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.
lets do ittt
You're why I'm here.
[ that's more than he should give either of them. ]
Come on. Ready? Three, two--
[ it's sure to hurt. Bruce's body grinds as it moves, its muscles seized by the swelling, its joints grating as Dick lifts as gently as he can. by contrast, he's smooth, steady, solid, and so caring when he tucks Bruce in. he folds into the chair at the bedside again and rests a hand on Bruce's forearm over the sheet, rests his gaze heavy on Bruce's face. ]
Rest. Close your eyes and I'll be right here when you wake up. I promise.
Re: lets do ittt
[ This frustrates him to no end; how fragile his body is, but how stubbornly it resists manipulation by anyone trying to keep it together. Himself, Dick, Alfred--even Dr. Thompkins when she arrives in six hours, fresh off a shift, to stitch his knee together. She calls on Dick and Alfred to support. Bruce assumes that they only manage because he's anaesthetized, that the drugs put his body to sleep as much as his mind. That's frustrating too, but at least he understands the necessity.
[ And, admittedly, it's nice to wake up in the comfort of his bed, even bandaged and sluggish with sedation. Grievous injuries like this aren't common, but they've happened enough times that he knows the procedure. He's allowed to stay here, curtains drawn, while Alfred and Leslie do the math and set schedules. In turn, he has to eat whatever's brought to him, take whatever he's prescribed, and continue resting even past his enjoyment. The first twelve hours are usually luxurious, the remainder hellish. But he knows the procedure.
[ As he relaxes into the structure, though, a thought hits him like a hypnic jerk. He murmurs it outloud: ] Dick.
[ Right here, he promised. Bruce pushes up on his elbows, pain eased by pills and packaging around his ribs so that he can push nearly to a seat to look. ]
no subject
Afterwards, it makes him think in what-ifs, and should-haves as he sinks into an armchair pulled close to the edge of Bruce's bed. The position he assumes is getting too familiar for comfort, and once again, he finds himself taking in Bruce's slumbering face. All that sharpness hidden away, Bruce looks so young like this.
Like that, Dick dozes off too, finally allowing himself to surrender, knowing now that Bruce will be okay. Leaned forward, with his head pillowed on his arms at the edge of Bruce's bed, the tug of sheets below stirs him into motion. He blinks awake, shuffles forward in his seat to immediately sets a hand on Bruce's shoulder. ]
Hey, sleepyhead. [ His voice is close and quiet, husky with sleep as he tries to ease Bruce back down. His smile is tired. ] It's okay. Slow down. What are you looking for?