#showgal

" harleen ! " she interrupts, one decibel higher, stern, but still calm for hospital standards – there's adrenaline, restlessness that she can practically smell radiating off everyone around her. a cool head is a hot commodity in the wake of a big trauma. " i said the next of kin are on their way. as much as i'd love to send the flying monkeys to fetch them for you, i'm not exactly as all powerful as i may seem. " two fingers in the air, she beckons her to the nurses' station & swiftly points towards a vacant chair. " there's nothing else you can do now. & you've been on your feet for hours. sit. "

"i knew him better than anyone. still do, i'd imagine." which is to say, oh, yes, i was absolutely supposed to be smarter than that. and also that she had been, in a way. lana doesn't see herself as blameless. "it wasn't like i didn't see the," what do they call them? in half-assed air quotes, not even raising her hands, "red flags. but i thought i could help him. that he wanted me to help him." lana's self-loathing is tempered, by now, unapparent to most: then again, this isn't a conversation she's used to having. not with anyone. "he'd always taken care of me." that care had always had strings attached, too --- for clark, if not for her --- but of course she hadn't known. the two of them would've had to speak about lex in a way that mattered, in order for that to happen, and she doubts they'll ever manage. she doubts even more that either of them will ever want to.

she's absentmindedly massaging her right hand, cradled against her middle. lana could be discussing the weather, for all the emotion in her voice (not so unusual: her baseline air is still undeniably melancholic). she doesn't try to force eye contact with @showgal.

“i thought you might like it. i got chocolate pudding and some apple— uh, disco fries, a grilled cheese. kind of a smorgasbord.”

i know how to tread lightly with her. it’s a learned behavior. as a kid, i didn’t know how to shut the fuck up. i bit and i scratched and not a day goes by i don’t feel stupid for that. not a day goes by i don’t want to fucking kill that kid. i learn to step lightly because maybe i’ll only be grazed by a bullet. and wouldn’t that be nice, most days.

i’ve gotten better as i’ve gotten older. less stupid. more careful. smart. smarter. i don’t bite. i hide. it’s much safer.

(i like to believe she doesn’t know me better than i know me. she does. i know that, too. she’s very tuned in. i’m very transparent. i telegraph. i hope she’ll ignore me. i bank on it being inconvenient to call me out.)

i fold myself beside her, kneel down, hold out a huge black crop hoodie that’s big and cozy and a black hole. I hope it’s a peace offering enough that it’ll help. i hope anything’ll help.

“harls, you can have or not have whatever you want. just, like, eat something?”

i’ll take anything at this point. i’d make her toast but i don’t want to leave her alone, which is fucking stupid. i literally know she’ll be fine for two minutes and i can see the living room from the kitchen anyway. but i’m difficult, and nothing if not thorough. so ordering half the diner menu it is.

“i will literally make you anything you want. I’ll bake. i don’t care. you want a milkshake? any flavor. i will order salted caramel right the fuck now.”

this is something i’ve done before. more frequently than you’d think. having the adhd child whose tastes rotate constantly is a struggle, but sometimes you make dark chocolate raspberry tarts with your kid at two am because she can’t sleep and you definitely can’t. the night closes in on itself sometimes, and you’re your own diorama. you might as well make it feel good.

› H. Q. ›

glinda watches the emerald-clad man ( for that is exactly what she's come to learn he is. not some deity. not some otherworldly god. ) depart back behind the curtain, like she has many a time before, with a look of disbelief painted across her features. she's gotten better at concealing such a reaction, but there are moments, still, that leave the good witch truly stunned. morrible departs as well, then the monkeys, and she is left with only the crown atop her head and her old schoolmate by her side.

" well, that was just — " blonde turns to blonde, brow scrunched as she wracks her mind for the most nonpartisan response, " — are you as confusified as i am? "

At the mention of her trying his best, he emits an amused snort. Even though she seems less attached to the clown metaphor these days the make up is defintely still something that most normal people wear in Gotham. Or as close to normal any Gothamite can ever be. Although his comment was meant to taunt and tease her, his smile wavers, morphing into something more small and fragile as he lets a beat of silence pass between them.