Daydream Ramblings

“Hey, are you okay?” You’re torn from your thoughts by the gentle, ever-worried tone of Steve’s voice. Your body instantly flooded with guilt.

“I’m fine, just thinking about dad again.” You feel dirty for using your dead father’s memory to lie to him, but you couldn’t exactly tell him the truth. You couldn’t even imagine the fallout from that.

‘I’m fine, just thinking about the intoxicating feeling of another man coveting me. Thinking about how amazing it would feel to give in to those heated glances and get absolutely ravaged by the man throwing them at me.’

“I wish I could say it gets easier, but grief is unpredictable.” Sometimes, you wish he weren’t so perfect. That he didn’t always say or do the right thing. It was annoying how he was always so good, like a damn cartoon character. It made your flaws stand out all the more.

“Yeah —” Steve’s hand began to rub the small of your back, and the gaze piercing your skull intensified in response. The world suddenly felt too hot and too small. It felt like everything was closing in on you. “I think I just need some air. I’ll be right back.” You turn to leave, and his hand grips yours, stopping you.

“Do you want me to come with you?” His worry sounds genuine, yet there’s something in his eyes that makes you question if he knows. But if he did, why is he still here? Why stay in this sham when he could have gone back to her? Hell, he still could.

“No, I just need a minute to myself. Collect my thoughts and all that.” You wave your free hand in a dismissive gesture. “Thank you, though, for being here.” You reach up and press a kiss to his cheek before pulling your hand away and disappearing into the crowd, another’s eyes still following your every movement.

And doesn’t that speak volumes about the whole thing? Within seconds of leaving Steve, he’d lost you in the throngs of men and women milling about the hall, but those damned eyes. Those damned eyes never lost you for a second; you could feel them as they followed you down corridors filled with party goers, slipping between gaggles of drunk women fawning over each other and even drunker men barely standing upright. They followed you right through several twists and turns, until suddenly it was just you and those damn eyes in one of the small studies.

“You have to stop.” You don’t turn around, but you feel him approach behind you. Hands coming to rest on your waist, his warm breath ghosting the shell of your ear.

“Why?” His gruff voice comes out in barely a whisper. His hands pull you back, your torso falling into his own. “Clearly you’re enjoying it.” One of his hands had drifted from your waist down your thigh and disappeared between the slit in your dress, his fingers caressing up your inner thigh to make contact with your core. He began running his nose along your throat as his fingers caressed you, pulling a slow, low moan from your throat.

“Because he’s a good man and he doesn’t deserve this.” You manage to breathe out between moans as he slips a finger past your underwear. You were in a losing battle between what you knew was right and what you desired.

“Then leave him.” The finger had slipped inside you at this point, almost completely driving thoughts of Steve from your head.

“I can’t, you know I can’t.” You begin to writhe against him as he slowly pumps his finger. “It wouldn’t be right, not after what he’s done for both of us.” You manage to dislodge him enough to turn in his grasp, hands coming to rest on his chest. You should push him fully away, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to. Caught in a never-ending war between your head and your heart, with no one to turn to for advice.

“Staying with him out of obligation feels crueller than momentarily breaking his heart.” He gently lifts your head, the cold metal of his prosthetic fingers brushing the underside of your chin, sending a new wave of shivers down your spine.

“James.” You sigh out his name in a frustrated tone. “There’s nothing momentary about the woman he stayed for, leaving him for his supposed best friend.”

“And staying with him out of guilt because he ‘stayed’ is somehow less cruel. Steve can be naïve, but he’s not a fool.”

“Why do you keep doing that?” The way he says ‘stayed’ has bothered you for weeks.

“Doing what?” You let out a little ‘hmph’.

“You say he ‘stayed’ like you're putting air quotes around it.” There’s a glimmer of something in his eyes that you can’t quite place, similar to the glint in Steve’s when you’d told him you needed air. Like he knows more than he’s letting on.

“Lila?” Your eyes widen at Steve’s muffled voice coming from just outside the door.

“Hide!” You hiss out in a whisper, pushing James towards the glass doors on the other side of the study.

“Where?!” He bites back at you as you continue to push him.

You hear the doorknob begin to wobble before you can respond to him. Your heart drops to your stomach as you rush back to the other side of the room to intercept Steve. Your hand meets the knob just as the door starts to swing fully open.

“Lila?” Steve stands before you, worry etched on his face, and a new wave of guilt washes through you. “You’ve been gone for a while, and I started to worry. I know how awful your panic attacks can get.” He raises his hand to caress your face, the other coming up to circle your waist.

You feel nothing and that alone causes even more guilt and shame to flood your body. There was a time when you would have revelled in his embrace, craved it even. Now it feels almost cold, mechanical, obligatory.

“I’m fine, Steve, I promise. Like I said, I just needed a little air.” You glance behind you at the open glass doors, any trace of James long gone. The thought pains you, and your traitorous heart aches for it to still be his arms holding you.

“That air can’t have been doing much, doll.” His hand brushes up your arm, so both are cupping your face.  “You’re as hot as a furnace still.” Something in you revolts at him calling you doll, and you’re once again hit with the dreadful feeling that he knows what you were really doing mere moments ago.

“Doll?” You brace your hands against his chest, once again reminiscent of your embrace with James, although this time you seem to have the strength to push Steve away. “Since when do you call me doll?” You can’t help the disgust that seeps into your tone on the word.

“Well…” There’s a moment, a small lapse in his façade that causes you to catch a glimpse of unease in his gaze. You're struck, for the third time that evening, with the horrible feeling that you’re being kept in the dark. It disappears almost as quickly as it appeared. “I am from the 40s, Lila, our lingo was quite different back then.” He seems to emphasize the word lingo, as if to drive home his point by using the somewhat outdated term.  

“In the nearly twelve years I’ve known you, I’ve never heard you use that kind of lingo.” In fact, aside from a few phrasing differences and sentence structuring, his speech wasn’t that different from your own.

“And I’ve never seen you so hung up on a word.” You take a physical step back when you’re hit by the vitriol in his words.

For all your arguments and near to total breakups over the last twelve years, he’s never used that tone of voice with you. It was eerily reminiscent of the condescending tone your grandfather used to take with you.

“You know, I think you're right. I think the air didn’t do anything.” You take another step away from him. “I think I should just go home and rest.” There’s a look of regret on his face as you say this. No. Not regret… Annoyance perhaps?

“Let me —” He starts to take a step towards you, and you hold your hand up to stop him.

“No, I think it’s best if I’m alone for a little bit.” You go to walk around him, and for the second time that evening, he grips your wrist. There’s something different about the way he does it this time, though, less concerned and more… possessive.

“Lila.” There’s an edge to his voice that you’ve never heard before, like a deep-seated anger, as his eyes darken in a way that sends a chill down your spine. Some part of your brain, the logical part that’s been dealing with terrible, overbearing men your whole life, starts blaring alarm sounds.

“We’re fine, Steve, I just underestimated how much this event would affect me.” You begin to fawn, your go-to strategy to subdue. You place a hand on his cheek, leaning in to kiss the other. “You said it yourself; grief is unpredictable.” His grip on you loosens, and his eyes lighten a touch.

“You’ll call me when you get home.” It’s a statement, not a question. “So I know you're safe.” It’s added almost like an afterthought, but sounds like it has the caveat of ‘and alone’ embedded in it.

“Of course.” You force a small smile onto your face as you brush past him, to the door.

“Why don’t you? After every terrible thing that’s happened to you since becoming acquainted with that man, how can you possibly stand to be around him?” She raises a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Regardless of whatever simpering, pathetic answer you have for that, I don’t hate him. I simply know you could do better.” There's an ever-present air of pretentiousness wafting off her as she sips her tea.  “How many times have I told you not to slouch like that. It’s very unbecoming, not to mention awfully un-ladylike.”

“In case you’ve forgotten I’m an adult, and I’ll sit however I damn well please.” You slouch further into the couch in an act of admittedly childish defiance.

“This is exactly the type of regressive behaviour I feared that Wayne boy would encourage in you. You’ve completely forgotten how to act in polite company.”

“You’re not ‘polite company’, you’re my Mother.” Coming here was a mistake; the same mistake you’ve made every few years over the nearly two decades since you’d fled this stuffy intellectualist hellhole. “And thank you for reminding me why I shouldn’t even bother trying with you anymore.”

“Oh, do come off that incredibly high horse of yours, dear.”  She stands, smoothing out her skirt. “We both know these visits aren’t about some ‘misguided attempt to make amends.’ They’re about your ego. Things aren’t going the way you want them to in your personal life, so you come here to try and blame me for everything that’s ever gone wrong.” She moves to the bay window on the far side of the sitting room. “I was never as terrible a mother as you constantly try to make me out to be.” She opens the cabinet under the window bench and removes what appears to be a scrapbook. “I may have been strict, but you and I both know I was never cruel, never raised a hand towards you in anger.”

“But you never raised them in love either.” Your voice is shaky and small, so eerily reminiscent of the mons-… man you’d left in that hovel of an apartment mere hours ago. “I can’t remember a single time you hugged me as a child, nor an encouraging word. It was always a criticism, a scolding look, a disappointed glance across the table. I needed a mother and all I got was a governess.”

“Yes, well, you and I are very different, aren’t we?” She places the album in your lap before returning to her seat. “You wanted those boys, with every fibre of your being, and I’m sure you want children of your own with that awful Wayne boy.”

“They are my children, whether or not Bruce and I have a baby, those boys will always be my children.”

“Yes, because you have a nurturing spirit. It was always my biggest regret about you. Nurtures like you don’t last long in this city, especially not in the circles you’ve landed yourself in.” She almost sounded concerned for you. “Poor Martha was a nurturer, and look how that ended for her.” Your mother shakes her head. “When I found out about my pregnancy, I was prepared to do the right thing. Your father was an engaged man of prominence, and I was in the midst of getting my first PhD it made sense to terminate.”  Your world starts to tilt. You’d always assumed your mother never wanted children, but to hear straight from her mouth that she tried to terminate you… There’s a pain in your chest, and you can’t help but think of the boy’s face when you said those hurtful things to him earlier this evening. “Of course, I went to him first. I figured I could squeeze enough money out of him to cover the appointment, even more if I threatened to go to the press. But instead of wanting to get rid of you, he paid me to keep you. I never truly understood why, especially when you turned out to be a girl, but he continued to pay for your well-being, so I raised you as instructed.”

“You should have taken the money and aborted me anyway. Would have saved both of us a whole hell of a lot of trouble and heartache.”

“Open it.” She gestures at the album she’d placed in your lap. “My words will never be good enough for you; you never did respond well to logic. Such an emotional little thing. Perhaps those will finally show you what my words can’t.”

You crack open the album and are greeted with picture after picture of yourself. Each photo is accompanied by a description depicting when, where and why it was taken. The meticulous handwriting of your mother is scrawled across each page, with the descriptions getting less factual and more... emotional.

“My father paid you to keep a detailed photo album of me, so what? Is this supposed to make me feel better about having a mother who doesn’t love me?” Your mother rises from her chair once more.

“That trust fund your father left you in his will, that I'm sure he attributed to himself, or your grandfather; That was the money he paid me to keep you.” She moves towards the stairs. “I did send him a few photos over the years, but that album… that was mine, and mine alone.” She ascends the stairs, seemingly aloof to how she’s upended everything you knew about your life.

 “I don’t know.” You turn away from him, unable to continue looking at your dead son’s face. Some part of you, deep in the bowels of your heart, wants to believe that your Jason is still in there somewhere. The smiling, joking boy with a thirst for reading and knowledge that rivaled your own. But it’s hard to see Jason in the face of it. The thin who blew up a city. The very city he knew his brother lived in. How could that… that thing be the same boy who used to follow you around the manor?

 “But you do; you know me, Mom.” You thought you did. Thought that you’d be able to recognize your son anywhere, but the man standing in the room with you is a stranger.

 “No, I have no idea who you are.” He grabs your arm and pulls you to face him once more.

 “Yes, you do. It’s still me, I’m still Jason.” There’s a desperation in his tone, pleading. It’s like a twisted imitation of the boy you once loved.

“You may have his face, his voice, his name, but you’re not my Jason. My Jason would never have done the things you’ve done.” His face hardens at that, a determination setting in. Like a child digging their heels in and refusing to move.

 “I did what had to be done.” He crosses his arms, adjusting his posture to portray indifference and authority. The entire thing oozes Bruce in the worst way.

 “For a man who detests his father, you sure do come off the most like him.” It’s a low blow, and you know it. The vindictive part of you, that part that feels eerily like your own mother, said it to wound this thing wearing your son's face. That part of you wanted him to hurt even just a fraction of the way you hurt.

 “Don’t… Don’t say that. Why would you say that?” His whole demeanour changes, crumbles right before your eyes.

 “Why would you blow up Blüdhaven? WHY? Knowing Richard could be there, having seen my grief. Watched it played out in news spots and gossip columns and Bruce’s security footage. You actively attempted to put me through that once more, and now you stand here in front of me, unrepentant of your actions, and demand forgiveness? You demand I retake up the mantle of your mother while actively trying to rob me of another child, rob me of the very man I love. A man, may I remind you, is the only reason I became the real Jason’s mother in the first place.” You’re in his face now, pushing him back with each new accusation.

“Mom… you don’t understand. You weren’t there. He-” You’d had enough of his excuses. It was always someone else’s fault, always the things that happened to him that made him this way. Never taking any accountability for the very real things he did. The choices he made.

“Batman didn’t kill my son. The Joker didn’t kill my son. You did.” It was the final nail in the coffin, there was no coming back from this one.

“That’s enough.” Bruce’s commanding voice echoes through the hovel of an apartment.

“I was already leaving.” You turn your back on that thing once more, brushing past Bruce without even a glance.

“Mimi, let me take you home.” Richard. It’d been nearly three months since that night, yet you still couldn’t sleep without the nightmares taking over. Every time, you’d awake in a panic and call Richard. You felt guilty about disrupting the boy's sleep, but hearing his voice reacting to you in real time was the only thing capable of calming the panic.

“I bet you’d forgive the replacement if he’d done the things I have.” The thing calls out after you. A last-ditch effort to wound you the way you’ve wounded him. You turn, making sure to make eye contact with it before you deliver the final blow.

“Timothy never would have been in your position to begin with.” With that, you leave the apartment for good. Richard follows close behind you. Both he and Bruce had been hesitant to leave you alone these days, clearly for good reason.

“Mimi, you really should let me take you home. You’re in no condition to drive.” He places himself in front of you. You brush him aside and mount his old bike, you’d practically claimed it as your own at this point.