You sit on the roof of the old abandoned building that your best friend and you used to hang out in. It still has the dusty old couch and microwave that the two of you used when both of you would hang out. That was four years ago, before you went off to college and he moved an hour away. The two of you never lost touch, but you lost the time to sit and talk or just sit and throw popcorn in each other's mouths.
You know that he is in town, but so is someone else. That someone else is an unexpected and unwelcome visitor that plagues your every thought. You have a six pack of beer by your side that has two empty bottles carelessly tossed next to it. You aren't a drinker at all, no, you learned to steer clear of alcohol when your uncle went to rehab for being an alcoholic when you here sixteen. He relapsed and died months later.
What about this unexpected visitor made you buy a six pack and try and down it?
This visitor is your mother, the one that left when you were eleven. The one that took years to get over and move on even if it was just slightly. She left without a trace and then knocks on your apartment door. How she figured out where you live does matter to you. What matters is that after fourteen years she finally shows up and doesn't care the deep wound she reopened.
So, you sit on the flat roof and let the alcohol numb your every feeling. You hope that it will make you forget everything that has happened in the past forty-eight hours even though the rational part of you know that it won't. Is it bad that all you wish at the moment is that your mother never showed up when years ago you wished nothing but the opposite?
Your head starts to hurt from the thinking or alcohol, you don't know.
You set the third empty beer bottle down and reach for you fourth. Your vision is starting to blur and you know that it is most definitely because of the alcohol. You continue to grope for the half empty pack of beer and find nothing. Breaking your stare at the clouds and look to you right to only find your three empty beer bottles. Something snaps in you that makes you feel the need for the alcohol to wash away your very existence or at least every emotion. You try the other side to find absolutely nothing. You start to panic.
"Drinking. That's a new low for you," an all too familiar voice cuts into your slight panic attack. You whip your head around so the world is even more blurred around you causing a small, painful thud in your head. You squint to see the face of your best friend. The only one that knows of this place.
"Everyone needs a drink now and then." You know that your words are slurred, but you couldn't give a damn. You reach out to the six pack, no, your six pack in his hands. He steps back and you barely catch yourself from face planting on the roof.
"You're drunk," he says as you push your body up and turn your gaze on the six pack again.
"Not drunk enough," you slur standing now. You lunge again for the beer. You stubble into your friend and start falling backwards until one of his strong arms engulf you.
"You said that you never wanted to drink after what happened to your uncle. What suddenly changed that?" You know that he only wants to help, but you push away from his chest to no avail. He was always stronger than you and even more so in your drunken state. You don't want to talk, you just want an escape. The alcohol is your escape and your best friend of sixteen years is standing in the way of that.
"What's it matter? I'm legal." Struggling against his hold on you with only his one arm, your slurring becomes worse. You know that if you were sober you could easily get out of his one armed grasp, but the world is spinning and your life is a mess.
"Barbara, you shut down and hide when emotions get the better of you." You stop struggling. You know that you are in trouble when he uses your name, not your nickname, and there was just something off in his tone. You may be drunk, but you aren't an idiot.
"You are sitting up here alone trying to drink away all of your problems. I know that something is eating at you, and don't deny it." For once you don't stare at the pack of beer in his other hand. You turn your gaze into the distance hind the beer and your friend. Your face becomes stoic and tries to drain itself of emotion. The two of you stay motionless as minutes pass by. All of your thoughts make you dizzy, but only one stands out.
"How did you find me?" You need to know in order to be more careful next time. You hope that there isn't a next time. You don't tear your gaze from the streaks of color that is the distance as you wait for his answer.
"Tim saw you when he was on patrol. I'm in town for the weekend, so he called in my expertise." His voice his strained. The last time you had such a forced conversation was days after your fight when he told you take it easy from only being able to walk for a year and becoming Batgirl again.
The silence is killing you and you know that he won't leave until his initial question is answered: what's wrong?
"She's back in town too." The words come flooding out just to fill the silence. You can feel his studying you. After a moment you work up the courage to look him in the face.
"My mother," you explain. His eyes grow wide in shock. He recovers and continues to watch you carefully.
"After fourteen fucking years, she shows up out of the blue." He sets down the beer and sits pulling you on his lap. You let the emotions and alcohol take over as you let everything out.
"She said that it was Junior that made her leave. He told her that if she didn't he would kill me. You remember that cat that I had and loved so much?" He nodded prompting me to continue. "Junior killed her saying he would do the same if she didn't leave. She became a coward and shied away instead of taking charge. She thinks that after fourteen years everything will be okay again. She shows up when my life is going pretty great, but didn't bother to show her face when The Joker fucking shot me. I could have died and she didn't show up. The Joker is back, that's hell. Add my mother on top of that and Satan might as well be here himself. What does the bastard have against gingers anyway?" You look to your friend for an answer. He has a ghost of a smile and starts to rub comforting circles on your back.
"I don't know I think gingers are pretty awesome," he attempts to cheer me up. You lean into his chest and latch on to his shirt.
"Dick, why does the world need to make you feel like shit when you just felt so happy? What can't it just lay it all on me at once so I can get it over with?" You can't help but ask him these things. He kisses the top of your head before answering, "I don't know, Babs. I don't know."
The two of you stay like that, him rubbing your back and the occasional kiss on the top of your head, until you fall asleep.
The next morning you wake up on the old couch in the warehouse with a raging headache. Dick just gives you an Advil and glass of water. You are grateful, for without him you wouldn't have a rock to help you get by.