Author's Note: I've got to get my ideas organized, but something is starting to come together, no?

Realizations:

The tickle of warmth upon his face was what woke him. Sunlight spilled through the curtains like a thick golden molasses. How long had he slept for? His head throbbed with pain when he finally peeled himself from bed, and he imagined he had only been at rest for a few hours at the most. Stooped at the edge of the mattress, Thomas squinched his eyes to see the time. It was 1:30 in the afternoon. Oh hell, it must have been the--no. He could sleep all day now, he remembered, if he wanted to. In fact, he couldn't think of anything else he would rather do. He turned on his side, facing the opposite direction of the window, and gently pulled the pillow over his eyes.

There was a light rap at the door. Thomas groaned. If he stayed quiet enough, they might leave. It was possible. The curtains fluttered as he waited. Another knock. They were not going to go away. He wrenched himself from the sheets and slid on the pair of pants he was wearing last night, buttoning them only as the door creaked open. It was the woman from before, this time, wearing a short white sweater and a metallic skirt that hugged her hips lightly. She smiled cheerfully, holding up a large red coffee pot, and pushed passed him before he had even invited her in. The door closed and the entire apartment quaked.

"Mornin', honey!" she chirped, wiggling her way into the kitchen. She set the coffee machine on the counter and went to the sink to fill it up with water. Soon, the small apartment was stirring with the tang of rich Italian coffee and Clarice's idle chattering. Thomas sat on a kitchen stool attentively, watching as she bustled between the stove top and the wooden cabinet. He found the airy movements of her body as she poured the coffee into two ceramic mugs comforting. It perplexed him, but he graciously accepted the steaming cup, thanking her with the simple nod of her head. Did those in similar situations always look out for each other? Was that the difference in nature between the wealthy and the deficit? That they helped one another? Thomas' head spun with unanswered questions. He felt as juvenile and clumsy as he'd felt when he'd first walked through the doors of his high school, but this—this was worse.

"You're not much for conversation are you?" Clarice prodded in her lazy southern droll. She perched herself across from him, on the counter, the entire lower half of her face vanishing behind the brim of the mug. She held a shapely leg out in front of her, dangling her toes above the tile. Her expression remained unchanged; she gazed at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

"You realize that entering other people's homes barefooted is high unsanitary."

There, his counterattack. Aimed and fired. Clarice's large copper eyes flashed with mysterious excitement and the round, white slope of her face bloomed crimson.

"Oh!" She gasped slightly, and then chuckled to herself, tucking her foot behind her opposite leg. "I'm sorry! Sometimes I forget where I am. That other people aren't like the way I was raised up, y'know."

So do I, Thomas thought, wrapping his hands protectively around the mug's fading warmth. With a relatively dark aspect to his chiseled face, he studied her temporarily. She didn't catch on immediately, as she was still curiously regarding the scars that brushed across his forearms and his cheekbones.

"It's unhygienic, regardless," he said bluntly. Clarice's eyes darted between him and the window, as if wrenching herself from examining his past faults was unbearable.

"No matter," He pushed the mug to the other side of the table, the lighter tone in his voice indicating the change of subject, "Where are you from?"

"Atlanta," Clarice replied, a bit quietly now. She stared blankly into the coffee cup, sloshing its contents, cleared her throat and continued. "I never cared much for what doctors said. Once one told me I had better stop smokin', when I was carrying lil' Nelson. He said, 'Y'know what kind of affect that'll have on your unborn child, miss?'"

She paused for a moment, to set the coffee down, and laughed. "I told him, 'Sure thing Doc. My child will never have a weight problem. Also, my baby will be able to live in Pittsburgh, Detroit or L.A. and be able to handle it. My little guy will be immune to nuclear war!'"

A faint smile flickered across Thomas' face as she waved her hands around to make her point.

"He came out fine, Nelson did, just fatherless. Told my mother about it on the phone when it happened, she wasn't mad at me one bit for making the choice I made. We do what we can, we keep moving forward. An' that's what I live by. "

We keep moving forward. It left Thomas in a thoughtful state of mind for the rest of the day. The question was; where did he go from here? The claws of remorse and the pride that held his chest tightly had loosened just enough for him to consider getting a job. There was no argument that he felt lost inside of his own head. Uncertainty was not something he had to battle with before, as Hush: when his life and his purpose were confounded to one form, one obstacle. He had to grit his teeth and admit that now was the time to move on with the rest of the world, or be left behind in the dust, like so many of Arkham's patients, trapped forever, rotting away in their cells.

Arkham. In the dark, it seemed threatening. He shuddered at the thought, but perhaps it was there that he could find the answers to his troubles. It was there after all, where his former allies and adversaries would rest. Thomas laid his options in front of him. The death of Batman had truly taken its toll. Bruce had destroyed every aspect of his life thus far, yet now, there was nothing left to accomplish. Now, he played the waiting game.