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the-cookie-of-doom · 7 months

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Pregnant Kim anon here again, please know that after I sent that I decided to “warm up” by outlining an entire fic and didn’t get any novel writing done lol. I would love a snippet full of ANGST because I think Kim deserves it right now for what he’s done to my brain

asdfjhagsdjfh VALID! ALL OF THAT IS VALID!

Here is your angst, my darling. I realized I actually don't have a ton of the pregnancy itself written yet, so here's a little bit (lol. it's over 1k, I got carried away) that happens soon after the birth. Kim has horrible post-partum depression thanks to everything that happens in this fic. TW for graphic description of depression and implied suicidal ideation

Chay entered the bedroom to find Kim beneath the covers still, at nearly three in the afternoon. Curled up on his side, tears steadily leaking from the corner of his eye every time he blinked, making a wet spot on the pillow beneath his cheek. He wasn’t even really crying. His eyes were just wet, and that wetness was dripping, and Kim had long since given up on trying to stop it.

Chay didn’t ask, are you okay? Because he already knew what the answer would be. Instead he climbed onto the bed and spooned up behind Kim, and asked him, “What are you thinking about?”

“It’s not real.”

“What isn’t?”

“This. The depression. All of it. It feels real. It feels awful. But it isn’t. It’s just hormones and chemicals. It’s not me.” Kim didn’t sniffle, or sob, or sigh. His voice didn’t change from the even, monotonous quality it always had when he was trying not to feel. He just breathed. Closed his eyes against a fresh wave of tears, not that it did anything to halt their fall. “I thought once it was over, everything would be okay. I would be free. But it’s never going to stop, is it? There’s no normal for me to go back to. Just this.”

“P’Kim—” Chay’s voice cracked. He swallowed back what sounded like the beginnings of a sob and buried his face in the back of Kim’s neck. Weeks of exposure to Kim’s moods hasn’t made them any easy to handle, not least of all because he knew there’s nothing for him to do. He couldn’t take away this pain. “Please don’t talk like that. It is going to be okay. This isn’t forever. The doctor said it would take at least a month for your medicine to start working—it has to build up in your system, remember? Then everything will be okay.”

Kim didn’t say that the antidepressants only made him feel worse. Blunted him. Blurred any scrap of goodness he could cling too, until it was part of the same empty haze as everything else. He didn’t say that there was no drug strong enough to mask the bone-deep repulsion he felt every time he cradled his daughter to his breast to nurse. Nothing that could make him forget her conception when the pain of her birth was a constant reminder. He didn’t say anything at all.

Chay squeezed his arm around Kim’s middle, between his aching, swollen breasts, and his aching, swollen incision. Squeezed tight enough that it should have hurt if Kim were capable of feeling anything at all.

“You’re scaring me, P’Kim,” Chay whispered, holding Kim so tight he could hardly breathe. That was alright. He didn’t need to breathe.

“I love you, Chay. Thank you for staying with me. I… I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner. Or that I did, I shouldn’t have—right before—” Before he nearly died. He shouldn’t have said it then. In what he thought were his last moments, he needed Chay to know. But it was selfish to let those be his last words to the boy.

“Thank you for telling me. I’m glad you did. And I love you, too, P’Kim, so much. You are so, so loved, and someday soon, all of this is going to be better, okay? You just have to hold on until then.” Chay’s voice turned near-manic as it fully dawned on him just what he was bargaining for. “Promise me, Kim. Promise me you won’t leave again.”

“I promise.” A mechanical admission in that dull voice, but no less true. Kim found Chay’s hand where it was pressed over his beating heart and laced their fingers together.

Kim knew Chay would no doubt tell their brothers about his alarming mood, and they would no doubt take him back to the doctor. He knew about the lists Chay had printed out and hidden away in his desk, spread across three pages and outlining the symptoms of baby blues, postpartum depression, and psychosis, with little checked boxes to track him. He’d filled out nearly half the page for depression before ever leaving the hospital.

Kim wondered how many ticks he got on the last page before they took him away for good. Before they took his daughter away. Maybe they should; she would no doubt be better off without him. He hadn’t even wanted to keep her. Had nearly bled out moments after meeting her. Maybe it was a sign he wasn’t meant to have her at all.

“Make sure Kiah’s taken care of,” Kim said softly, his face half-buried in the pillows. “I can’t—I’m not good for her. If I can’t take care of her, you’ll find someone who will, won’t you?” Kim went through too much to bring her into this world, he wouldn’t let her suffer for his own unwillingness to give her up, if that’s what it took to offer a better life.

Behind him, Chay swallowed thickly.

“Of course, P’Kim. I’ll make sure she’s always safe and loved.”

The weight that’s been hung around Kim’s shoulders since he made the decision to bring Kiah home finally lifted, a relief he didn’t know he needed. He sighed and sank back into Chay’s warm embrace, the tension finally melting out of his body, and squeezed the hand still lying over his heart.

“You’re safe and loved, too,” Chay said. “You have me, and Porsche, and your brothers, and P’Pol, and P’Arm, and P’Big. We’re all going to make sure both of you are safe and loved and taken care of. I won’t leave you alone again, P’Kim. Not ever.”

Kim didn’t doubt it. He never had. All this time, Chay’s love—the love of his family—has been an unwavering presence, cutting through the misery that’s cloaked him these last nine months. Kim didn’t know how to express that to Chay. That there was nothing to worry about. Kim wouldn’t hurt himself, with or without their constant supervision. He didn’t want to. He was only acknowledging the unrelenting misery he felt every waking moment, and accepting that it would likely follow him for the rest of his life. He didn’t prefer it, but he knew it was inevitable that these feelings would continue to be his constant companions.

However he may feel, Kim knew he owed it to his daughter to be the best father he could be for her. And if his best wasn’t good enough, he would find someone that could give her what she deserved. Even still, Kim appreciated the reassurance. Appreciated Chay, for the way the younger boy has stayed at his side for so long, seen him through so much horror and heartbreak, and would show that appreciation however he could. Even if the most he could do was hold his hand and promise not to leave.

#cookie writes #kimchay #dystocia #trans kim having the worlds WORST time in this fic #sorry sweetheart #also lol fun fact #i wrote this when i was in the middle of my own late night depression spiral #this is practically a diary entry #definitely helps with the realism when you Aggressively Project

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confessedlyfannish · 6 months

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Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"