bratkid bit after Stephanie finds Arthur out of jail and in the house and they have an altercation that leads to her showing up after dark at the manor
===========================
He made it to her room and exhaled at the threshold, gripping the doorknob.
“You’re okay?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Good,” he said, still gripping the doorknob. “Good. I’m glad.”
Stephanie said nothing. Her hair still covered her ear, but it was all patched up, so he wouldn’t be able to see the damage. It was a test, almost, to see what she can get away with under his nose
She couldn’t tell Bruce. Even now, she knew the truth (she wasn’t delusional enough to lie to herself), she knew he would go and get her homework for her, but that would mean…
It would mean he would see the house, the trash cans littered over the yard from where she tossed them, the glass in the kitchen and the hallway.
There may be a question, or maybe he would see it and know what had happened. And maybe he would think she deserved it, agree with Arthur’s sentiments. Or, even if he didn’t, would just want to see her get taught a lesson.
“You…” Bruce began, still gripping the doorknob like a life line. What’s it even doing for him? Let go, buddy, we can get you a better security blanket. “You can’t do this again,” he said finally, voice bordering on the edge of firm, like he had to mean it. But he didn’t seem firm. He just seemed worried.
“Do what?” Stephanie asked, not looking at him.
"Stephanie.” He said it firmer now, like he meant it, but also like he was incredulous that she was even taking this route.
Stephanie didn’t have time to be incredulous that she was taking this route either, for she had opened her mouth before she realized it. “I was late, so what? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“It’s seven o’clock.”
“So?”
“So,” and he finally let go of the doorknob (good work, Brucie, get in those baby steps), crossing his arms. “You get out of school at three thirty.”
“So?” she said again.
He didn’t say anything.
“Do I have a curfew now or something?” she asked, annoyed, as if the idea of a curfew was funny.
“No,” he said, when he really should have said yes. That was the problem with Bruce, Stephanie knew. He was too honest.
Dick hated the honesty. He was a showman, a performer. Whatever is real can be twisted a little, made to seem magical. Tim didn’t know what to make of honesty. He assumed that everybody went over their words before they spoke, to ensure the reaction he was looking for. Stephanie was enough of a liar to know the difference between the truth and a lie. So she knew Bruce never lied. He’d conceal, hide, let others assume and never correct. But that was because he had never been a liar.
She’d seen it, Alfred asking a question point-blank and Bruce struggling to respond.
Couldn’t be her. Stephanie was too smooth for that. Too much of a liar.
“Where were you?” he asked finally.
“At the mall.”
He cast an eye over her room. “Did you buy anything?”
She shrugged. “No.”
“Who were you with?”
“Me, myself, and I. Look, is there a point to this?” Stephanie asked, yawning and trying not to wince when the action pulled on her ear. “Because I’m pretty beat.”
He looked at her. And she looked back, because she was a Liar McLiarpants and was competing for the Miss Liar crown in the Lower Gotham Liar Pageant.
“You’re going to bed?” Bruce asked.
“Yep.”
He looked at her again. She didn’t budge.
“Okay,” he said. Then his hand went back to that blasted doorknob. “You need to come back earlier than seven pm.”
“I was in the neighborhood when the streetlights went on,” she told him. Which was a lie.
“Before seven,” he told her.
“That sounds like a curfew,” she said.
“It’s not.”
“Needing to be home at a certain time is not a curfew?”
He said nothing.
“Goodnight, Bruce,” she said pointedly.
He gripped the doorknob, as if it was a lifeline, until finally he released it and stepped away. She could hear his footsteps down the hall.
Stephanie waited until he was far enough away to sigh. ‘And I’d like to thank the academy,’ she thought, mentally throwing a kiss to the peanut gallery. They threw peanuts at her but she didn’t care. She wiggled her socks off, chucking them under the bed. She’d have to wash them herself, there was some blood on them. She gave a thankful thought to Alfred for buying multiple uniform socks. Except—who even put insignias on socks? They scratched her ankles all the time.
She noted that it may be strange that she wasn’t crying. Stephanie thought she might be all cried out. And, well, what was the point? Her dad was out of jail. Her dad had the house. But Stephanie had the trump card: the answer to every clue Arthur had.
Coming home late, lying to Bruce — it gave her a determination she didn’t know she was seeking.
She could do it. She could stop the Cluemaster. She could spoil his crimes.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
She was curled up in the big chair, tv light flickering over her eyelashes when she saw him. “I’m not moving,” she told him, wiggling into a more comfortable position.
The large shadow in the doorway didn’t move, but Stephanie was too tired to care. She drew her knees to her chest and closed her eyes, ignoring the twinge of pain. Doctor Thompson had said it would fade. She also had said not to ignore it, but Stephanie was tired of being an open-faced book, every symptom and feeling on display. She wasn’t a dead butterfly against a wall. She was fifteen years old and a person, a person who liked to be alone sometimes.
His footsteps were audible, which was purposeful. He could sneak up on any of them, except Dick. The carpet smushed under his weight, and the lamp clicked on, flooding the room with light. Stephanie scrunched her eyes more tightly, red and oranges dancing behind her eyelids.
“I’m not getting up,” she repeated.
A soft intake of breath. She didn’t hear it, but she knew he was breathing. The next moment the shadow curved over the television, sending the gray light in dull spangles across the couch. She dug her chin into her knees.
The couch exhaled moments later, and she opened her eyes, peeking over.
His blue eyes reflected the television screen. He wasn’t looking at her, and she pretended he didn’t know she was looking at him. This was the longest she had seen him for weeks. Months, even. Especially since she had been ignoring and avoiding him before spring break, when—
She turned away, hair falling over one side of her face like a curtain. There. Didn’t have to see anything she didn’t want to.
The volume was low. She couldn’t hear the game show, but she focused on the screen all the same. She needed an anchor, nowadays. She hadn’t told anyone about that, because there wasn’t much of a point and it wasn’t that bad. They’d turn it into something it wasn’t, and she wanted to go back to normal. She wanted to be their Stephanie again, not the girl who had gotten kidnapped and tortured for days on a warehouse floor, blood staining her hair strawberry red. It was like she had returned the same person, just with scars, but they kept looking for her in between the spaces of what she was. ‘You’re not going to find her,’ she wanted to snap sometimes, when Tim looked at her in that vague way, eyes going distant. ‘She’s here, I’m right here.’
She was still Stephanie.
She was still Stephanie, even if they couldn’t see it. She would make them see it, she would break this manor down and build it again on her own terms and—
She clenched her fists. Then immediately released them.
And what?
She looked down at her knuckles, still shiny with new scars. She could feel him breathing two feet away from her and it took everything in her not to crawl beside him, to assure him that she was alive and if he would please just look at her she would never be kidnapped again, never be bad again, never return as someone different he didn’t know and couldn’t remember how to deal with, if he would please just look—
Her throat caught. Her chest hammered the next instant, chest seizing in mild panic and pain.
“Don’t you still want me?” she wanted to ask. “Don’t you love me? Was it all a lie before, trying to get me and keep me? Was that only because I was young before, or valuable or something? Was it because he hurt me, am I no longer as good or perfect? I was hurt before, Bruce, I was fucking gone before you even knew me. You acted like you didn’t mind then, why now? Have you given up? Don’t you still want me?”
But she didn’t say any of those things.
Instead, she closed her eyes, static electricity humming from the nearby tv.
“We’re not normally this bad,” she told him, skipping sideways to keep up with his stride. “It’s just that she’s been trying to get a divorce, and that takes a lot of money.” She caught up to him. “Especially since they didn’t get a prenup, so.”
They were getting closer to the lab. Only a block more.
Moments passed. She peered at him. “You ever been married?”
“No.”
“You’re sure? Because you thought you didn’t have a kid, and here I am.”
“We don’t know for sure that you’re my kid.”
“Right.” She kept walking, even though she looked downcast at the thought. “She doesn’t lie, you know.” She turned to look at him, eyes like the cloudy sky overhead. “Not usually. You know how people lie over silly stuff, like ‘I’m not hungry’ or ‘It’s just a scratch,’ she does that, but never over anything big. Never over anything like this.”
Bruce said nothing. The sidewalk had a bit of ice to it, melted and refrozen at the corners and the joints.
Stephanie tugged on the sleeves of her windbreaker, but stopped when it made that rough squeaking sound. She slowed her walk, falling behind him. Not too far that he could outpace her, but just far enough that he didn’t have to look at her, or have her breathe on him or something. She didn’t want to annoy him more than she was, even though it had been her idea to come and annoy him.
She watched him walk, back curved against the wind and yet stubborn as a bullet. He really didn’t want a kid. That was okay, she didn’t have a good track record with dads anyways. She hopped over a patch of ice, considerate. She and her mom hadn’t gotten rid of her dad yet, so it wasn’t great to add another man to the mix. Imagine if he had wanted her; Saturday mornings would be a mess. She remembered that Siobhan Sullivan from fifth grade had had parents who were divorced, and she could never have sleepovers because they kept bouncing her back and forth. Not that Steph had sleepovers. She was thirteen years old, thank you very much, and had been working under the table since August. Not that she had to be too careful; no one looked too closely in Gotham, and if she wore her mom’s makeup she could pass for fifteen, easily. She intended to keep that up. And even if he didn’t give her the money they needed, she could skip the last period of school to work. It was study hall anyhow, and it wasn’t as if she did any studying then.
A chilly breeze swept through and several Gothamites cursed. Bruce looked up for a moment, then turned around. “Are you cold?” he asked her. He tried to imbue some warmth to his voice, but walking the streets had almost made him forget where he was and what he was doing. He blinked once or twice, wetting his eyes against the windchill.
The little blonde kid—Stephanie—nodded at him.
“Yes,” she replied. Then: “I mean, no. I’m not cold. How much farther now?”
His thoughts were interrupted, however, by a very familiar and very irritating voice:
“Wow. You should not be a detective.”
He slammed on the brakes. A thirteen year old sized clunk was heard from the backseat.
“Oof.”
He pointed to the door.
“Out.”
“Right here?” Stephanie demanded. “In the middle of the street?”
“We’re still on Wayne property.”
“I’ll have to walk home!” she protested. “That’s, like,” her blue eyes widened, “five miles.” She leaned forward, seatbelt not on, and stuck her chin against the driver’s headrest. “That would take hours.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Barbara quirked a brow. “You thinking about something?” she asked drily.
“I’m considering it,” Stephanie said, flipping a page and doing her best to look stoically aggrieved.
“He’s not letting you play with matches?”
Stoicism melted away, and Stephanie’s manful acceptance was replaced by girlish defense. “Come on, Barbara,” she said, blue eyes doleful. “I’m not that bad.”
I feel like I’m failing as a wife and a mom… even as a human. I was so caught up with cleaning my house today that I didn’t remember to make dinner. For dinner tonight my baby had oatmeal :/ I wouldn’t have to clean so damn much if my roomates would pick up after their fucking brat kid and train their stupid dogs to use the restroom outside. I’m at my wits end. I talk to my husband and five months later nothing has been done. I know nobody reads this crap I post but it helps me to get it out there. I’m tired of cleaning up after everyone. I’m tired of cooking a separate meal for everyone because everybody is so fucking picky. It’s not like we can afford that shit anyway! I’m sick and tired of them in general but my husband won’t turn his friend and the family out on the street. I don’t mind the friend but the kid wife and dogs make me want to go on a murder spree. I’m just sick of all the crap I’m forced to put up with every day in my own home. I miss feeling comfortable enough to actually relax. My husband and I haven’t even had relations as much as we used to because they complain about the noise…. like wtf why should I be quiet when you all can’t even get your brat 2 yo to sleep through the night and she wakes up screaming (waking up My baby -_-) yeah, no. Not happy with this shit. At. All. …
