are you bruce wayne? are you sure? (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wingedfreak) wrote2022-05-04 06:13 pm
wingedfreak) wrote2022-05-04 06:13 pm
days in the circus
Gotham City is in standing water. It laps up in basements and first floors, gnawing steadily at the foundations of the city. He acknowledges how lucky he is that the Wayne Tower was built industrial, as he's reminded every day that he comes back to the cave and peels out of the wet suit after long hours of pulling people out of rotted buildings. Still, the stone floors still boast up to four inches of water when it rains. He's lost a databank that will need to be rebuilt from the ground up. The set up has been moved upstairs, where light mold is already nipping into the plaster. It will have to go somewhere else soon, so that the scheduled maintenance crew doesn't trip over it.
He can't think of where it will go yet. He's tired. His self-preservational instincts were long gone weeks ago, and now that Alfred is home (easily winded and heavily medicated, yes, but home), Bruce finds he can't be bothered to decide what needs doing for his own good. At least, not till Dory wakes him up fussily, yanking curtains open and chittering about the mess in the master suite. He strains to puzzle out what she's talking about (it's dusty, just dust it, who cares?) until she mutters something about Satanica and he realizes what mess she means.
Riddler's mess. Renewal's mess. He feels more tired for realizing.
His parents' room had been untouched for years. The memory of it feels like a dream, as does most of the long week that led Bruce to vandalizing it with his research. All the fanatical zeal that had come with him into the room then is gone, though, and he can't help feeling silly when he goes in just before sun down and sees just what Dory complained of. It looks like a klatch of cooler-tipsy teenagers has been here. Bruce leaves only a few seconds after he enters, opting to prepare first with coffee with Alfred in the kitchen, a few pointers on how to scrub spray paint off of the wood floors, and the appropriate cleaning supplies.
The crew isn't supposed to come yet, Bruce notes to himself as he applies a paste along the paint marks. It must be later than he thought, and the crew is coming tomorrow. Maybe he's lost track of the days. Maybe he's more of a mess than he thought just yesterday. Two days ago? Earlier today? Bruce fumes over collecting his documents and sorting them on his parents bed--but the annoyance sharpens to alertness when he hears an unfamiliar footfall echo up the hall. Heavy, quick, steady--young and probably male. Not the snappy sound of his quiet staff or Dory's shuffle, not Alfred's cane-assisted lumber. It can't be tomorrow already...
A glance out the window tells him that he's right: it's only mid-evening, well past the time anyone should be stopping by for work. Drifting into the door frame, Bruce bends his head down the dark hall to listen. The steps meet Dory's a floor lower, a corridor down. He can't pick out the words, but the voice is distinct and strange to this house. At this time of night, after all of this mess, the idea of strangeness in his house is unacceptable. Bruce doesn't bother with the lights as he slips (silent, shoeless under his sweatpants) into the hall. He wants eyes on the interloper before they get eyes on him.
no subject
The quiet feels filled with unsaid words. And has Bruce ever placed a hand on him before? Dick's eyes lift to his mouth as the words are hemmed back. What is it that Bruce wants to say? The words that come don't seem to be it, even if the promise of wanting to talk starts to prickle hopefully in his chest.
What is it? What did he say that seemed to work? Dick's inhale is slow and steady, as he drops the duvet to squeeze Bruce's grip on his arm.
"After dinner."