patient."
"Steph," Leslie says, very patiently. "I am helping my patient right now. My patient is you."
Steph stares at her.
"I'm not a patient," says Steph, after several long seconds.
Leslie snorts, and briefly looks up at the ceiling again. "Steph," she says. "Eat your cracker."
"But I'm not. I'm not a patient. I'm just…" Steph trails off. She doesn't understand.
"You are my current patient. There's nothing you can say that will make me leave. I'm staying with you."
And that, it seems, is that.
Steph still wants to argue, but she does open the package and stick one half of a graham cracker in her mouth. Leslie lets her chew for a minute and start on the next cracker before speaking again.
"We called your school so they know where you are, and no one there is going to punish you. They're glad you're somewhere safe. I promise you're not in trouble. They know something happened. You're officially out sick today and tomorrow."
"What?" Steph nearly chokes on a mouthful of cracker.
"The office told me your teacher reported you throwing up in class, then running out of the room. Is that true?" Leslie powers ahead before Steph can get worked up.
"Yes," says Steph.
"Are you sick? Is that why you threw up?"
"I don't think so."
"Do you know why, then?"
Steph can't speak again.
Leslie purses her lips, then starts again. "Let's try this a different way. You talk when you can, and I'll do my best to fill the pieces in. You went to school this morning, and in one of your classes you threw up. Yes?"
"Yeah."
"Then you left the school?"
"Yeah," Steph says again.
"And now you're here at the clinic with me. You're safe. Did you go anywhere between school and here?"
"No." Then Steph adds, "I took the subway."
"And then the bus?"
"No."
"You didn't take the bus?"
"No."
"Steph, did you walk all the way from the train stop over to here?"
Steph nods.
"With no shoes on? No wonder your feet are in a state. That's a long walk barefoot."
Steph opens a second packet of crackers.
"Did something happen at school today that made you scared?"
Steph shakes her head. "No," she mumbles. "Nothing happened. Nothing happened. I was stupid. I just—got scared."
"You just got scared. In class?"
"Nothing happened! Nothing bad even happened to me!"
"Okay," Leslie soothes. "Nothing bad happened at school. But you're here and you're hurt and you're scared. Did something happen on your way from school to here?"
"No. Nothing bad happened to me."
"But there's something you're upset about. Something you're not supposed to tell anyone."
Steph can't help the violent shiver in her spine.
Leslie holds a blanket out.
"Take it," says Leslie. "Or, if you want, I'll wrap you up in it myself."
Steph hesitates. Then, slowly, she scoots a foot closer across the quilt. Leans forward, just a little.
Leslie's sure hands have the blanket around her shoulders and tucked into Steph's hands like a massively oversized superhero cape in moments.
"There," Leslie tells her. "That probably feels better, doesn't it?"
"Yeah," Steph says, or rather mumbles, through the fabric where she's holding it up to cover her mouth, bumping against her nose. She's surprised to find that it's not a lie.
"You'll probably feel even better if you let your body lie down on a couple of these pillows for a few minutes, too. You've been hunched pretty tight. Your muscles must be sore." Leslie rearranges a pillow as she speaks, and pats it twice for emphasis. "Come on. Why don't you put your head here for a minute and see if that feels good?"
Steph looks at her, then the pillow. She grips the blanket cape tighter, and feels her tight head, her tight neck, her buzzing, aching, numb, distant body, and after a few moments, she lets herself start to lean.
Leslie reaches out but doesn't touch.
"Can I use my hands to help you lie down?" she asks Steph. "Just in case your muscles are sore and tired."
Steph, rapidly discovering that just leaning is making her back scream, nods and continues her slow descent towards the pillow. Leslie reaches out the rest of the way and guides Steph's head onto the pillow, guides another pillow behind her back and shoulders, guides another between steph's knees, and then drapes a second blanket over the bit of Steph's legs that the first one isn't covering.
Steph stares at her with wide eyes from where she now lies on the quilt on her side, warming up and tucked in.
"There," says Leslie, sounding satisfied. She smiles at Steph. "Better?"
Steph nods.
"Good."
Then, to Steph's surprise, Leslie shoves some more cracker packets and another spare blanket off the quilt, takes the remaining pillow, and scoots down the quilt to lie on her side as well, facing Steph.
"Now we're both comfortable," Leslie says. "Want to just lie here for a minute? See how you're feeling after that?"
Steph nods, hesitantly.
"Righto, then. The tea should be cool enough to drink, sometime around now, so Molly will knock soon. I don't want you to be scared when you hear it. She won't come in, I promise. She'll leave it outside the door. It's just you and me here. You're safe."
"Okay," Steph says.
"Just rest for a minute," Leslie tells her.
"Okay," Steph says again.
They lie there together in calm silence, and Steph lets herself warm, and ease, and breathe. She doesn't stop clutching the blanket in her hands, tight, but slowly her legs start to loosen a bit and stretch out. She's starting to be able to feel her feet more. It's not a pleasant experience, but she can't fathom moving or doing anything about it right now. Her knee is also starting to have a noticable throb.
Steph drifts for a while, breathing, feeling, thinking, now that she can think again.
And then Steph makes a choice.
She watches Leslie for a minute while Leslie breathes with her eyes closed. She might be meditating. Steph's not sure. Then Steph takes a deep breath and looks past Leslie to the cabinets, at one of the handles, and focuses her eyes there, because if she's going to do this, she can't look at Leslie. She can't be a person, and she can't watch someone else's face. She has to be memory and fact and not flesh and bone.
"Leslie," she whispers.
In her peripheral vision, she catches the movement of Leslie's eyes opening. She doesn't look. She can't look.
"Yeah?" Leslie whispers back.
Steph looks at the reflection of light on the cabinet handle. She feels the folds of fabric in her clenched fingers. She feels the invisible tremor start up deep in her gut, in her spine.
"I'm not supposed to tell," Steph whispers.
"You're not supposed to tell," Leslie echoes.
"But I have to tell."
"Okay," Leslie whispers.
"I'm scared," Steph admits, and her voice cracks again. "I don't want to. I'm scared."
"I know, honey. I know. You're being brave."
"I thought he might kill us. If I told."
"That must have been so scary," Leslie says.
"Nothing bad even happened to me. It wasn't anything that bad. I promise. It wasn't bad. I feel stupid being so upset about it."
"It's not stupid, Steph. Upset is a feeling. You can be upset no matter what happened."
"It wasn't even bad. He just—he wouldn't let me off his lap. And I didn't like it."
There's a hiss of air from Leslie's direction.
"Stephanie," Leslie says, after a few moments of silence that felt like acid dripping through Steph's veins. "Did someone touch you inappropriately?"
"Nothing bad even happened to me," Steph insists. "I'm being stupid about it. It was just—I just didn't like having to sit with him. That's what I was upset about this morning."
"Yeah?"
"We got these business cards. About consent. And they said—you know. And I remembered how he didn't let me off. Or let me decide how I wanted to sit. Or—and—he was my friend," she tries to explain.
"He didn't listen to what you wanted?"
"I thought he was my friend. He liked me and he thought I was smart. He was—he gave me gifts. I liked his gifts. And. And he brought me to special events. He was my friend. But then it—felt bad. He didn't listen to me. I didn't know he could be mean to me. I thought it was just other people. He was my friend."
"He was your friend?" Leslie asks, softly. "But then it felt bad. He hurt you?"
"Nothing even happened!" Steph says, voice rising a little. "Nothing happened. It wasn't bad."
"Steph," says Leslie, as gently as she can. "It sounds like something did happen."
Steph's world freeze-frames. Then everything slams back into motion, and there's a building on her chest, and she wants to cry but she can't, and it can't be real, and she was making it all up, and now Leslie thinks something happened to her, like it's serious, and she's not one of those kids, and it's all wrong, and Steph is a troublemaker and a bad girl and a liar, and everything is all a mess.
"Nothing even happened to me!" Steph insists. She can hear the rising thread of hysteria in her own voice. It's embarassing. "It didn't. It's not like that. It wasn't that. I'm—I'm—I'm exaggerating. I'm making things up."
"Honey," Leslie says, and Steph accidentally looks away from the handle to meet Leslie's eyes. "You're shaking."
Stephanie finally, finally, starts to cry.
There's no sound. She's not sobbing. It's just one tear, and then another, and then one more, rolling out of her eyes and across her nose and temple to soak into her hair, into the pillow.
"I thought he was my friend," she gets out, through a suddenly stuffy nose. "I don't know why he would just lie like that."
"I know," whispers Leslie.
Steph chokes, coughs. Then she starts to cry harder. "I didn't want to sit with him anymore. He kept making me. I didn't want to."
"I know," Leslie whispers again.
Steph crunches in tighter, buried in the blanket, curling up, wrists smashed in under her chin, knees almost pulled all the way back up to her chest again.
"And it—it—" she heaves in a breath. "I know it's at least half my fault! Because they warned me. They told me before I met him. That he wasn't a good person. They told me." She lets out a sound that wasn't quite a sob, wasn't quite a wail. "But he was nice, and I decided they were wrong, and I didn't believe them!"
"It's not your fault," Leslie says, fiercely. "It is absolutely not your fault."
"But they told me," Steph insists. She buries her face in the blanket. "I didn't listen. They told me!" She's already stopped crying, and she's grateful. It's so embarassing.
"It's still not your fault. Steph, you're a minor. It's not your fault. Who hurt you?"
"Nothing bad happened to me," Steph says again.
"Steph. Who was the man who held you?"
Steph can't speak.
"Was it just recently?"
"No," Steph tells her. "I was little. He's dead."
Leslie lets out a heavy breath. "Okay. That's—all right, that's good to know."
"He died in that Joker attack two summers ago. I was. I was relieved. I was glad he died. I'm horrible."
"No, Steph. You're not horrible. You're not a horrible person for being glad he's not around anymore."
"He was so mean to people."
"Who was it, Steph?"
"Nothing bad happened."
"Steph," Leslie says.
"Please. Please, nothing bad even happened to me. I'm not supposed to tell about it." She's back to whispering again.
"Steph," Leslie whispers back. "He's already dead. He's dead. He can't touch you again. He can't hurt you or your mom anymore."
"He can," Steph insists. "He probably told them—told them to watch us, he probably told them what to do if I ever said anything, I can't cause trouble."
"Told who?"
"The police," Steph snaps. "They could all be—they're already corrupt. They have ears everywhere. It's not safe."
"Stephanie. This is my clinic. It's only you and me in this room. There are no police bugs or anything else in this building, and you know that's true because Batman does a full sweep once a week. It's safe to say it here."
"But you'll tell. You'll tell. You're a mandated reporter. You have to tell."
"Not this time," Leslie whispers. "I'll need to tell Bruce and your case worker that this happened to you, because it's something they definitely need to know. But I don't need to report his name to the police, and we can keep it out of your records, because he's already dead. He can't pose a current danger to you or anyone else."
Steph squints at her then. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"You promise?"
"Yes," Leslie tells her. "I promise. We'll be very careful. The police don't need to find out or have any official files. Please, Steph. Who was the man?"
Steph watches her for another few moments. She breathes. She looks at the cabinet handle again. She stares at it hard.
"Mayor Hady," Steph whispers.
"Okay," says Leslie. "Thank you for telling me. You're being so brave today. You're doing great."
"Please," Steph begs. "Please don't tell. Please don't tell anyone."
"I have to tell Bruce," Leslie reminds her. "I have to tell your case worker. But I promise I won't file a report with CPP or the police. I'll make sure none of us write down details. I promise, Steph."
There's a knock at the door, and Steph shrieks.
Leslie shushes her gently. "It's okay. It's okay. It's just the tea from Molly. Just tea."
"Just…tea." Steph repeats through chattering teeth.
"Just the tea." Leslie confirms. "I'm going to get up and get the tea."
She does just that.
When Leslie carries over the tray with their two mugs of tea and sets it on the floor, she helps Steph sit back up, then wraps Steph's hands around one of the mugs—the purple one—and takes the green one for herself.
"I'm going to call Bruce," Leslie says, between sips of tea.
A terrible noise punches its way out of Steph's throat.
"It's okay, Steph. Listen. I'm going to call Bruce and let him know you're doing a little better than earlier. He knows you're here, I let him know when I called your school. They'd already called him. He's been worried."
"I'm causing so much trouble," Steph whispers.
"You're not causing any trouble. You're having a very hard day, and you need help. That's not trouble. That's being a human being."
"It's a bunch of hassle."
"It's not a hassle. We're helping a person we care about who needs help. You're not causing trouble or a hassle, Steph, you need help. I'm going to call Bruce. I'm going to tell him you're feeling a little better, and that you talked with me about something serious I want to talk to him about in person. When he comes, I'll tell him what you told me, so you don't have to go through it all twice. Understand so far?"
Steph nods miserably.
"He's not going to be upset. He's going to be worried about you. And Steph…I can't tell you why, but I think it might be helpful to have him bring Jason, too, so Jason can sit in here with you while Bruce and I talk in my office. But I won't make you do that. Only if you want to. Would you feel comfortable having Jason stay with you, if he's available to come with Bruce?"
Steph scratches one nail at a chip in the mug.
"Jason's good," Steph says. "He's always good with Tim. And us."
"Are you sure you're okay with that?"
"Yeah," Steph says. "He can come." It won't make things worse, at least. Even if he wanted to, Jason wouldn't be dumb enough to try anything in the clinic.
"All right, then." Leslie sets down her mug, empty. Steph's is still half full. "Do you want to listen while I call Bruce? Or would you rather wear some headphones and use one of our tablets?"
Steph considers this for a moment. On the one hand, she can make sure she knows exactly what Leslie says while she convinces Bruce to come in person. On the other hand, she really doesn't want to think anymore. She really doesn't want to exist, or think, or feel, or hear anything about anything, ever again. Until she's a grown up, or she's a different person, or she's moved two thousand miles away and no one knows who she is anymore.
"Tablet," she tells Leslie.
"Coming right up," Leslie tells her. "You can use it after the call, too, to distract yourself while I take care of your poor feet."
"Oh," Steph says. "Right." She forgot about them again.
Several minutes later, Steph is curled on her side again, on the quilt, noise canceling on and a random true crime video playing to distract her from the gentle spinning back and forth that Leslie is doing on the stool.
The world isn't ending quite the way Steph had thought it was earlier, but it still feels, somehow, like something is breaking, permanently ending, that she's never, ever going to get back.
---
Bruce is on his way, Leslie says. He's bringing Jason, Leslie says. Jason's bringing a few things for Steph, Leslie says.
Steph has really done a number on her feet, Leslie says, and Steph is going to need some antibiotic and other shots to make sure she doesn't get sick from maybe stepping on a needle while walking from the train.
Steph doesn't care anymore.
"I'm going to give you some lidocane so you don't feel me cleaning the cuts, or pressing on your bruises too much, okay?" Leslie asks.
"Sure," Steph says, and she turns the noise canceling back on, hits play on the second murder recap, and tries her best to go to sleep.
---
"Wait," Steph blurts out, when Leslie tells her Bruce and Jason just parked. "Wait, what does Jason know? What did you tell him?"
"He doesn't know any details," Leslie tells her. "I'm not sure exactly what Bruce told him, because Bruce doesn't know any details either. All I told Bruce is that there's something serious we need to talk about, and you're not in any danger from anyone right now, but it's important. And that he should bring Jason, because he's good at helping with things like this."
"Things like this?"
"Jason's very good at helping people who've been abused or trafficked. He's better than Bruce, even. He knows how to be normal about it. I promise."
"So he knows? He'll be able to guess?"
"Maybe," Leslie admits. "But Steph, he's not going to see you any differently. He's not going to ask you for details unless you want to talk. He's just here for moral support. And if you need to kick him out, you can. Promise."
"But they're going to know," Steph says. "I don't want anyone to know."
"Honey, everyone's going to know you're going through a hard time. It's important that they know, because that way they can support you. But you can keep as much detail to yourself as you want. It's your choice who knows what, when. Except for Bruce, because he's your legal guardian, and there are some things he just needs to know in order to take care of you as best he can. But the rest? That's up to you and only you. All they need to know is that you're going through a hard time and they should be extra supportive for a while while you're working through it."
"But I'm fine. Nothing bad really happened and it was a long time ago."
"You're shaking again," Leslie points out. "You're drenched in sweat. You're not fine, Steph. That's okay. You had a big, big realization, and today was scary. It's okay to not be fine for a while after that. That's why you have plenty of people to love and help you. Let them."
Steph stares hard at the floor between her bandaged feet where they dangle off the edge of the exam table.
"Can't I just run away to the woods and be adopted by Gritty instead?" Steph grumbles.
"Afraid not, champ. Gritty isn't a registered citizen of the State of New Jersey. But if you can get that to happen, maybe we can revisit the Gritty adoption idea."
Steph snorts.
There's a knock at the door, then, and this time, Steph doesn't shriek or jump.
"Ready?" Leslie asks her.
"No," Steph says. "But I have to be. Let's just get it done anyway."
"You're brave, and you're strong, and you're safe, and I'm proud of you, Steph," Leslie says.
And then she opens the door.
I’m only getting a few sentences done per week right now, but I’m having such a good time slowly writing the next chapter of Hymn which is The One Where Damian Is Introduced to Public Playgrounds and How to Play on Them (featuring Dick Grayson and Jon Kent)
Bravado, ch. 4: this is a gift, it comes with a price (who is the lamb and who is the knife?)
[ Read on ao3 ]
Summary:
She loves him more than any other adult she knows, besides her mom, and she's excited, and she's happy, and she's special, and she loves it. He's her friend, not her mom's. He thinks she's smarter than the other adults. He thinks she's fun. She thinks he's the coolest grown-up she knows. And now they're having a royalty moment, king and queen of the city, just for tonight, surrounded by the songs and the crowd and the holiday lights. It feels like they're cheering just for her. (I hope this chapter isn't too rough, I have very little ability to write right now and I took my opportunity to write and publish this as fast as possible before my brain stops cooperating again, so minimum (basically zero) editing. Thanks for putting up with whatever typos and weird wording snuck in here and there!)
Notes:
CONTENT WARNING: This chapter contains almost-on-screen molestation (specific touches aren't vividly described, but the emotions and experience and sensations are). Please for the love of mike be careful and check in with yourself--this chapter will still be here later, it's okay to wait to read it if you need to, or to not read it at all. There's be a brief summary in the end notes if you need to skip the molestation part. I've put a note in-text telling you when to skip ahead. For more context--if you know my writing style, and how I write chapters like when Tim was dying in Blackbird, or when kids are having breakdowns, this chapter is a lot like those ones. There's a build-up, there's the disjointed experience with certain sensations highlighted from the perspective of a kid who doesn't know what it means, and there's essentially a fade-to-black before the actual molestation starts. The main part is not described, but the emotions and fear definitely are. Check with yourself about what you want to handle. Chapter title is from "Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)" by Florence + The Machine.
---
[ Stephanie Brown | AGE: 6 ]
They're at the hospital.
But not for Mom's work shift, or one of Stephanie's mishaps, or the aftermath of one of Arthur's Dad's failed plans again. It's for fun this time.
Steph's been invited not only to light the great big outdoor Christmas tree for the hospital and city hall (again!), but to ride in the Gotham winter parade with her friend and his wife!
They called her up special out of all the other kids. Steph was so excited. She hasn't ridden in a parade since she was four and her mom got chosen by the lottery draw to be one of the hospital staff on the Gotham General float.
That year, it was for the spring parade, and they put flowers all over the float. There were rumors that Miss Ivy had even helped because an old friend of hers worked at the hospital and called in a favor. It'd smelled like heaven. Steph can't wait to ride on a float again, even if it's not the hospital one. And this time it's for Christmas! So double fun.
Her mom took the afternoon off, swapped shifts with one of the newer nurses who wanted more hours.
She lifts Steph up to sit the counter of their tiny bathroom sink, and puts a Christmas CD in the old Xbox, and they sing along and snack on candy canes (peppermint for her mom, Jolly Rancher for Steph, from her teacher) while her mom does their hair.
Crystal's hair is loosely curled and pulled up into a loose knot, and Steph's frizzed-out curls are smoothed, hydrated, and scrunched into bouncy, Shirley-Temple order before her mom adds in a couple of Christmas bow hair clips as a finishing touch.
"How does it look, huh?" Mom asks, hands ghosting on Steph's sides to steady her as she twists to look at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror. "Think this'll do?"
Steph grins. She shakes her head hard like a dog, watches the curls bounce, then gives a nod as she meets her mom's eyes in the mirror. Both of them are smiling. Steph hasn't seen her mom this relaxed in weeks, and it's wonderful, and her hair looks like she's in a movie, and Steph's bow clips didn't move once. Her mom is magic.
"Perfect!" Steph declares.
Steph hops down, and takes her mom's hand. They walk over to the bed, where Arthur won't be again for another fourteen months, where they can now hang out watching black and white movies and reruns of Star Trek on Thursday evenings, and Crystal picks up their carefully-ironed dresses. Their church outfits, for Christmas. It's Steph's first new one in two years—she finally outgrew the previous one and her wrists stuck out like little chicken legs from the sleeves. This one fits her much better.
They get dressed, taking turns at the mirror. Mom helps Steph zip her dress up in the back where she can't quite reach.
"It's going to be cold tonight," says Crystal, "so we're gonna make sure we're nice and toasty."
She helps Steph step into winter tights, itchy as always, and bats Steph's hands away when she catches her scratching.
"You'll put runs in them if your nail snags," Mom says. "Leave them alone for the next few hours, and then you can take them off as soon as we're in the car to go home. Just a little while, okay? Try to ignore it."
"O-kay," Steph huffs out, put upon. But she's quickly distracted by trying to buckles her dress shoe straps herself.
"You look so pretty, baby," her mom says, while she pulls out both their coats—winter plaid for herself, red felt with fake black fur for Steph, with a couple of dog-shape cut outs added for decoration and pocket space, courtesy of Mrs. Ewes in 301. Steph's fingers trace over the rickrack leashes that attach to the dogs' necks. Each joining point is covered by a stitched-down little red satin bow, similar to the ones she has in her hair.
"You do too, Mommy," Steph exclaims. She bends down and trails her palm over the glitter covering Crystal's shoes and gives them a pat for good measure. Then she stands back up. "How long until we leave? When can we go?"
"Fifteen minutes," says her mom.
"You always say fifteen minutes," Steph grumbles.
Crystal laughs. Takes her hand, and leads them both out the bedroom door.
"Come on, my Christmas princess," she tells Steph. "Let's grab a snack before we leave, that'll make the time past faster. What do you want?"
Steph bounces on each ankle as they turn out of the hallway into the galley kitchen.
"A butter tortilla!" she says.
"Butter tortillas for two, coming right up," her mom says with a smile, and Steph settles happily on the counter to watch her mom cook at the stove.
They arrive to lights, and laughter, and people, and music, the winter sun already well down for the night. All of it swirls together into warmth and light in the dark, and Steph practically leaps out of her booster seat to join in it the second her mom has put the car in park.
Crystal catches her before she can bolt, then leads them safely through the parking lot, up to the grand main entrance. The hospital's glass atrium is filled with tinsel and shimmering string lights. Steph thinks it's even more beautiful than the previous year.
She's staring around as they walk, letting her mom's hand on hers lead her safely wherever they're going, and Steph tries so hard to take it all in. Every corner, every fancy outfit, every glass ornament, every bit of green garland and shiny tinsel and flickering candlelight and red and green ribbon. Laughter comes from so many directions, buoyed by the steady buzz of peoples' conversations. She looks up, craning her neck to see the large star that hangs at the very center of ceiling drapery, and—
"Steph!"
Her head snaps to the left, face already splitting into a beaming smile. She yanks her mom's arm, redirecting their walk towards Mayor Hady.
"Hello!" she sings.
"Hello, pretty lady!" the mayor sing-songs back. "Look at you, so festive."
"It's almost Christmas," she tells him, stopping a couple feet shy. She drops her mom's hand, and barely notices the way the mayor gives Crystal the minimum-polite greeting nod, and the way Crystal takes up her position silently in the ring of people surrounding the mayor. A couple of the others greet her more warmly than he did, but keep it to a quiet murmur.
Mayor Hady's attention is focused on Steph now. He always makes everyone else wait, especially the other adults, even the ones who are important. It used to confuse Steph a little bit, but now she knows he just really likes seeing her as much as she likes getting to see him. They're friends! He always makes sure he has time for her, since they don't see each other too often.
The hospital CEO stands a few feet to the side of the mayor, and he smiles like plastic and leans forward to shake Steph's hand, like he sees her as a respectable grown-up just like the mayor does.
"Nice to see you again, Stephanie," Director Howard says. Then he nods politely to Steph's mom and shakes her hand too. "Crystal, glad you could make it, and bring Stephanie here. It's good to have you both for the event. We all know how much you work at the hospital to keep Gotham running."
Steph's mom's smile seems to tighten and shrink a little on her face, but the moment passes and they both step back into their respective places in orbit.
"It sure is almost Christmas," Mayor Hady tells Steph, a warm smile making his eyes crinkle and sparkle a bit, like a grandpa, like Santa. "Are you excited?"
"Yes!" says Steph. "I've got a new dress, too." She unbuttons her fat black coat buttons and yanks the flaps to the sides so he can see.
"Gorgeous," he tells her. "It looks wonderful. Are you warm enough?"
"I'm hot," Steph tells him, and she is. They've been inside for a few minutes now, long enough for her to start feeling stifled.
"How about we take it off for a few minutes, before it's time to go up to the balcony?" he asks. "I can hold it for you."
"Okay!" she says, and peels her arms out of the sleeves before her mom can say anything.
"I've been looking forward to seeing you," Mayor Hady says. He holds out the hand that isn't holding her coat now. "Want to come with me to see Cathy and get some hot chocolate? I had them save a thermos of it just for you, in case we ran out."
Steph beams. She slips her hand into his huge one, finding the slight dampness and the oddly long nails for a man comforting, familiar after so many holidays of shaking his hands and posing with him for pictures. "I like hot chocolate."
"Let's go get it, then."
Steph feels Crystal's sharp eyes on them the whole walk to the elevator, and inside, and in the conference room that leads to the balcony. Crystal watches like a hawk all the time when Steph gets to hang out with the mayor, and it drives Steph a little crazy. Her mom has always been suspicious of him, and it's not kind, and she always gets in the way of Steph and the mayor having any real good conversations, or him taking her to see anything cool in the buildings. Her mom, Steph thinks, is just a jealous party pooper. She doesn't get it, and since she insists on being so prejudiced against him, she never will. Her mom's not the mayor's friend. Steph is. She's the one he wants to hang out with, and her mom just insists on being a tag-along.
She's quiet tonight though, and seems okay with letting Steph chatter away to the mayor while he calls over his secretary Cathy and asks her to get the hot chocolate and a cup for Steph.
While Cathy bustles through the conference room doors, and a few of they mayor's other hangers-on like Director Howard find their own places hovering around the room, Mayor Hady pulls Steph to face him, and says, "I have something for you."
Steph is already bouncing on her heels again. He always gives her the best gifts. Stuffed dogs, teddy bears, a halloween bucket, a stuffed ghost, a cowgirl hat, special legal pad holders and fancy wooden pens like the grown-ups use, all kinds of things. He always has a gift for her when he sees her. He's been thinking about her while they're apart, and likes her enough that he picks out special gifts. Good ones, ones she likes. She's excited to see what he's giving her this year. Another stuffed animal? A Christmas bear, maybe?
Then he holds out one hand, and her excitement falls.
It's just an ornament. One of those "annual" ones, with the year number made out of fake ice, and a little arctic fox. It's pretty, but...it's just an ornament. And not even a fun one, like a ballerina, or a light up mini-globe, or any of the ones like that.
Steph mentally shakes herself. She's not allowed to be ungrateful, he's being super kind! A gift is a gift, and he got it just for her. She reaches out and takes the ornament from his hand by the gold glitter string, and lets it hang in the air, twisting back and forth slightly from the tension in the cord.
"Thank you!" she says, giving him a smile. He opens his arms, and she knows what's expected by now. He gives her a gift, she thanks him, he hugs her, he poses her for a photo from his personal city photographer, and then she's let go. Steph runs over to her mom to show her the gift, which Crystal appropriately oohs and ahs over, and promises to hold onto until the lighting and parade are over.
Then Cathy comes back in with the thermos, and a styrofoam cup, and pours the special hot chocolate, and the mayor sits Steph in a big office chair at the conference table in between himself and Crystal and listens to Steph talk while she sips the hot chocolate. It's not very good, but it's the thought that counts, and he and Cathy went out of their way to make sure she had some for this. The love makes it taste much better. Each sip of the grainy drink warms her up more inside, until she feels like she's so full of Christmas light that she thinks she might burst.
"Ah," they mayor says finally, after one of his aides comes over to talk quietly in his ear. "Looks like we're almost up." He smiles at Steph. "Ready to go?"
She hops off the rolling chair and holds still just long enough for him to help her into her coat, let him adjust it around her shoulders and brush her hair out of the collar, away from her face.
"You can all stay right in here where it's warm," the mayor says to the rest of the room. "As usual, the doors will be open so you can see everything too. Mrs. McKinney, will you open the ceremonies, please?"
The elderly woman agrees, and the three of them head out to the balcony, out into the biting cold. Steph can barely see over the edge of the railing, part of the street below is cut off from her view, but she can see enough to know there's a big crowd below and they're all looking up at her again, just like last year. She feels her toes wiggling in her dress shoes with excitement. The mayor reaches over and sets a heavy hand on her neck, fingers wrapping onto one shoulder on one side, and thumb wrapping around the side of her neck on the other, holding her in place while she looks around, distracted, lost in the murmur of the crowd and the shine of all the lights decorating the balcony, the trees, the streetlight poles below. She looks out as Mrs. McKinney talks about something, welcoming people and talking about the holidays, and celebrations, and coming together. She looks balcony to balcony at the apartment building across the big road, and sees other kids on their own balconies, some dressed up, some wearing Santa hats.
She still doesn't know what made her worthy of being picked twice in two years, but she bats the momentary thought away and enjoys the moment, the swell of people under them who are there to share this moment.
Mayor Hady's fingers tighten on her neck, wrapping around most of the circumference, and he tugs a little to let her know it's time, to follow him. She steps over to stand next to him while he inserts a key into the slot.
"Ready?" he asks her, guiding her hand to the key and placing his large fingers over hers.
Steph nods. The shout of the crowd echoes up and down the street, swelling and rising and overlapping itself as what feels like the whole city counts down with her.
And then it's time, and his hand squeezes hers, and her fingers squeeze the blocky key, and they turn it together, and the night lights up like day.
The tree is four stories tall, and the star at the top is higher than she is right now. The crowd cheers, Christmas music erupts from the loudspeakers again, and his hands are back on her shoulders, firm and solid and squeezing just a little in recognition and confirmation of a good job. They stand and watch the tree and crowd together, one beat, three, ten, and then his hands turn her around and guide her back through the doors, letting go just in time for Steph to take off at a run around the corner of the conference table to where her mom sits, already chattering about the view.
He walks her down to the float himself, holding her now-mitten-covered hand. Steph's mom follows them all the way to the float before she's held back by his personal security guard, as she's not one of the people on the list that year. The hospital director offers, then, for her mom to join the hospital float instead—says she's welcome, they can make room, she should join them, but Crystal shakes her head.
"No, thank you," she tells him, and Steph thinks for a moment he almost looks glad before the moment passes in a flash. "I told Steph I'll be waiting on the route to wave and take pictures, and that's where I'll be."
So that's that. Steph's mom gets reassurances from Mayor Hady and Mrs. Hady that they're absolutely sure it's okay to leave Steph, that they'll take good care of her, that they promise they won't let her fall off the float or get herself in trouble. Crystal seems a little hesitant still—it's the first time she's ever let Steph hang out with the Mayor without Crystal or Arthur or both watching with hawk eyes, but Mrs. Hady is going to be there the whole time, and it's in public, and they'll be in a parade on a float. There's not much that could possibly happen, short of a gang attack, and Batman has been busy enough lately that the odds of that are currently low.
So Crystal leaves.
Steph is so excited. She never gets to just hang out, and now she gets to spend the whole parade with the mayor and his wife, who she's sure must be really nice like her husband.
Mayor Hady gets approached by a lot of people, who he keeps fending off after a few seconds, accepting an envelope here, promising to meet with someone soon there, and then there's finally a chance. Steph gives him her envelope, filled with drawings and a thank you letter for her friend, who made all this possible, and showed him how the envelope was decorated with angels, and ornaments, and trees, and stars, all hand-drawn by her. Some were even in highlighters, which she wasn't allowed to use until recently. She wanted him to have the best art ever, since she can't afford to get him gifts like the ones he gives her, and she's not sure what he might like anyway. A fancy pen, maybe? But he already has a lot of those.
He thanks her for the letter, promises to open it later, and tells her she did a good job on the drawings. He says one of the angels looks like her, and it even has a hair bow.
Then he passes her off to his wife, and makes brief excuses to go have a quick conversation with the parade director that he can't quite wiggle out of.
"Listen to Mrs. Hady until I get back," he tells Steph, mock-firmly, while he passes her hand over into his wife's instead. "She'll take good care of you, and when I come back, we'll get going. Okay?"
"Okay!" Steph chirps back, and lets herself be happily led away to the step-stool set up to help them onto the float.
Mrs. Hady leads her to a little white bench surrounded by fake presents, sparkly garlands, and huge fake candy canes on both sides. People are starting to assemble themselves sitting down on the front area of the float among more fake presents, and a few men climb onto the back behind their bench, standing up and talking quietly. Mrs. Hady lets go of Steph's hand to reach under the bench and pull out a big, fluffy blanket, large like the one Steph and her mom use to make a blanket fort in the living room sometimes.
"It's so cold tonight," Mrs. Hady says, smiling at her. "So we have this blanket that we'll tuck around ourselves to keep our legs all warm and toasty."
Steph thinks that's smart.
Mrs. Hady sits on one end of the bench and helps Steph sit down next to her, waits for Steph to wiggle into a position that doesn't have too much pressure from her dangling feet. Then Mrs. Hady shows her how you tuck a blanket around yourself while sitting, and they count to thirty to see if it feels warmer already (it does), and then they chat about the big candy canes, and Steph starts to decide she likes Mrs. Hady too, and then Mayor Hady comes back, and that's when she finds out the problem.
There's only room on the bench for two people.
There was room left over with Mrs. Hady and Steph sitting on it, but the mayor is a large man. He needs a lot more room than Steph does, and certainly more than is left. So Steph hops up on command, and starts to walk towards the front of the float, where she sees some other kids with their parents, some of them even the mayor's own grandkids, she thinks. Someone mentioned that, maybe. Her plan is to sit down on the floor of the float a couple feet in front of the mayor, still plenty close and in sight, but he catches her arm.
"No," he says. "You need to stay with us."
Steph looks at him. "But there's no room."
"Of course there is! You can just just sit on my lap."
Steph's not sure she wants to do that. She's a lot bigger now. It's not often anyone has her sit on a lap anymore, because she's plenty big and old to sit safely by herself anywhere they go. She likes being able to move, and she likes being able to sit alone. But she guesses that's just not going to be an option tonight.
"Okay," she says, and lets him haul her up to sit on top of him. It's not comfortable, exactly—she knows some people aren't as good at holding kids as others, but that's okay. She always gets to adjust a bit to be more comfortable, so she does a little of that now. He lets her shift around a bit, then has her help him tuck the big blanket around their sides together.
And then they're talking a bit, and he's pointing out the prettiest lights, and people he knows, and she's soaking it all in, the crowd, the music, the lights, the shimmering decorations, the happy chatter from the rest of the float, and things are warm and bright and she's waiting—
They hand her a plastic electric vigil candle, show her how to turn it on. The mayor shows her how to hold it in one mittened hand, aloft in the air, and wave it like a princess against the black Gotham night above them, and she flicks the light off and on a few times, and then, then, the parade finally starts, with them at the head. The only thing ahead of their float is the police.
She waves, and she smiles, and she sways to the music, back and forth to it's lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you, and she and the mayor sing it and laugh together. His smile is so warm, and his arms are so strong, and the blanket is warm, and her light glows with thousands of others in the dark all over the streets and crowd, and Steph's heart sings.
She loves him more than any other adult she knows, besides her mom, and she's excited, and she's happy, and she's special, and she loves it. He's <i>her </i> friend, not her mom's. He thinks she's smarter than the other adults. He thinks she's fun. She thinks he's the coolest grown-up she knows. And now they're having a royalty moment, king and queen of the city, just for tonight, surrounded by the songs and the crowd and the holiday lights. It feels like they're cheering just for her.
[Content warning: Things go downhill from here. If you need to skip, skip until you see more bolded text at the start of the final section of this chapter.]
And then, just after they turn the first street corner, something shifts.
Mayor Hady's hand rests on her neck again, familiar, and his thumb and palm wrap around half her neck at least, his pointer finger coming to rest along the underside of her jaw on one side, and his thumb sweeps once, a little bit, by the nape of her hair, and Steph is mid-wave with her candle when suddenly there's pressure, along her jaw, against her neck, pressing down just a little.
And she freezes.
It's not much. It's not painful. But it's weird.
"Are you having fun?" Mayor Hady asks, his voice as light and fun as ever.
Steph relaxes a little. "Yes!"
"Good," he says, and squeezes lightly twice. Then his hand slides to cup the space between her neck and shoulder, fingers by her collarbone, thumb near the junction of her neck and shoulder blade. Steadying her like any other adult might. His other hand comes up from her waist to her ribcage, adding a little more stability. He turns her a little, shifts her on his lap a little, and she figures he must be getting her more balanced so she doesn't risk falling. She lets him move her, keeps waving.
And then his hand grips her ribs, and her breath freezes on its way down her throat. Steph goes still. Rigid.
She thinks about saying something, but what does she even say? She doesn't know what she even wants to know.
His other hand squeezes the muscle between her neck and shoulder in a way she hasn't felt before. It's not hurting her, she knows that, but it hurts. Steph doesn't understand.
And his other hand slides to wrap across the front of her ribs, her diaphragm, and press her at an angle, backwards, against him, just past where she feels like she's balanced, and her heart jumps, a flash of ice shooting down her spine. Suddenly, even if she wants to, Steph can't move. Her candle hand is still lifted in the air, but drifting downward, frozen in time. She stares ahead at one of the decorative candy canes, trying to catch her balance, trying to lean forward and—
He presses her back more. She's being pressed into his large chest and belly more than is comfortable, and his other hand looks friendly, resting on her shoulder, but his nails, his long nails, they squeeze. She can't stop herself, then, and leans her head back against his shoulder, yanking her chin up, staring up at his face with wide eyes, a question she can't figure out how to form trying to batter at the inside of her teeth, her clenched mouth.
He looks down at her, still smiling, still himself, but Steph looks at his eyes and doesn't know this man. All the warmth is gone, somehow. She's never, ever seen him look mean. She's heard about it. She's heard he's not nice to his enemies, and he can be a bully. But she didn't believe anyone. He's only ever felt nice, and kind, and warm. She's never seen—she's never known the man who looks like this. It's not a nice smile. It's a mean one. She's only ever seen it on the face of bullies. She doesn't know what this means.
"You okay?" he asks her, still with that smile. Steph can't speak. Steph can't nod. Steph can't shake her head. She mulls over all these possibilities, eyes wide, and looks between him and his wife, wondering if Mrs. Hady will look over, if she could do something, if she could explain, or—
"Everybody's watching," Mayor Hady reminds her, nodding towards the crowd on both sides. "Remember to wave, we're part of the show!"
Steph suddenly feels sick. She tries to shift, to wiggle into a comfortable position again, because this is just a mistake, he doesn't know she's uncomfortable—
His arm snakes around her ribs fully and holds her tighter, pressed against him. And then his nails pinch, squeeze, too light to mark or hurt, but hard enough to sting, and she knows, she knows what this means, she knows what it means when an adult pinches, hits, squeezes, presses her into the floor, when she's in trouble, when she needs to be pinned and stopped and punished, reminded to obey—
Steph doesn't understand. He's her friend. He's so nice. She's never been uncomfortable before now. Why is he hurting her? Why is he hurting her now?
His other hand releases her neck from behind and slides itself under the blanket to rest over her hip, like normal. But then his fingers slide up a little, cupping her leg, looping over a little, and he starts to press down, too, and he's squeezing her ribs, and Steph just wants off, she looks around the float at the other kids, at Mrs. Hady, who's firmly looking ahead, at the other adults whoa are talking and laughing, at the crowd, the cheering, singing crowd, waving, waving, wanting her to wave back, and she's frozen, frozen, pressed and scared and squashed, and Steph doesn't understand—
She could wiggle, she could press harder, she could try, but he's so strong, and his nails hurt, and he's pressing just hard enough that it's hard for her to breathe fully unless she's really still, and she doesn't want to be pinched again, but she's so uncomfortable, and something is wrong, something is really wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, she doesn't know this man who's holding her, but she—
His hand splays across her leg, moving, and she—
She needs to do something, she should say something, she isn't comfortable, she doesn't like being held like this and other adults always care that she's comfortable too, not just them, and Steph doesn't understand, and she should do something, she should—
She pushes, tries to keep it subtle, still holding her candle in the air, but she tries, and she tries to press, to wiggle her hips out and.
"You going to be good?" Mayor Hady whispers in her ear, just loud enough to be heard over the crowd and music but not enough to be heard by anyone but them. His damp mouth skin brushes the shell of her ear, and suddenly feels like the worst thing. "You're a good girl. Your mom trusted you to us, and we're supposed to keep you safe until the parade is over. You're going to behave in front of everyone, aren't you? We don't want to make a scene. Things could get very hard for your mom at work, if your behavior reflects badly on her."
But her mom was suspicious of Mayor Hady. Maybe she'd want Steph to do something, to get help from someone else. She pushes, a little, tries to get her free arm between herself and his.
His voice turns mean, then, too, to match his smile and nails.
"I could make things bad for you and your mother," he tells her. "If I want to."
If she makes him. If she makes him want to. Right now he doesn't want to. And her mom is so stressed, all the time, about doing her job well, about managing the other nurses, about being listened to, the way she has to fight all the time with the director to get funding and supplies the hospital needs. The director who's friends with the mayor. The director who can fire her mom, and with Dad in Blackgate, and money so tight, they couldn't stay in the apartment, maybe, and maybe no other hospital would hire her mom if they fired her, and they mayor could make all of that happen, if he wants.
If she's bad. If he wants. If she's not good enough for him.
It's not a hard choice. It's not a choice at all. Steph can't do anything.
He feels it, feels her, when her body makes the choice for her, and she goes limp, pliant, holds still just where he puts her.
"The city is watching," he murmurs to her, as his hand shifts, moves, and Steph doesn't understand. "You're a good girl. They love you."
He squeezes her again, and her breath whistles in, whistles out, softly, too soft for the cage, for the pressing, for the pain, for the—
"Remember to wave," he reminds Steph, and she realizes, once again, that there's no choice for her.
She doesn't have a choice. He wants her to be a doll. He wants her to be a trophy. He wants her to be a very good suitcase, dressed-up pretty holiday luggage. So that's what she needs to be.
Steph breathes in, and breathes out, shallow under his arm, and she lifts her arm and freezes it in place, and sets her wrist to tipping the electric candle back and forth, so it looks natural, and she doesn't smile, and she doesn't sing, and she lets herself cut off her body and cut off the feelings and sits under the blanket and doesn't take in a single thing for the rest of the parade.
Steph can't be there if she wants to be good. Steph wants to fight and run. Steph wants to ask to sit on someone else's lap. Steph wants to sit by herself. Steph wants her mom. Steph is so tired, and so sleeping, and she wants to go home. But she can't go home. And she can't sleep. This is a performance, and she can't, can't, can't fail. Everything depends on it. And he's touching and squeezing in places and ways she doesn't understand.
So Steph goes to sleep inside herself instead, and this experience belongs to someone else now, not her, and she stares out at the crowd, and she waves her candle, and she doesn't feel anything else at all.
She gave up. But then he moves her.
"I have to go talk to someone," Mayor Hady says, as he stands her up to stand himself, and. What?
Steph stares at him.
"You sit down where I was sitting," he orders. He then tucks the blanket around her, and Mrs. Hady puts one arm around her, and it's the most comforting thing Steph's ever felt, the touch that doesn't hurt, that isn't—weird.
The mayor rounds the bench and starts talking with one of the men behind them. The director, maybe. Or someone else. Steph doesn't care anymore. She's not a person anymore, clearly. She's not invited to the conversation, and she doesn't feel her body, and she doesn't know what's happening, and she still doesn't understand.
But at least it's over now. It's over. He stopped. And he's gone. And after all that, look. She's getting to sit by herself after all.
Steph tries to sink into the warmth of the blanket that she can't feel but knows has to be there. It's okay. He's stopped, and she's alone now, and the parade will end soon, and then she can go home. No more problems. They take another turn, and she's still waving her candle, and Mrs. Hady points and says happily, "Look, Steph, it's your mom! There she is!"
And there she is, with the camera, smiling and waving one-handed, and cheering Steph's name. Somewhere she apparently acquired a Santa hat, and Steph can see its pom-pom bouncing as her mom jumps up and down with each wave.
Steph waves back, wills herself to be grateful, wills herself to lock eyes with her mom, wills herself to hold it together in this body she can't feel and can't control except for her arm, and she watches her mom's face until the float moves to far and her mom slips out of sight.
Steph rallies a little. Her mom was there, which means the parade must be more than halfway over. She's alone now, so it's okay. Nothing's wrong. She can do this.
And then Mayor Hady comes back over.
He looks at Steph and smiles, and it doesn't reach his eyes anymore. He lifts the edge of the blanket from around her, waiting for her to stand up again with his hand on her arm that she can't feel, to keep her steady on the slow-moving float, and she looks at the kids in the front, she looks at the other adults, she looks at the giant candy canes, she looks at the blanket, and she looks up and meets Mayor Hady's eyes, and she knows there's no way to win. She let herself think she was safe for a few minutes, let herself think it was over, and now he's back, and she's so stupid.
She's so stupid. He tricked her, and she didn't realize, and now it's all way too late, and there's nothing she can do. Except be good.
So.
So. Steph will get up. And she will climb back on his lap. Like he demands.
"Can I sit on Mrs. Hady's lap instead?" she asks, suddenly. Or something asks. Someone. She doesn't feel her lungs actually move. She hears the words, but doesn't feel them come out, doesn't think to say them, she doesn't think she could've said them on purpose, she's too scared. Too sleepy.
"No," says Mayor Hedy. He doesn't give his wife a chance to even speak. And Steph gets it. She understands. There's no help coming here. He's the king. It's okay. She knows.
So Steph lets him sit down, and she climbs up again, onto his lap, like a good girl, and his snake arms wrap around the body she can't feel, and she turns herself all the rest of the way off, except for her waving candle, and she lets herself be pressed back, she lets his hands wander and squeeze and touch and trail under the blanket, under everyone's eyes, in front of the whole city, the whole world, where no one can help her, and no one can save her from what she was stupid enough to blunder into herself, and Steph opens her eyes, and doesn't see the lights, and doesn't see the crowd, and doesn't see the candy canes, and doesn't see the kids, and she sees her hand waving the candle, as instructed,
and she lets
him
do
whatever
he
wants.
[It's safe to start reading again, if you skipped part of the chapter!]
Steph wakes up the next morning perfectly normal, feeling warm in her pajamas, snuggled in with two stuffed animals and with the ornament from the night before facing her on the dresser.
She stares back at it, not thinking, not feeling, not speaking, not moving. And it's over, after all, and she'll never say yes to the parade again anyway, and she doesn't even remember, really, and it was just one night, and her mom doesn't like the mayor anyway, so it shouldn't be hard to avoid that ever happening again—whatever it was—and there's no need to worry about it again, so. Steph just. Lets it go.
(There's someone in a jail, in a cage, in a dungeon, down in the far corners inside of her, that doesn't. But Steph doesn't need to know. That door is locked, and the letter and the love is gone, and she doesn't need to tell anyone, and she doesn't need to think about why. She just needs to carry on.)
Steph gets up, and slides out into the hallway in her socks, and the floor creaks near the doorjamb like it always does. Steph's mom looks up from the counter, waffles already steaming in the waffle maker, and Crystal smiles, and Steph smiles back, and her mom throws her arms open for their good-morning hug, and asks "Did you sleep well? Was last night fun? You conked out in the car so fast I didn't get to properly ask."
Steph hugs her mom back, tight. Hard. She squeezes once, then feels weird about it, then feels weird about feeling weird, because this is normal. It's fine.
"Yeah," she says, and smiles up at her mom, and her mom squeezes her back, and it feels right. It feels good.
"Waffles ready in two minutes," her mom says, and untangles Steph's arms to nudge her over to the counter stools. "Go get your toppings, baby."
"Waffles!" Steph cheers, like usual, like she's supposed to, and she picks out the sprinkles, and the frozen fruit that's thawing, and the whipped cream, and sits down with a real smile. Things are okay again, and they're normal, and she's normal, and that's just how she needs to stay. And if she does, if she's good, everything will be okay.
So it's worth it. It has to be worth it. And it is.
Steph believes it. And down, down deep, the thing that rattles the jail cage, in the dark in the dungeon inside Steph, in her brain, isn't so sure.
---
Notes:
Summary: After Steph and her mom get ready for the event and show up there and do chit chat, the lighting is done and the parade starts. Shortly into the parade, Mayor Hady hurts Steph for the first time, which shocks her. He continues to make her uncomfortable and threaten her with his stronger grip/etc., and when she starts to try to struggle, he reminds her they're in a performance and everyone's watching them, and that he and his friends can make life hard/bad for Steph's mom if she causes problems. Steph ends up giving up and cuts herself off from the rest of the experience, and the chapter ends with her the next morning, moving on as if it didn't happen and will never matter again. Checkpoint: Do you need water or another drink? Do you need any fuel? Do you need medication, physical movement, or a distracting activity? Have you done any little things today you're proud of? Is there anything you can do to make life a little nicer for tomorrow you? I'm proud of you no matter what! You're alive in the middle of a crazy world! You're doing a good job!
