Grief By Proxy ("12 Missed Calls")
a/n: I AM DOWN WITH THE SICKNESS. Strep throat. It sucks. So I was totally not motivated at all but I needed to move the story forward. accept my offering please.
tw: none
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Yandere! Batfam x AFAB! Reader x Neglected! Wayne! AFAB! OC
Celeste never missed picture day.
She complained to you – only you – every semester about how she’d rather have her head caved in than deal with the constant fussing of the photographer's assistant, who combed through her thin hair with the persnickety precision of a high-end pet groomer right before a show. Yet when her name was finally called, she was always poised and perfect. Going alphabetically, most students would grow tired as time ticked by tediously, but Celeste never seemed to lose her shine. Although, she would have to sit after standing in line for so long.
That semester’s picture of Celeste peeked out at you from the crowd of students forming around the TV. You couldn’t see much, but you didn’t need to. She’d shown it to you the moment she got her copy.
Chuckling, she waved the photo at you one day. “Damn, they really chose the worst background this year. I look like a corpse, right?”
You would have argued – she looked no different to you – but she said it so lightly and with that look like she expected you to agree, so you caved very quickly and agreed with your own nervous laugh. It turned more genuine when Celeste fell into a fit of laughter herself.
But the laughter of that memory could only linger for a moment, fragile and sharp like a shard of glass, before reality cruelly pressed back into your buzzing brain.
“…Wayne family representatives have asked for privacy during this time—” The news anchor’s voice was tinny and low from what you could hear over the crowded murmuring, like a funeral knell, but his gaze didn’t shift an inch from the camera.
“Wait – seriously?” The question was asked in awe and disbelief.
“Celestine? She’s dead?” Someone else muttered, eyes wide as they scanned the room for confirmation.
More phones appeared, students scrambling to check if the news was already circulating online. Your own phone was just barely slipping from your limp hand, but you could not bring yourself to look away from the obscured TV as static roared in your ears.
“Oh my god,” A girl whispered, staring wide eyed at her screen, “It’s real.”
“No way, I saw her at last month’s winter gala. She looked fine.” A boy added, voice rising over the murmuring.
“Wasn’t she sick or something?”
“A condition, I think.”
“I thought that was just a rumor–”
“She’s always been sick.” The words came out from your mouth, croaking and horse, but you didn’t realize you said them until most of the crowd turned to you, now hushed.
It took a beat of silence for you to realize they were waiting for more, staring at you in confusion, some curiosity, and a smidge of irritation, as if you were the intruder. As you walked uneasily to the TV, the crowd parted down the middle as you got closer.
“She’s always been like that.” It sounded weak to even you, but the words wouldn’t stop, “But she wasn’t…
You choked, throat both too dry and too tight, and started again, “She couldn’t… she’d never… just—”
They shifted, uneasy, as whispers began to start up once again, more subdued and almost suspicious, ”What? Did you know her or something?”
Your eyes darted to a boy, mousy and nondescript, and you wondered what he saw because he backed away half a step and said almost defensively, “I mean, I didn’t know her, is all I’m saying–”
“She was kind of quiet, I think.” Another girl offered her thoughts cautiously.
“Not that quiet. I saw her talking with–”
“Yeah, I mean, she was nice too. Really polite.”
“It’s really sad. Poor Celestine…”
Quiet. Nice. Polite.
Your bark of laughter was harsh and cracked through the muttering like a fissure through the ground. Now they were looking at you in astonishment, like they couldn’t think someone could break the tentative grief so boldly.
It came out wrong.
Too sharp. Too loud.
You clapped a hand over your mouth a second too late, but the sound had already landed.
“What the hell?” someone whispered.
A few students shifted away from you instinctively, the fragile sympathy that had been building in the room turning brittle. You tried to stop, but another breath of laughter slipped out, thinner this time, almost desperate.
“Quiet,” you repeated hoarsely, like you were tasting the word. “Nice. Polite.”
They stared as you retreated shamelessly from the room, hands fumbling with your own phone once the door slammed shut behind you.
The hallway outside was dim and mercifully empty, even if you could vaguely hear someone turning the TV’s volume up.
Breaths coming out harsh and ragged, you leaned against the wall as if you had run further than the length of the corridor.
Your phone nearly slipped from your hands, the screen lighting up when your thumb brushed it.
10% battery remaining.
Your messages opened automatically.
There it was.
Hey you good?
Sent.
No reply.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, staring at the text as your thumb hovered over the keyboard.
It felt almost stupid, now that you think about it. Small and insignificant, like something you wrote in another lifetime. You wanted to text something – anything – but the words couldn't come to you as readily as usual.
Instead you opened your call history.
There near the top, Celeste’s name sat, bright and ordinary, and you pressed it before you could think better of it.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The hallway felt too narrow suddenly, the overhead lights buzzing faintly above you as the ringing stretched on and on.
You could only imagine where she should have been answering.
She would be sprawled across a chaise like some tragic, fainting heroine, all pale skin and languid limbs. Her hair was thin but still faintly coiffed, fine strands clinging to the upholstery with static while others stuck to her clammy face. Beneath the chandelier’s glow, the flush in her cheeks looked almost artificial, and her pale lashes turned nearly translucent in the light. In the distance, Alfred would fuss over her, but only in a manner fitting for the dignified Wayne family, while the condensation on a barely touched glass of ice water began to bead. Maybe she’d have a bay window open to let the night air in, even if it left her in another fit of coughs.
The phone rang again, and your teeth dug into your bottom lip as your throat tightened.
“Come on,” you whispered under your breath.
Just as the call threatened to drop into voicemail, you heard it—
A click.
Your heart lurched.
But instead of her voice, a calm, unfamiliar recording filled the silence.
“The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.”
You didn’t freeze immediately. It was more like a slow coldness began to spread from the tips of your fingers to the depths of your chest cavity.
The message repeated itself, obliviously to the cold sweat you broke out in.
“Please try again later.”
Then it went dead and, for a moment you simply stood there, the phone still pressed to your ear, listening to nothing.
Slowly, your arm dropped, your thumb hovering just barely over the screen again.
The battery warning blinked once more.
9%.
Somewhere behind the door, you heard her name again.
“–Celestine Wayne.”
They said it like a stranger’s name.
Celestine.
Not Celeste.
Never Celeste.
You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the cold tile floor, phone still clutched in your hand.
Celeste had promised you a plant.
A stupid little succulent.
“Those are impossible to kill,” she had said, grinning like she had just solved the greatest problem in your damn life.
Your chest tightened.
The phone dimmed in your palm as the battery drained.
You dialed again.
And again.
And again.
Until it died.
“The number you are trying to reach is currently unav-” Click “Hello” “...” “Hello? Who is this?” “...Celeste.” “Wh-” “Celeste. Where is she?” “...” “What happened?”
a/n: vague hint of the next chapter at the end just. for. YOU
