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.
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I didn't know that's how you were acting. [ If Dick wants him to back off, he's going to have to apply a lot more pressure. Bruce butts back where their foreheads touch, brushes their noses, eyes open and low. He watches Dick's collarbone for tension, watches his own hand sweeping down his throat and thumbing over the hollow there. ] How do you want it different?
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His eyes open, his hand curls around Bruce’s shoulder, his nape. ]
I don’t want it to disappear again.
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Don't know. [ Perhaps it was never there to begin with. ]
Bruce. What does this mean to you? Like, [ A hard swallow, his fingers tangling in dark hair to keep Bruce in place. ] Are you just helping me out right now?
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I would do anything you wanted. [ Given time to understand it, sit with it, process it. The finer points escape him right now, but there must be something to say for his boldness in not doing calculations before talking. ] Isn't that obvious?
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Maybe he's falling for it, but his eyes warm, the chocolate melting as he presses another kiss to Bruce's mouth. ]
No. [ quietly said, patience winding through the tone of dry humour. ]
You know... [ His legs part as he slides his hand down the shape of Bruce's side to draw him in. ] You can count on me to help you, too. If you ever want that.
[ The scent of soap and antiseptic pulls Dick in to taste Bruce's jaw, until he says quietly near the shell of his ear, ] If you...ever want me. Like I want you.
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[ And then there was Dick. So soon. And Bruce still isn't sure what to call it when he can see Dick's pulse chirruping in his throat and it hurts from the back of his tongue to the bottom of his gut--but sure. Maybe that's the name for it. That might be it, with the way it soothes everywhere that they connect. Bruce follows him in, heavy in the arrow of his hips, weight for both their benefit. ]
I want you. [ He says plainly. His palm wraps Dick's throat, gently and firmly pushes him back against the bed where Bruce and look at him. ] Is that clear enough? I want you.
if you are still here for it, no worries if not!!!
Good. [It’s purred as a hand drags all the way up Bruce’s spine until there’s no more space between them, until Dick can press into a desperate, open-mouthed kiss. ]
So good.
[ His other hand guides Bruce’s grasp on his throat until it’s nestled between his parted thighs. ]
You’re the only one…who makes it quiet like this. 'S always been you.