Title comes from the poem Solitude by Lewis Carroll.

This fic includes some references to suicidal thoughts, which are fairly mild and not thought about in any particular depth, but they do exist. If that might be triggering to you, please take care of yourself in whatever way you need.

There's only one way in or out of the backstage room. A small, distant part of Mary thinks that's probably a fire safety violation. For a moment, she imagines what it would be like if the entire building went up in flames, consuming her and the body she still holds, burning them away until nothing is left.

Would it feel so different than Mary feels right now?

Her mother is dead. Her mother is dead, and her body is half draped across Mary's lap, and Mary drank the antidote so she survived but she doesn't feel like she did. She feels numb, detached, like she's somewhere far from all of this, somewhere where nothing can touch her. She's somewhere beyond grief right now, but she knows that won't last. She knows the shock will wear off - and she knows it's shock, she's in med school - and she knows everything will hit her when it does, and she knows she's not strong enough to bear it alone. She will crumble, and she will drown, and honestly, it probably would have been better for everyone if Mary's mother had drank the antidote instead of her.

There's a commotion outside, but Mary hardly cares. She shifts, just a little, and her mother's body echoes the motion, her hand flopping lifelessly to her side. Her fingertips brush against the teacup, and Mary looks down at it. So small, so delicate, so innocuous. One teacup full of antidote. What does the bottle say in Alice in Wonderland? Drink me. But only one of them could, only one of them could live, and Mary is abruptly so furious that she picks up the teacup and hurls it at the door, just to see it smash into a million pieces.

A moment after the teacup shatters, someone breaks the door in. Mary should probably be worried, but she's not, and then it turns out she doesn't have to be, because the person who just burst in is Batwoman.

"Where were you?" Mary rasps. Her voice is hoarse and sounds awful, which just matches how she feels. "Alice was here. Where were you?"

"I'm sorry," Batwoman says, and at least she sounds as if she genuinely means it. "She had a diversion, she distracted me, I-" She stops, and her jaw works for a moment. "I'm so sorry, Mary."

"Sorry won't bring my mother back," Mary says, and she bursts into tears.

It's not fair to blame Batwoman and she knows it. The poison was in the champagne, and they drank that on the way to the gala. There was nothing Batwoman could have done to stop them. And she knows it's not really fair to blame her for not stopping Alice either, because she's clearly been trying, but maybe if she tried harder-

It's clear that Batwoman isn't very good at comforting people, but she does her best, putting a hand on Mary's shoulder and holding it just tight enough to be grounding. She doesn't apologize again, and she doesn't tell Mary to stop crying. She just waits until Mary is done, and then she quietly says, "We should get you out of here. Can you walk?"

"I can't leave my mom," Mary says. "I- I know she's dead, but I can't-"

"There are ambulances on their way," Batwoman says. "Do you want to wait for them?"

Not really, but Mary is a medical student, and she knows she really should go to a hospital after ingesting poison, even if she's taken what Alice claimed was an antidote. She nods.

"Do you want me to stay with you?" Batwoman asks.

Mary looks up at her in surprise. "Don't you need to go? Batwoman doesn't usually seem to stick around."

"Alice got away while I was fighting her goons," Batwoman says. "She knows I know a few of her hideouts, so she'll go to ground now. I'm not going to be able to find her tonight. Besides, I don't think you should be alone."

"I don't want to be alone," Mary admits, her voice breaking over the words.

"Then you won't be," Batwoman says. "I'll stay right here."

Mary swallows hard, trying to push back her tears. "Thank you."

"I lost my mom too," Batwoman says, a bit awkwardly. "I know it's not the same for any two people, but I have an idea of how you feel right now. My family didn't let me go through that alone, and I won't let you go through this alone."

Mary chokes out a laugh. "My family probably will, though," she says. "My step-dad is missing, God knows where, and Kate..."

She doesn't want to think about Kate.

"Is Kate your sister?" Batwoman asks.

"Step-sister," Mary corrects. "And she hates - hated - my mom, and I think she hates me, and-" She hesitates for a moment, then bursts out, "And Alice is her sister, so she cares more her than me, even though Alice is an awful, murderous, psychotic bitch and- and-"

And Mary could really, really use a sister right now.

"Look," Batwoman says quietly, after a long pause. "I don't know your step-sister, but I don't think anyone could hate you. And even if Alice is her sister... There are some things you can't come back from, even with family."

"Try telling Kate that," Mary grumbles, but the words give her a tiny spark of hope. Maybe, maybe, this will finally show Kate what Alice really is, and maybe, Mary will finally get to have a sister.

"Hey," she adds suddenly, "the whole thing about her being Alice's sister... You're not going to use Kate as bait for Alice or something, are you? Cause that would not be cool."

Batwoman's red-painted lips curve into the smallest of smiles. "I won't, I promise."

"Good," Mary says. "Because I think I'm gonna need her."

Batwoman squeezes her shoulder lightly. "You'll make it through this. I know it's hard, and I know it doesn't feel like you can keep going, but you're stronger than you know. You can do this."

Mary makes the mistake of looking down, and she sees her mother's face, and her throat seizes up. "I know you're a superhero and we don't really know each other," she manages to force out, "but can I have a hug?"

Batwoman pulls her into an embrace without another word. It's not exactly comfortable, given the amount of body armor she's wearing, but she's warm and solid and alive, and she cares, and Mary does her best not to cry all over her local superhero but completely fails. To her credit, Batwoman just keeps holding her, rubbing her back gently, and she doesn't say a word.

The paramedics come before too long, and they put Mary in an ambulance and her mother in a body bag. Batwoman melts into the shadows in the commotion, but Mary has the feeling she's still watching. At least someone is.

She goes to the hospital, and then she goes to her clinic, still in her bloodstained dress, and she yells at Kate and she smashes things and she screams and cries and wishes she weren't alone. She wishes Batwoman would come back, and maybe she could get another hug.

But the person who comes through her clinic doors isn't Batwoman, it's Kate.

"I went home, and you weren't there," she says. "Mary, I- I am so sorry. I know it doesn't change anything, but I am so, so-"

And Mary throws herself forward into Kate's arms, and Kate stumbles backwards but manages to hold her steady, and Mary bursts into tears for the millionth time that night. "I'm so sorry," Kate whispers into her hair as she rubs her back with almost frantic motions. "I should have been there, I'm so sorry. Dad and I are going to stop Alice, we're going to do it, I'm so, so sorry-"

And Alice is out there somewhere, and the real Jacob Kane is in a jail cell while his murderous doppelgänger is still on the loose, and Mary's mother… Mary's mother is gone, but Kate is here, holding Mary like she'll never let go, and it's not enough to change the past but it's something. Kate is here, and that's something.

And the numbness is gone and the grief has arrived in its place, and it's trying to bury Mary alive, it's trying to drown her, but maybe, just maybe, she can learn how to swim.