twd: log, bruce and selina Who: Bruce & Selina What: Surviving in zombie land. (2/2) Where: TWD door. When: Past couple weeks → nowish. Warnings/Rating: Violence, dead things.
"Tim is angry." It was a deliberate end to the sentence. "He's angry at Damian, and he's angry at Dickie, and he's angry at you. He's probably angry at people I don't even know he's angry at. He doesn't know where he fits, and it's easy to blame the fact that he doesn't on you. I know. I did it too. And then I blamed Eddie. It took me a long time to realize there wasn't anyone to blame. He'll get there, Bruce. They'll all get there." She reached out and touched his knee when he said it wasn't fair to put the pressure of the cowl on Dick. "I think he thought he wanted it. I think he can't handle it now that he has it. It's easy, Bruce, to sit somewhere afield and think you could do a better job than someone else. Dickie's learning the hard way that it isn't always the case. He's too nice. He's not hard enough with them. Damian keeps threatening people, and Dickie defends him, and then people like Tim and Jason leave. It's a ghost town these days. I've got the East End, all the way to the Narrows, and I'm the only one patrolling there."
She was a drag of breath when he asked about Ra's. She knew it wasn't logical, but the man was her demon, and she could see him whenever she closed her eyes. "All of it. I don't know. I think about him, about dying, about how bad things were with the plague, and I can't breathe. I think about that lab, Tony dead in a chair, and how crazy I felt when I pulled out the Pit IV, and it scares me." Her voice was small when she said it, and she knew that was a liability. "I was going to meet Damian to go to the Pit Ra's used, exorcise some demons before it becomes a problem, but I ended up here." When he apologized about the bomb, she moved a little closer, and she was a quiet crawl, a wide circle until she was at his side, back against the wall and shoulder against his. "Don't worry. I'm not in a clawing mood, and I forgave you for the bomb a long time ago, Bruce, at the zoo, before I even remembered it happened. All I needed to hear was that you regretted it." Warmth in her voice, and she looked down at his hands, hearing the movement, and even this close she couldn't see it, couldn't see his face. "I was trying to help, but I went about it the wrong way; I made things worse. Accept my apology," she added, a slow nudge of shoulder against his.
His eyebrows raised at the use of Stevie, but then again it was no secret that Selina was much more involved in Marvel than he was. She'd lived there, for a time. Those people were her friends. He only really knew Tony and he would hardly call what they had friendship. "I don't know him very well," he admitted. "He seems like a good man. Dedicated. But Tony is good with people, even when he's being being his usual infuriating self." It wasn't said cruelly, even though he and Tony had certainly had their fair share of disagreements in the past. The man was stubborn, and he was stubborn, so of course they'd butt heads. "Why won't he have the second surgery?" He had an idea of who this woman might be from his brief understanding of the dynamics in Marvel, but he didn't ask for clarification, and he recalled a time when he'd believed there was something going on between Tony and Selina. No, he'd been jealous of the wrong man. "Yes, it can," he agreed. "But he might pull through, and this woman, she can learn to control her ability." Not that he knew much about superpowers, but he knew those who had them. Control came with time, with experience, or so logic would suggest.
When she asked if he was scowling, he shook his head. "No." Admirable, that he'd managed to keep from doing so, but he had to keep his feelings about the man under control. His dislike of Banner was half irrational, half based on solid reasons, and it was hard to balance his desire for Selina to be happy with not wanting her to be with him. And he didn't think Iris was any comparison, because he wasn't with her the way she'd been with Banner. He could safely say she was a friend, someone he liked being around, but he couldn't forget what Harley had said about him inevitably hurting her. And, too, hearing Selina talk about using Banner made him feel guilty; was he doing the same? He had to let her get over him, which was easier when there was distance, less temptation to take five steps back and start the cycle all over again. "I do know," he said wryly, but still, he thought it was more his fault than hers. "I've made things difficult for you," he said, almost a question, but not quite.
He lifted his shoulders in a shrug when she said Tim would get there, that they'd all get there eventually. "Maybe." And he smiled, a bitter thing, at the thought of Dick not being able to handle the cowl now that he had it. "He's too nice, and I'm too hard. It isn't easy, shouldering that burden. It's hard to balance." He frowned a little when she described it as a ghost town. "I didn't think me not being there would make such a difference," he admitted. "Clark and Diana and Hal, they're there, but Gordon said they're not Gotham. They don't know it like we do. I think he's right." Maybe he was needed. Maybe. It was still hard to believe, to hold onto, when the feeling of uselessness and being unwanted was so pervasive.
Ra's didn't inspire quite the same fear in himself, but it was different. He knew that. A man who'd once been his mentor, turned enemy, and he felt nothing but disgust for him now. Death and destruction followed in his wake and that was a choice. He chose to be what he was, to regard human life as meaningless, disposable, hiding behind ridiculous justification that didn't and wouldn't excuse his actions. "You have every right to be afraid, after what you've been through," he said quietly. "Fear doesn't make you weak. You just can't let it control you." Which, maybe, sounded too much like a lecture, so he stopped himself there. He tried to listen to her movements, to follow them in the fog, but even so he was surprised when he felt her shoulder against his, indication that she was beside him. "I don't know that I deserve forgiveness." He wished he could just accept it, because he wanted her forgiveness, he did, but he'd never been very good at absolving himself. "If I accept your apology," he said slowly, "then you have to accept mine." He couldn't see her, but he looked up all the same, approximately where he thought she'd be were he to look at her. "I've hurt you, more than once. I've... been a fool, more often than not, and I've gone about things the wrong way too." He nudged her shoulder in return. For all his belief that distance was better, he'd missed her, and here and now that own out. "I'm sorry."
Why Tony wouldn't have the second surgery was an easy thing to answer; it was something she understood. "He's scared, Bruce. If they'd told me, when I woke up from the brain surgery, that I needed to have a second? I'm not sure I would've done it. Going under for something you don't know if you'll wake up from is terrifying. It's hard to face mortality when you don't want to die. And the pain? The pain is bad, and until he forgets it a little? I don't think he'll let them cut him open again." She was fairly sure she'd never discussed that with him, and her recovery had taken months. She felt for Tony, with his cracked open ribs, and she still remembered his panic leading up to the first surgery. "He thinks she'll learn to control it too. Or he did, before the coma." She sighed. "He's the only person that can really keep Steve and Robert in check. If we have any hope of them just letting us handle our own problems in Gotham? We need Tony." Us, and she didn't realize she was talking like him going back was a given. But like she told Steph, he was getting there. She knew him well enough to see that.
She assumed he and Iris were a couple, and she assumed the woman's softness made him feel better. Iris wasn't fire and passion, and Selina barely understood herself, but even she could tell they were opposites, her and the shade. She couldn't help but grin at his wry tone when he said he knew she liked to push. "Hey, even the Cat that was meant for you? Pushed. I remember." She'd been young when she'd taken over Blondie's body to go see that movie, but she remembered. She laughed softly when he said he'd made things difficult for her, that almost question of his. "A little. I always liked that about you." Which was teasing, but her voice turned a little more open a moment later. "Bruce, men lose interest in women all the time, but I've never done anything easy, and I've never given up on anything I wanted. Not pursuing you? It's hard for me. Anyway, I don't regret anything. I don't regret this. And if we die here? Well, I don't think I'd rather have anyone else with me at the end."
When he said that Dick was too soft, but he was too hard, she laughed softly, the sound barely carrying in the soup-fog. "You're not hard, Bruce." Fond, and that had taken a while for her to understand on a level that wasn't just instinct. "If you were hard, you wouldn't care what they think. You do." And she knew that, which explained why she'd been defending him for months, even though everyone wanted her to forget he existed. "You know, they aren't worried about you being bad for me. They just want me to leave you alone." That realization had been slow, and it had taken some more getting over. "They think you'll come home quicker if I'm not there, clawing at you. I half-think Eddie invited Robert to the wedding so I wouldn't talk to you." She shrugged in the gloaming. "I think I'm done letting what other people think is best define me." She smiled. "And Gotham? Isn't Gotham without you." Grin. "Even if you hate that." Because candor? Was kind of her thing.
"I'm working on the whole fear not controlling me thing, but it's hard some days. Especially when it comes to Ra's." It didn't sound like a lecture. Maybe once, it would've. But these days? She was much more accustomed to that kind of thing. "I think you deserve it," she said of forgiveness, though she didn't expect that to change his self-loathing. She knew self-loathing well; it had a tendency to stick. She chuckled when he tried to bargain with her, because how completely rogue was that? "Been bargaining much in Italy?" But she nodded when he nudged her shoulder in return. She kept the contact, more sturdy weight against his side in the fog that was only beginning to threaten to lift. "Alright. On one condition. You answer a question for me, just so I understand?" She didn't wait for him to agree before continuing. "What could I have done differently?" Because that question had kept her up nights. She knew he was lost to her, and he wasn't the kind of man to leave another woman he'd made a commitment to. But she still wanted to know.
It seemed like a foolish question, now, once she'd given her answer. Of course he would be afraid, and no one welcomed pain. Without the surgery there might have been the risk of death but there were risks with it, too, and he saw that a little clearer once he thought about it. Those who didn't care about dying, who didn't fear it, might not have hesitated, and while he was still caught between the two he did remember what it was like to fear death. "I see." He thought of her pain, of her surgery, and he left it at that. He noticed her use of us, but he didn't comment on it, because it was inevitable, now, that he would go back. Things would be different, things would be hard, and he knew he'd have to fight the urge to go back to Italy for a long, long time, but he couldn't stay away forever. He just had to find his place and dig his heels in; and, if nothing else, Italy could be a reprieve. His, when he needed space to breathe. "Mr. Rogers-- Steve, he doesn't seem all that thrilled by his door's involvement in ours," he said. Banner, he was all too eager to involve himself in every little problem Gotham had, but he knew talking about that would lead nowhere good. He had to keep his opinions to himself, just this once. But she was right in that Tony had a great deal of influence over his people.
He'd assumed she and Banner were a couple too, perhaps incorrectly, but he didn't want to bring Iris up unless Selina herself did first. "I didn't say pushing was a bad thing," he told her, and he shook his head when she said she'd always liked that he made things difficult for her. "It seems to drive everyone else insane." But then, they drove him insane in turn, so maybe it was fair. And he felt that old discomfort returning when she talked about pursuing him, about men losing interest in women, and he was glad she couldn't see him-- that they couldn't see each other. All he'd tried to do was make her see that he was bad for her, and now that she was finally giving up he should have been satisfied. Happy, even, because she could finally start to move on. Wasn't this what he'd wanted? "I don't regret this either," he said, after a pause. "I don't regret you." He smiled a little when she said she wouldn't have had anyone else with her at the end, were they to die, and he almost reached out to find her hand in the dark. Almost, but his fingers only slid along the floor and went nowhere. "Neither would I," he said, and that was honesty.
"I'm harder than Dick," he countered, because he just didn't have that friendliness, that ease, and he probably never would. Trying just made him look like a fool. "It's... difficult to show I care. Saying it isn't enough. Not everyone believes it. They don't know." And that hurt, the assumptions. The lack of understanding. He'd overcome it with Stephanie and Eddie, with the League, too, but the rest... he wasn't so sure. It was something of a comfort, though, that she knew. Finally, she knew. But he frowned when she said they wanted her to leave him alone, and he just couldn't bring himself to believe that anyone saw Selina as the problem. "What?" Disbelief was evident in his tone. "That's ridiculous." His frown deepened into a scowl. "They want me to leave you alone. They think you deserve better." It wasn't a question, but there was an unspoken don't they? tacked on to the end. And maybe, once, he'd resented the fact that Gotham was so defined by his presence. He hadn't wanted to be so depended upon. "I hate it less than I did before," he admitted.
This time he did make his fingers move, a herculean effort not to lose his resolve and actually brush his hand against hers; his version of comfort, however awkward and uncertain it was. "It's never easy," he said. "What matters is that you don't give up, even when it's hard, and I know you. You're stubborn." He knew it would be quite some time before he felt like he deserved forgiveness, if he ever did at all, but it did mean something that she thought he did even if he couldn't share her sentiment. He almost laughed when she asked if he'd been bargaining much in Italy, and he shook his head, trying not to think about how much he liked having her weight against him. Months, and he'd tried for distance, accustomed himself to it, and for the first time he wondered who he'd really been hurting. What he'd actually been accomplishing, for all his good intentions. "Alright," he conceded, agreement to answer her question, but he knew he wasn't going to be giving her the answer she wanted as soon as she spoke. "No." He turned to look at her despite the fog, because at least facing her gave the illusion of sight. "That question implies that it was your fault, that you did something wrong, and you didn't." He was angry at himself, suddenly, and it was in his voice. He'd made her feel inadequate, like she'd done something wrong, and he hadn't wanted that at all. "You see? This is why I'm no good for you."
Her pirate ship was that escape for her, and if she hadn't been stubbornly refusing to hide in something that wasn't real after the wedding, she would've been there now, instead of sitting in this fog, listening to the echo of the undead as he said Steve wasn't thrilled with Marvel's involvement in Gotham. "He isn't. Neither am I," she admitted with a sigh. "I keep trying to make them promise not to run over when we're in trouble, but it doesn't work. Tony gets it now, I think, more than he did when Silver and Blondie were involved in those decisions. But Robert? Robert won't listen. I've talked to him. I tried to tell him to take the girl and go home, but he thinks this is his fault, and he thinks he needs to save Jason." She shook her head. "I don't think he understands that Jason needs his family to do this for him. It's important." She didn't say anything about danger, but she figured she didn't need to. "Dickie and I were talking about it, and we really need an agreement that no one comes over to either door when things are bad without an invitation from whoever makes decisions for that world."
When he said his ability to make things difficult drove everyone else insane, she chuckled. The sound was fond in the thick fog that was just starting to be warmed by the sun. "We all drive each other insane for different reasons. I think it's just Gotham. We're not actually good at being people. We have fewer villains now, more time to live, and it's a challenge for us to actually talk to one another without Owlman dangling people by their feet." She didn't hear the movement of his fingers when he spoke of regret, but she did nudge at his shoulder again, the movement less pronounced now that her weight was a more certain thing against his arm. "I'm sure I can even make dying more complicated than it needs to be," she said, teasing and with a little more understanding of her own flaws than she'd had before the bomb.
She didn't disagree when he said he had difficulty showing he cared, and she found the hurt in his voice when he said the words. "I can't make Helena realize it, no matter how I try. It can hurt and it's so frustrating, especially when you're trying as hard as you can and it all still backfires." And he had to do that a dozen times over; she didn't envy him. But she had to laugh at the disbelief in his tone when he said her being viewed as the problem was ridiculous. She knew that wasn't the case in Marvel, but DC was a different story altogether. "No, Bruce, they don't think I deserve better. They think I chase and claw at you, and they think it makes you uncomfortable. Which it does," she pointed out. She shrugged, the movement of shoulder a small thing against his. "I don't think they want me unhappy, but I think they believe - as they always have - that we don't work, and I'm the one who won't let it go. If I settle down in Marvel with Robert, then I stop pushing at you. Then you and Iris come home." She leaned her head back against the wall. "I don't know. Whenever I talk about you with them, we see really different things. It's like we're talking about entirely different people."
She wasn't expecting the brush of his fingers, and she looked down, as if she could see his hand through the fog. But she couldn't, so she just turned her hand over, so her palm was against his, and she listened. "Me not giving up is a problem, remember?" she teased when he said not giving up about getting over Ra's was a good thing. She followed it up with a soft laugh, entirely raw. "I don't know. I think I understand Eddie and Steph these days more than I ever did. Maybe having someone to lean on when things like that happen, fears, like Ra's, isn't weakness." She smiled. "As long as it's just one person," because she was always going to have a hard time with people; no one likes blunt opinions without cushioning. That thought made her recognize his movement too late, and he was talking by the time she realized he'd shifted. "I didn't ask what I did wrong. I asked what I could've done differently," she clarified firmly. But then he said he wasn't good for her. She groaned, and she was really terrible at not being impulsive. And, so, she leaned forward, fingers finding his jaw in the fog, and she pressed her lips to his. It was almost a kiss, a whisper of a kiss, and even her voice was a hush. "Shut up and kiss me, Bruce."
Marvel’s involvement in Gotham, and the DC door as a whole, had always been a sore point with Bruce and he felt the remnants of that in an uncomfortable prickle along his spine, crawling over his skin, and he rolled his shoulders back to rid himself of it. “They’ve never been very good at staying out,” he sighed. “They don’t wait for us to ask. They assume we can’t handle it, and anything we say to the contrary is pride.” There was some bitterness there, maybe, because he’d always been accused of being selfish, arrogant, for not allowing Banner and Stark and whoever else to waltz into Gotham and do what they saw fit when it wasn’t needed. “Stark might understand now, but Stark isn’t available, and Banner doesn’t seem willing to step back.” Which was stating the obvious, perhaps, but it was starting to border on sheer hard-headedness on that man’s part. He hadn’t even realized Jason and Banner were close, and he felt a pang of--surprisingly--hurt; it made him sad, and he told himself he didn’t know why. “He and Jason are close,” he said quietly. “I wonder when he became Banner’s responsibility.” As for her and Dick’s proposed agreement, he just shook his head. “It won’t work. I’ve tried, before, and it hasn’t worked. Why would it now? Why would Banner suddenly decide to listen?” And he was tired, he was, of laying down rules no one paid attention to. Let Dick do it, or someone else. He had no desire to be labelled a tyrant all over again.
Gotham was insanity, more often than not, he reflected. She had a point. “Talking has never been our strong suit,” he admitted. “We can come together to fight a villain, but otherwise…” He trailed off, since he didn’t think he really needed to finish that sentence. And when she said she’d probably make dying more complicated than necessary, he couldn’t help but smile. “I’m sure you could,” he agreed dryly.
Helena was, surprisingly, one of the few people he’d actually managed to make a real connection with-- but it hadn’t been easy, and there was more bad than good. Anger, tears, and he still remembered how she’d lashed out at him when all he’d ever done was try to help her. He forgave her because he loved her, and he knew Selina cared too, and he knew how it felt to feel the way she did even if they both experienced it with different people. “It is frustrating,” he said. “I’m sorry. Helena can be… difficult. We all can be, I suppose.” And he still, still, found it hard to believe that anyone was more concerned about him in this situation than they were about her. “It’s not what they think,” he began, of her making him uncomfortable, but he was more than willing to sidestep that and jump forward. “I’m tired of what they believe,” he snapped without thinking, without care for his words, and he bit back more and exhaled instead. “They’re blind if they think you’re what’s keeping me away from Gotham, Selina. And--” He paused. “Iris and I, we aren’t… together.” He did care about her; to say he didn’t care about her would be a lie. But they weren’t what everyone seemed to believe they were, and he didn’t even realize his own hypocrisy, having assumed with stubborn certainty that Selina and Banner were more than they actually were too until recently.
He knew he shouldn’t ask. He knew, but he did anyway. “What do they say about me?”
There was something incredibly personal about the feel of her palm under his, a raw vulnerability that he thought might just be in his own head, the result of having so very few relationships where he felt comfortable enough to actually lower his guard. “It isn’t always a problem,” he told her. “It can be an admirable trait, too.” Having someone to lean on seemed dangerous in a whole other way, but loneliness, while perhaps safer, was very lonely. “Just one might not be so bad,” he conceded, as though acknowledging a hard truth, and he was prepared to argue that ‘differently’ and ‘wrong’ were very much similar. They both boiled down to the same point, But then she leaned forward, fingers on his jaw and her lips were against his, and he said nothing. Distantly, he could hear the sounds of the undead, and the fog was still thick, and he knew he should say no. No, and get that distance back, so he didn’t ruin the progress they’d made… but the simple truth was that he didn’t want to. He’d never wanted to, and when it was words on a page or a public setting he could be selfless. He could wrap distance around himself like armor.
But not now.
And so, when she told him to shut up and kiss her, he did just that. The shutting up part, that he had down, and all it took was a shift of his weight towards, her, forward, bracing himself on his palms and something like repression and pent-up things breaking free in the way he kissed her, chaste and a press of lips becoming open-mouthed and anything but.
She couldn't argue about Marvel's involvement in DC. She'd tried and tried to extract promises from them about staying out unless called for, but he was ultimately right. They felt they were needed, that Gotham couldn't save itself without them. And if this Gotham was ever going to learn to work together? That needed to stop. But she had no idea how to make it happen. She was still frowning about it when he asked when Jason became Robert's responsibility. "It's the girl," she said, unthinking. "Robert calls her his daughter." And while she didn't have a solution for keeping Marvel out, she knew they needed to find one. But she had to smile when he agreed they didn't know how to talk in Gotham. "We're getting better," she pointed out. After all, they were talking right now, weren't they? And she chuckled in the darkness when he agreed she could make even dying more complicated than it was. She liked the sound of the smile in his voice; she hadn't heard it in a long time.
"You don't need to apologize for Helena. It's not like she won the genetic lottery." Because, truthfully? They were both impossible, albeit in very different ways. She bore a smile that turned serious when he said he was tired of what people believed. "Me too," she agreed. "I'm tired of them trying to marry me off, but I understand them wanting you back. I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't." She was quiet when he said he and Iris weren't together. The pause in the sentence was telling. "Is it like Robert and I?" she asked, assuming sex and other intimacies, but when he asked what they said about him, she was quietly surprised for a moment. "This week? I tried to tell them you were almost ready to come home, that I could tell, that you'd gone from being depressed to being angry, and they said I was wrong."
As for not giving up not being a problem, she shook her head, not that he could see. "It's a problem when everyone wants me to give up, including you." She grinned when he said just one person to lean on might not be so bad, but any quip she might have made was lost in the kiss. She didn't care about progress made, because she hadn't actually made any, not when it came to this. She didn't reach for him, didn't do anything to make this more than what he was giving. That there was half a year of pent-up longing on her end of the kiss, though? That was impossible to miss. She was heat and desperation, tangled tongues without asking for permission and blatant want in the purr against his mouth.
When she needed to breathe, she forced herself to slide her lips against his cheek. Not pushing, and that was almost a wordless promise against his skin. How long she would be able to keep that promise? Well, she wasn't very good at that kind of thing. "I don't think a kiss is supposed to feel like coming home," she confessed, and then she sat back. "We should move, Mr. Wayne, before we lose the light."
"Gwen Stacy," he said, an echo of a name he'd been given, and he wondered just how long Jason had known this girl. But the simple truth was that Bruce had no idea, because he hadn't known what was going on with the boy in a long, long time. "Was she the one who gave Jason this... alien to look after? Did anyone else even know?" Oh, he thought he already knew the answer, and the sheer stupidity shown on all their parts was infuriating. "It isn't just about keeping Marvel from becoming involved. We can't bring our problems into one another's doors. Circumstances beyond our control is one thing, but this? This was intentional." Tenseness had begun to manifest in his shoulders, but he tried to ease it out, release it, when she said they were getting better at talking. "Some progress is better than none," he offered, and he decided he liked the sound of her happy. Even if it was just a chuckle, it was more than the misery he felt he'd brought upon her for months. It was better, and for once he didn't feel like he was making things worse just by being around her.
He knew, to a point, Helena's behaviour wasn't her fault. But there also came a point when she needed to take responsibility for herself, and he felt as though she was on her way there, set upon that path-- hopefully she would follow it to the end. "I'm still sorry you feel the way that you do," he sighed. "No one deserves that." He smiled a little when she said she was tired of them trying to marry her off, but he still didn't like that they were putting blame on her shoulders that didn't belong in the first place. "They're going about it the wrong way, if they want me back. But I can't make them understand. I've tried." He knew that now. Tim had made him realize it, really; he would see what he wanted to see, believe what he wanted to believe, and only he could change that about himself. When she asked if he and Iris were like her and Banner, he shook his head. "No," he said, and it was honest, no hint of trying to hide things or skirt the truth. "It isn't like you and Banner. We haven't-- she needed a place to stay in Gotham, and she ended up in Italy after the hotel party. Nothing..." He cleared his throat, the sound vaguely uncomfortable. "Nothing happened." This subject matter would never be something he easily spoke of, and he was almost glad the fog still obscured him from sight. "They don't think I'm ready to come back?" He was curious, now. He wanted to know just how much they thought they knew.
"I want you to be happy," he managed, a disjointed explanation of why he wanted her to give up, but he didn't get any further than that. He didn't, couldn't, miss the longing in the way she kissed him, and it made him wonder (again) if pushing her away and keeping his distance had really been the right thing to do after all. But he wasn't pushing her away then, and there wasn't much distance between them at all. Somehow his fingers found her jaw, curled around to press against the nape of her neck, heat and desperation of his own that he couldn't be bothered to hold back.
It seemed like an eternity had passed before she pulled away, and once her lips were against his cheek he had a chance to breathe. For a moment his fingers tightened, something possessive in the hold, but when she sat back he let his hand drop and exhaled to reclaim his composure. "You're right, Ms. Kyle," he agreed, of losing the light. He stood, offered a hand to help her up, fingers brushing against her shoulder, and he paused. "I missed you." It was a quiet admission, a belated response, and maybe he shouldn't have said it but he really didn't care. Nothing has broken or shattered, had it? And it was true.
"Gwen Stacy," she echoed, and she nodded in the fog when he asked if the girl had given Jason the alien. Belatedly, she remembered he couldn't see, and she added a, "yes," to that nod. "Robert knew. He thought it would be alright." There were things she could lie about, hide, in order to keep her friends from being judged, but this wasn't one of them. This thing was eating people in her door; they needed to find a way to keep this from happening again. And he was right; this had been intentional. "The girl's on life support. Jason almost killed her. Well, maybe did kill her." Because time passed for them, and they had no idea what was happening out there while they were in this soup fog with the undead. "Robert said she hit her head, and I didn't think it sounded that bad. But Stevie says it is. Jay's going to have such a hard time with that. Can you imagine? Killing someone you're involved with? And for Jay? He's just a boy, Bruce." She was fond of Jason; he always took her side. Always.
She made a thankful sound when he continued to try to absolve her of Helena's ire. "We had a horrible fight, and she hates me because of Robert. She hates Robert." No point in lying, and no need to tell him the horrible fight had been over Helena's treatment of her father. "Maybe with time," she conceded; she'd repaired bridges she'd thought completely obliterated now, and she wasn't writing anything off as impossibility. As for the family going about things the wrong way if they wanted him back, that made her chuckle too, fondly this time. "Bruce, we're all horrible at telling people what we're really feeling. They aren't any different. Whenever they're impossible? Try to remember that what's behind it is them missing you, but they just can't say it." And as to whether or not they felt he was ready? She shook her head. "No, they don't, but they just don't see you very well sometimes." They never had, and she wasn't always an exception to that.
Ah, but the topic of Iris was one that made her tense. It was entirely involuntary, expectation drawing her shoulders into a straight line. She almost offered to let him try with the other woman. But she'd need time to say those words and believe them; she kept them to herself for the moment. For now, there was the kiss and recovering from it, and she didn't want distance, but she was a little concerned she'd go too far. Insecurity was her friend these days, and she smiled in the fog when his fingers touched her shoulder. "I missed you too," she said as she made her way to the hayloft's opening, sun finally illuminating the walking corpses below. There was a smile in her voice, impossible to miss. "You're a fool if you think I'm happier without you. I'm not." And with that, she flipped into the yard below.
He'd keep up. Day 8
Four days of Hell, and they'd barely had time for talking.
They'd left the barn rested and clean, and they'd checked the open highway for signs. Fifty miles to the next town, and that should have been simple.
Should've been.
A few hours in, they ran into the biggest herd they'd seen yet, and it had closed around behind them by the time the sheer number of ambling things became clear. They veered off course, deep in the trees, and even that didn't lessen their number. It was by sheer happenstance that they realized being covered in the undead made it easier to go undetected. A close call, and she'd ended up with one of them atop her, snapping teeth and intestines spilling onto her middle.
They bothered her less then, and it was a lesson learned. But it had been four days, and hunting had been impossible, and even small stops for water from riverbeds had been a challenge. There was no way they could keep up the pace, and the things just kept coming.
She was leaning back against a tree trunk, a small gap in the dead, and her breathing was tired-shallow. But they were both uninjured, even now, and she glanced in the direction of the highway. "This isn't getting any better, Bruce. Maybe there's fewer of them on the highway." But, even with the cars, the highway meant fewer places to hide, and no trees to climb and take shelter when things got terrible. It was his call.
Bruce had underestimated this place. After what they'd faced in Gotham he didn't see the walking dead as much of a threat, and he really did believe they'd make it out; now, he wasn't as sure. Days and days, and they were both hungry and tired and thirsty, and there were so many corpses that he could scarcely believe it. They'd come from out of nowhere, or so it seemed, and it was an endless herd of rot and death, where one fell there were five more to take its place. Suddenly fifty miles might as well have been an entire continent away, especially once they were driven off course. Survival was the skin of their teeth. Survival was luck, discovering that if they smelled like the undead they could move more easily among them. If they hadn't been from Gotham, hadn't grown up learning to survive in desperate circumstances, he doubted either of them would have made it this far.
It seemed neverending. There was no help coming, no magic door to lead them out. They barely had time to hunt, to get water, much less talk, and his journal went untouched for days. He had no idea what was happening back in Gotham and he didn't have the time to check. Besides, if he died here, it wouldn't matter either way.
Funny how now that he actually wanted to live, he might not be able to fend off death no matter how hard he tried. Hard to do so when he was surrounded by it.
Moments like these, few and far between, were precious, and he took the small window to catch his breath. "It's been too long," he agreed, throat dry and voice hoarse; he swallowed to try to clear it. "We should have found a break in the group by now." But he hesitated, because the highway meant they would be more exposed. Still, if they stayed here, what good were trees for shelter if they couldn't get back down? If the herd remained this large, they'd be trapped. Inevitably they would die from thirst or the dead would get them, and he didn't like either option. "We can't keep going like this," he said, finally. "It's worth a shot."
Dying was looking more and more likely, though she would never admit that to the people she talked to on the journals. And she wasn't in the mood for giving up. Months earlier, she would've let it happen, but she wasn't inclined now, and she was heaving breath and attention as he spoke. Whatever he said, she'd go along with, and not because there was even a hint of submission to her (there wasn't), but because he was a good leader, and because she trusted him as much as she trusted herself in a fight. And he was right; this wasn't getting them anywhere. At least the highway was a straight shot, and they'd waste less time than they had wandering in the woods and turning whenever the herd got too thick to evade.
She looked at him, and she knew it was a waste of precious seconds, but she didn't care; no one had ever accused her of being prudent. "You look terrible, Mr. Wayne," she told him, but there was a smile on her lips, affection, even if she was filthy. Well? If she'd been planning on attractiveness winning her the man? She was entirely out of luck. But she didn't care as much as she would have once, and she pushed away from the tree and came close enough to lean her forehead against the grimy shoulder of his shirt, knee bent against his thigh and her hands smoothing the fabric over his stomach. "If we get out of here? Do you want me to leave you alone to have a chance with her?" Her, and she didn't feel the need to clarify. Here, now, when they might die? She thought she could offer and mean it. She'd heard his hesitation when he spoke about Iris; she'd interpreted it as a not yet. Nothing had happened yet. The offer was genuine.
Bruce realized they'd likely survived as long as they had because they trusted one another, and were able to work together without bickering about who was in charge or following orders. There was no expectation of submission; it was joint survival, not singular. Their choices, his decisions, were based upon what was the most likely option to get them out of here alive. He didn't want to die, and he knew she didn't either. That alone gave them reason enough to fight.
Seconds ticked by, and he should have hauled her to her feet, should have told her they could talk later once they'd gotten away from the herd. But he did neither of those things. He knew he looked terrible, and he smiled a wry, knowing smile when she remarked on his appearance. He was filthy, they both were, clothes torn and ragged and he was sure a good shower was only the start of what he needed. "You look much of the same, Ms. Kyle," he teased, but he didn't actually care about her appearance. His either, as they had more important things to concern themselves with. He wasn't expecting her to come as close as she did, and he tried for a few seconds to keep his hands at his sides, to not touch, but her forehead was against his shoulder and her hands were on his fabric-covered stomach; he lost the struggle. He rested his hands on her hips without thinking, and he thought about her offer. There, in the middle of the woods surrounded by the dead, he had a moment of clarity.
He could say yes. He could try with Iris, because he did care about her, but she wasn't her, wasn't Selina. Just like that other Cat in his world hadn't been her, and so it hadn't been enough. Iris wouldn't be enough, either. Harley would end up being right; he'd hurt her, like Selina had hurt Banner, and maybe she was right about other things too. Maybe he was scared. He lived in denial, convincing himself that she was happier without him because it was easier. Easier to push her away than let her in, easier to believe Banner could give her what he couldn't. And maybe, if she wasn't a factor, he and Iris could have worked, just like she and Banner could have worked. But she'd dug her claws in without him even realizing it and he couldn't lie to himself anymore, good intentions be damned.
"No." And there was his answer. "I told myself you were better off without me. Happier. But I hated the thought of you with another man. I thought I was doing what was best for you, not what I wanted." A breath. "I don't want you to leave me alone."
Her nails dragged lines along his shirt, filthy as it was; she didn't care. His hands on her hips felt sturdy, strong, and maybe that was as much trust as anything else. Honestly? There wasn't anyone she'd rather be stuck in a place like this with, regardless of what his answer about Iris was. And she meant it, the offer. What happens in zombies stays in zombies, even if she was hoping he'd say no, that he didn't want the chance. But it was a double-edged sword, and she knew that too. But that was for later, maybe, depending on his reply.
And she held her breath for a moment, insecurity rising to the surface as those seconds ticked by. But he wasn't shoving her away, and that made her stay, even when she began to itch with self-preservation and the desire to take it all back. The offer, the implication that this might be more than this, the hope that would have been evident in her mossy green eyes, had she been looking up, they all made her feel vulnerable. But they might die, and that was looking more and more likely, and so what?
That no of his made her exhale against his shoulder. And her fingers went from dragging along his shirt to clutching it tight, the fabric going taut against his stomach. And words, words, she'd been working on words. But she just looked up at him for a second, and words failed her; she kissed him instead, teeth and a sob and her hand going to the nape of his neck, fingers dragging into the sweaty ends of his hair. And they only had a second, just that, so she pulled back quick, fast. "Okay. Any plans you had to die here? Are so not happening." And maybe that was supposed to soothe away the vulnerability in her eyes, but it didn't do a very good job, and her voice was emotion, and she just pressed another kiss to his lips, softer, before slipping past him and pulling on the back of his shirt.
She started for the highway, but she slowed for just a second, and she looked over her shoulder at him. "I'm still me, you know? Infuriating, impossible, maddening, pushy me." In case he'd forgotten. She wasn't anything like Iris. He wasn't anything like Robert. She knew that; she wanted to make sure he did too. After all? It had been years for him, and nothing made that as evident as this little trip through Hell. Oh, he was still good, so very good. But he was older, and she hadn't spent much time with him since he'd been back; she knew there were still things to learn. Lots of things to learn about how his world had changed him.
For the first time in a long time, what he wanted had won out over what he (mistakenly) believed was the right choice. And nothing had shattered, nothing had broken, not like it always seemed to whenever the two of them were in the same vicinity. Bruce found he didn’t feel any regret, but more importantly there was no guilt-- well, almost none. Old habits died hard. A tiny sliver, if anything at all, easily ignored, and when her fingers clutched his shirt taut-tight his hands shifted from her hips to her wrists, the movement thoughtless and unthinking. And the realization of just how stupid he’d been sank in fully when she kissed him, teeth and a sob, and they didn’t have much time but he kissed her back regardless, quick and sharp before she pulled back. “Are you forbidding me to die, Ms. Kyle?” It was meant to be a teasing thing, but his expression didn’t quite match up and he really didn’t intend to die. He wasn’t blind to the vulnerability in her eyes, and it made him worry--again--about hurting her, but he shoved that aside. Not now, not here. He took the softer kiss for what it was, and he went when she pulled on his shirt, getting to his feet and following.
Start and stop, and he slowed when she did. “I know,” he told her, and he did; he knew she was still her. Time had passed for them both but he still knew who she was, at least for the most part. They both had learning to do. “And I’m still me. Arguably just as infuriating and impossible, terrible at communication, and older.” He smiled a little, despite the circumstances. “We should keep moving.” The highway was up ahead, and the sooner they reached it, the sooner they could find a damned town.
Day 12
The highway was a nightmare, but four days in, no food and minimal water, and the town was close enough that she could taste it. If she scaled a well-placed winnebago, she could see it well enough to read the numbers on the buildings. It was nothing impressive, windows smashed in and probably littered with undead inside the buildings, but it was their best chance for a door. If they didn't find one there? She wasn't sure they would last. Oh, sure, they were good, but they'd still spent the two previous evening sleeping under separate cars, whatever safety they could find as the desperate herd roamed back their way. It was cyclical, the herd, back and forth, and they'd at least managed to get some rest once they realized the pattern. It hadn't stopped either of them from a few close calls, and she wanted to rest once this was over. Laziness? Wasn't her thing, but she wouldn't mind a nice massage, some good champagne, some caviar. A spa sounded like just the thing, and maybe she'd invite Harl.
Because, oh, yes, there'd been plenty of time to catch up on the journals beneath those cars. And while she had no idea what happened after here? She knew what didn't happen. Pirates didn't happen. Gotham did. Robert, Robert was going to be hard, and she knew he was going to be hard. All they did was fight lately, and those fights got mean, but she knew (firsthand) how impossible it was to will yourself to fall out of love with someone. And Robert? Robert was a good person. She'd said she didn't want to be his Bruce Wayne. And that? Was still true. She loved him, but not in the same way that she loved the man beneath the car across the highway median. Maybe, with time? But time hadn't happened, and she hoped Tony woke up. She needed Tony to wake up.
The footsteps slowed to an occasional scuff against the tarmac, and she crawled out from beneath her hiding place. She didn't wait to see if he followed suit; he would. They'd been doing this for days; he would.
And normally? Normally she would've gone slow, made sure nothing was on her tail. But not now. Not when out was so close. She ran. Anything in her path got hacked with a machete she'd found two days back, but mostly she stayed up, agile, off the ground and on the cars. She listened for his heavier footsteps, but she didn't slow, didn't stop, not until she reached the edge of the city, and even then it was only slowing down, really. Just enough to nod toward a building, that one, as some snapping teeth from behind almost bit into her neck. She rounded, blade singing, and she missed her whip, the extension of her arm, and even the adrenaline of almost dying regularly wasn't cutting it anymore.
Oh, she'd seen monsters before this. But these? She was particularly tired of these. And the head she'd just severed belong to someone too young to die. She wondered when she'd gotten old enough to feel anything was too young to die. She stared a moment too long, and something grey and decaying managed to sweep her off her feet, but she kicked at it, boots bashing bones and sending skull fragments into the liquefying remains of a brain. Definitely time to go home, and she wondered if the nightmares would come once he was gone and she was alone with her thoughts.
The first building, and she opened the door to the lobby, and then to one immediately to the left. Nothing, an office, and she made it down three doors before she found one that felt different. She waited until she heard Bruce.
"Tell me we'll talk once this is done?" It wasn't meant to be a question, but it came out as one, and her fingers twitched on the knob as she looked over her shoulder. "Even if it's to tell me you changed your mind." It was an out, her new raw-knife insecurity showing. If he wanted it, it was an out, and she had no idea if he'd go back to Italy, if he'd go to Gotham, if Jay had been taken care of while they slept. Here, it had just been them against the world. Out there? Out there it was much harder. Her fingers began to twist the knob; she was just waiting for his answer. That was all she needed. She grinned, cat-lush, just for a moment, an echo of old times. "And I like that you're infuriating and impossible. The uncommunicative part? That goes both ways. We can work on it." Her fingers twitched. And she didn't know if any of this had been a promise. Maybe that showed. "Think it over, Mr. Wayne."
Sleep. Before food and water and a shower, Bruce just wanted to sleep, however irrational that desire might be. Beneath cars with the undead all around them he scarcely dared close his eyes, and when he did it felt like it was only for seconds at a time, barely enough to rest, always jerking himself back to wakefulness lest something go wrong and he not be able to react to it. Which, he thought, was a perfectly valid concern considering just how many close calls they'd had. The highway was hardly salvation, and the town seemed as far as it did close; like they would be trapped in a perpetual loop of almost. It was torture. He was tired of the dead, predictable as the herd had become. The stench, decay and rot, the inhumanity of those that had once been human, alive, with thoughts and feelings and lives. Monsters, in the most base sense. It seemed as though he and Selina were the only two left living in the world, and he wondered, madly, what would happen if they never found a way out.
If he didn't die, he'd probably go insane. He could feel it, feel the edges fraying, but he focused on survival and fought onward. Hope kept him going. He'd lost hope once; he didn't want to lose it again. Precious, like a candle flame.
The journal was there, accessible, but he didn't give it as much attention as Selina did. Reading about things he could not change while trapped in this hell made him feel frustratingly helpless, and he hated it. What could he do? Nothing. Just words on a page, and he had to trust that Dick and the others could (and would) handle Jason. There was Iris, too, in Italy, and he knew he have to speak to her eventually, to tell her he was going back to Gotham. It was time. Maybe he wasn't fully prepared to do so, but he couldn't stay away any longer. Gotham was his home as much as it was anyone else's, and he couldn't allow other people to keep him away any longer. Something had happened here, something terrible, and now humanity was lost. Seeing this, the walking dead, such a massive loss of life, made him realize that he did care about what happened to the city. His city.
He could take it slow. It would be difficult, yes, but he wasn't alone. He had Stephanie and Eddie. He had Helena, and the League. He had--perhaps--Selina, and he could on his relationship with the others, but he wouldn't make an effort where no effort was being made in return. He wouldn't beg. No, no more. That time was over now.
But first, they had to get out. When she slid out from under her car Bruce followed, yes, because they'd been working together for long enough that it was instinct now. Instinct, her running and trusting that he would follow, that he would keep up; he did. Following suit and trying to stay up on the cars, hitting the ground only when it was necessary and swinging his blade when his path was blocked by the shambling dead. Corpses, and they all began to look the same, people who weren't people, poor souls who deserved better than this mindless re animation. He was tired of the blood, of feeling as though he'd never, ever wash it off. There were times, close calls, when he swore he stopped breathing, but of course Selina could take care of herself, of course, and when they finally reached the edge of the city his body seemed to sag in relief.
Though, they weren't out of danger yet. They still had to find a door, and every one opened to nothing, not what he wanted, and he so very badly didn't want his hope to be false. Please, he thought, and when he saw Selina pause his heart jumped into his throat. His steps quickened, frantic, then slowed once he reached her side. He started to speak but she beat him to it, and he just listened. Oh, he knew out there would be harder. He knew. It was easier when they were alone, when it was just them, and he could take the easy way out; he could re establish that distance and push her away again. But he didn't want to, he didn't, and his gaze was steady as her hand twisted the doorknob.
Escape.
"We'll talk once this was done," he told her. "I won't change my mind." He wouldn't let himself. Not this time. And he smiled a little when she said she liked him impossible and infuriating, a fond thing. He'd vowed to work on it before, communication, but this time he wanted to mean it. He didn't want what had happened before to happen again; he didn't think he could bear it a second time, and neither could she. "I will if you will, Ms. Kyle," he said, and nudged her to open the door. To the hotel, and beyond, and whatever awaited them there.