justprompts: It's six am. What are you doing?
((Set Monday morning, about this, with Pepper stolen with a whole lot of love.))
At six, he's thinking.
The sun hasn't yet come up, and he's taken Greta out for a long jog, and instead of going through with the rest of his morning routine, he sits on his bed thinking.
Penny's in the next room, still sound asleep. He used to get up later than this, but times have changed. And yet he simply can't go through with it.
He spent many hours after his brother's refusal to help simply sitting on a park bench thinking about his life. It had been an extremely low point, using all that time trying to figure out what went wrong, what went right, and what just went, trying desperately to hold all the pieces in place without losing them all.
Castiel had asked him what conclusions he had come to, and the list was very long. It was like someone had batted away all the dust and cobwebs and flicked a light on in the attic of his head. It wasn't happy, and it wasn't fun, but it felt right. It was the most right he had felt in a month.
And then he seemed to be okay for a few days after that. He was okay with everything he had tried to figure out about himself, numb to the fact that he really just wanted to sit down and cry and punch out some windows. He was fine with it all, laughing with Brooke and patching things up with Rachel and being normal. It felt normal for a few days, though somehow a little hollow.
This morning, he thinks, and he thinks he can't feel normal today.
It hadn't all seemed real before. He could've said the most intensely awful things and simply laughed them off. Now it was like falling into a deep well. It's not ironic or funny now. It's a weight. It's a problem.
But he doesn't know what to do about it, so he figures he would have to simply keep at it.
He turns on his cell phone--hadn't gotten a call from Rachel last night but chalks it up to any number of things--and is surprised to see a number of messages left on it. It's Pepper. Early in the morning, just a few hours ago. Has he seen the news yet? Has he heard about Rachel?
His gut clenches. He hasn't turned on the tv yet or been online, but the voicemails fill him in. Rachel. Bruce. Hurt. Car accident. Bad. Critical.
Rachel.
There's no time. No time for self-pity or any pity at all, no time for thinking, no time for anything but to quickly scribble a note to Penny, 'gone to Gotham, emergency, don't know when I'll be back', almost illegible with the speed of his writing before he's out the door, on the phone, getting a ticket, the soonest flight out.
At seven, he's tripping out of a cab and running through the doors of Gotham General. He has to fight through press, a lot of bodies waiting to write about the golden boy of Gotham and his sweetheart, and flashbulbs go off near him, but he pays them no mind. It's not an unfamiliar sight to everyone in the hospital apparently, as almost nobody takes note of him as he skids to a stop in front of one of the receptionists.
She's in surgery. The word critical comes up again. He demands to be informed the second she's out.
Even though it had started as nothing more than a small joke between them, he takes his duty as her big brother seriously. When he's asked if he's family, he says yes without thinking. That is his sister in there, and nothing can keep him from her. Eventually his gaffe is worked out, and he's told to sit and wait like everyone else.
At eight, he's pacing. He's seen Pepper once, but they exchanged nothing except worried glances.
He feels a little selfish, worrying so much for Rachel when her boyfriend is also being worked on. Worse than her, he's heard. But Bruce isn't someone Billy's come to be particularly fond of. Rachel is family. But he hopes--
He prays, in fact.
He prays that they both make it out okay, because he knows that if Rachel loses someone else, there won't be anything left of her worth pulling from the darkness.
He allows all of the concern to fill up everything that feels empty in him, falling back on old habits of caring more for others than himself. It might be turning him into a ragged mess, unshaven, uncombed, only something he kicked out of a vending machine to call his breakfast, but it's truly better than nothing.
A few rumors go around now and then, whispered through the waiting room, through the press, through the nurses. Some about being out of surgery, some about being dead, some just crazy, dismissed and brought up and dismissed again. He pays no attention to that as much as he can.
When he finds out that she's out of surgery and stable, he feels like crying with joy, and the press, when they get wind of it, go crazy and demand a conference with doctors and surgeons. Any scoop is better than no scoop, but he doesn't hear a lot of it, because he's running through the halls, trying his best not to bowl anyone or anything over.
It's hard convincing people that he should be allowed to see her, especially just out of surgery, and, well, he's not exactly rich and famous. Pepper's seeing her, in fact, and he decides that's the way it should be. He can wait a few extra minutes, certainly. He feels like he can wait forever now, now that she's okay. Now that he knows she'll be okay.
At six, he's thinking.
The sun hasn't yet come up, and he's taken Greta out for a long jog, and instead of going through with the rest of his morning routine, he sits on his bed thinking.
Penny's in the next room, still sound asleep. He used to get up later than this, but times have changed. And yet he simply can't go through with it.
He spent many hours after his brother's refusal to help simply sitting on a park bench thinking about his life. It had been an extremely low point, using all that time trying to figure out what went wrong, what went right, and what just went, trying desperately to hold all the pieces in place without losing them all.
Castiel had asked him what conclusions he had come to, and the list was very long. It was like someone had batted away all the dust and cobwebs and flicked a light on in the attic of his head. It wasn't happy, and it wasn't fun, but it felt right. It was the most right he had felt in a month.
And then he seemed to be okay for a few days after that. He was okay with everything he had tried to figure out about himself, numb to the fact that he really just wanted to sit down and cry and punch out some windows. He was fine with it all, laughing with Brooke and patching things up with Rachel and being normal. It felt normal for a few days, though somehow a little hollow.
This morning, he thinks, and he thinks he can't feel normal today.
It hadn't all seemed real before. He could've said the most intensely awful things and simply laughed them off. Now it was like falling into a deep well. It's not ironic or funny now. It's a weight. It's a problem.
But he doesn't know what to do about it, so he figures he would have to simply keep at it.
He turns on his cell phone--hadn't gotten a call from Rachel last night but chalks it up to any number of things--and is surprised to see a number of messages left on it. It's Pepper. Early in the morning, just a few hours ago. Has he seen the news yet? Has he heard about Rachel?
His gut clenches. He hasn't turned on the tv yet or been online, but the voicemails fill him in. Rachel. Bruce. Hurt. Car accident. Bad. Critical.
Rachel.
There's no time. No time for self-pity or any pity at all, no time for thinking, no time for anything but to quickly scribble a note to Penny, 'gone to Gotham, emergency, don't know when I'll be back', almost illegible with the speed of his writing before he's out the door, on the phone, getting a ticket, the soonest flight out.
At seven, he's tripping out of a cab and running through the doors of Gotham General. He has to fight through press, a lot of bodies waiting to write about the golden boy of Gotham and his sweetheart, and flashbulbs go off near him, but he pays them no mind. It's not an unfamiliar sight to everyone in the hospital apparently, as almost nobody takes note of him as he skids to a stop in front of one of the receptionists.
She's in surgery. The word critical comes up again. He demands to be informed the second she's out.
Even though it had started as nothing more than a small joke between them, he takes his duty as her big brother seriously. When he's asked if he's family, he says yes without thinking. That is his sister in there, and nothing can keep him from her. Eventually his gaffe is worked out, and he's told to sit and wait like everyone else.
At eight, he's pacing. He's seen Pepper once, but they exchanged nothing except worried glances.
He feels a little selfish, worrying so much for Rachel when her boyfriend is also being worked on. Worse than her, he's heard. But Bruce isn't someone Billy's come to be particularly fond of. Rachel is family. But he hopes--
He prays, in fact.
He prays that they both make it out okay, because he knows that if Rachel loses someone else, there won't be anything left of her worth pulling from the darkness.
He allows all of the concern to fill up everything that feels empty in him, falling back on old habits of caring more for others than himself. It might be turning him into a ragged mess, unshaven, uncombed, only something he kicked out of a vending machine to call his breakfast, but it's truly better than nothing.
A few rumors go around now and then, whispered through the waiting room, through the press, through the nurses. Some about being out of surgery, some about being dead, some just crazy, dismissed and brought up and dismissed again. He pays no attention to that as much as he can.
When he finds out that she's out of surgery and stable, he feels like crying with joy, and the press, when they get wind of it, go crazy and demand a conference with doctors and surgeons. Any scoop is better than no scoop, but he doesn't hear a lot of it, because he's running through the halls, trying his best not to bowl anyone or anything over.
It's hard convincing people that he should be allowed to see her, especially just out of surgery, and, well, he's not exactly rich and famous. Pepper's seeing her, in fact, and he decides that's the way it should be. He can wait a few extra minutes, certainly. He feels like he can wait forever now, now that she's okay. Now that he knows she'll be okay.