The ding from the elevator shook Sophie's eyes away the dingy metal walls around her. The doors slid open, revealing the long hall lit by cheap sconces and clad in textured wallpaper aged with time, secondhand smoke, and neglect. The dull laminate flooring was chipped and in obvious need of replacement, and the acoustic panels that lined the ceiling were cheap and half-missing. When Sophie had first laid eyes on the hall she was certain there wasn't a chance in hell she'd ever rent an apartment in the building, but Tyler had been optimistic. The landlord had guided her down the length of the hall and opened the door to reveal a space filled with charm, character, and, with a little bit of elbow grease and love, could be a home.

She traveled the sixteen steps to her door, retrieved a ring of keys from her pocket, and blindly fiddled with them until she found the right one: a second-hand shade of bronze marked with a 'do not duplicate' stamp. The rest clinked dumbly against the door as it slipped into the keyhole. Her fingers had gone through the same motion a thousand times before, and while the movements were no different, there was a lifelessness as she unlocked the door on this day. It was a lifelessness that had her languishing through the last week. The deadbolt snapped clear and the handle lamely clicked open to reveal her flat beyond.

Muscle memory deposited the keys into a nearby tray, slipped the black gloves from her fingers, hung her jacket onto its rightful hook, and placed her shoes at the mat below it. It was automatic, just like the door. Just like the way she scrubbed away the dirt from the funeral that had marked her hands. Like the way she folded a quilt her grandmother made into a perfect rectangle and laid it over the back of her couch. Like the way she lowered the venetian blinds to the same height and adjusted the slats to precisely thirty degrees. Like the way she straightened the stack of coasters sitting on the coffee table.

"Well that's not good."

"Why?" Sophie had asked. It was day two and already she felt at growing odds with her new bunkmate. This wasn't how she wanted her tenure at Point Rock to begin.

"You just made your bed," the tall, opinionated, green-eyed roommate called through the sweatshirt she was pulling over her head.

"So?" A scowl of confusion scrunched over Sophie's brow. "And aren't we supposed to be in uniform today?"

"Are you one of those neat freaks?" she continued, her head poking through the top of the fabric, ignoring Sophie's question.

"If by 'neat freak' you mean 'I make my bed'-"

"You also have coasters," she pointed out as her fingers flexed through the openings of the sleeves.

"I don't want ringstains."

"Are you seventy? Because that might make you the oldest person ever to be accepted into the Academy."

The memory caught in Sophie's throat and with it came a sinking, suffocating loneliness. It was a memory of a rough beginning, but it was one she cherished, not regretted. There were many things she regretted: how things ended years ago, how she'd let her fear of rejection and judgment keep her closeted for the life that followed, how she had lied to the man she'd married, how she'd been too slow and too stubborn to confess to the love of her life that there wasn't a day she wasn't the first and last thought on Sophie's mind.

Fresh tears stung at her eyes as she fell into the couch. Her fingers latched onto the faded quilt she'd just folded, pulling it toward her in comfort. It felt cold against her skin. It wasn't the comfort she wanted. It didn't warm the hollowness inside of her. It didn't mend her broken heart. No, a simple quilt couldn't do those things; no thing could do that. Only a person could. Only one person could. And that person was gone. Forever. That person was now confined to Sophie's mind as a jumble of half-faded memories and the grainy image of a face she'd once known better than her own.

She squeezed her eyes shut, afraid that leaving them open would allow the dam of tears to break down her cheeks again. She was drained from crying, but her body couldn't remember any other emotion.

A single rebellious tear slipped out and rolled down her cheek. She'd already wiped away dozens and was too numb to bring herself to exert the effort so she let it stay. Instead she felt one inconsiderate tear after another sneak past her eyelids and trace a wet path down her face. She curled into a ball, pressing her face into the quilt to suppress the first sob from echoing through the empty apartment.

Like everything else, this too had become automatic.

a/n: For those who follow the Becoming Batwoman series, this has nothing to do with that.

Admittedly, I have not seen a single episode of Season 2. Living in the UK requires too many hurdles to watch the episodes, and I instead plan on binging it once a number of them become available on this side of the pond. That said, I am neurotic and have read all of the synopses to stay up to date. This is a plot line I've had mulling in the back of my head for a while and am finally putting finger to keyboard.

I am trying to stay true to the season 2 plotlines, so if anything is off, please call me out so I can correct it. I already have an ending in mind which might not align with canon though.