InsaneJournal

Who: Bruce and Death
What: Laz Pit retrieval.
Where: A bus stop in Gotham.
When: Err around Valentine's Day.
Warnings/Rating: Nope.

The valentine had turned her world on its head.

She had only gone through the door to fetch something for her own valentine, something that had been kept in storage for a very long time. But when she'd managed to step into her realm, unsteady on her feet due to her own weakness and Iris' carry-over, the sight of the two bags made her freeze in place. She'd moved fast enough to look inside each bag and grab the letter before the nausea had hit her. She had ended up attempting to vomit more than once before crawling far enough away to read the letter and then grab her journal to ask for help. She couldn't think about the contents of the letter, not until the "gift" was gone. And considering who everything had come from (it wasn't hard to tell after reading), there was only one person that she could think of (after a very long time of searching her brain) to help her.

And she was certain that it would be another dark mark against her, going to Bruce for help. Bruce, the man whose son she had ushered from life, whose secrets she had spilled because she couldn't think clearly in the aftermath of taking someone without her full ability to do so. She knew that it would be seen as unforgivable, this asking for help. And if it were anything else that she had been "gifted" with, then maybe she wouldn't have reached out at all. But she knew the effects that the Lazarus Pit could have on "normal" people, and she didn't want to be the one responsible for leaving it anywhere that it could cause more harm. She needed to get rid of it, but she could barely stand being near it, much less allowing it to remain inside a realm that had been created out of a very vital part of herself. She knew how easily a realm could fall into disrepair and decay, and was at least glad that hers was not populated (as her brother's had been upon his too-long disappearance).

Chasing her thoughts away from her brother, she focused on gathering up the bag, pulling her sleeve down over her hand as she did so and hoping against hope that none of the offending green clung to the outside of the paper. It had only taken a few drops and a misstep last time to start what had become her eventual death. She didn't want to take the chance that it being dry made it any safer. It certainly didn't feel any safer. She stepped out of her realm with another shudder of weakness and nausea. She found herself at a transit stop, buses and trains passing intermittently, and used another bit of valuable strength to write the location for Bruce. And then she sat. The stop was home to enough benches, and she claimed the end of one, placing the bag carefully on the opposite end. And then she waited.

She looked, at first, like a street kid - a curl of body on the bench, arms holding tight around her shins and keeping her pressed into a ball. Head resting on her knees, the only visible skin happened to be the dirty feet that emerged from faded black jeans. The color of them was a strange sort of grey, lined through with almost-metallic silver, and that had to be from wandering around without shoes, didn't it? Or a reaction to the cold that was still hanging in the dirty air. The rest of her too-thin body was hidden under layers of more black clothing - shirts and a hoodie and gloves whose fingertips had been cut away to reveal chipped, black-painted nails. Her hood was pulled up, and with the way her head was bowed toward her legs, it hid her face and only let a few limp locks of hair escape to hang down toward her chest. For all those appearances, she was at least clean, no stench of the city on her, and that alone betrayed that fact that she wasn't actually one of the young people that roamed Gotham's streets.

The transit stop wasn't deserted, but those people that did pass by seemed to not notice her at all. They walked by the bench without even glancing over, like the entire seat itself turned them away. She didn't move from her curled position, seeming asleep (or worse), oblivious to those that passed, even though she was aware of every last one of them. The pink valentines bag was a silent but painful companion, sitting in judgement at the other end of the bench, and she hoped that Bruce would be there soon. The sooner the bag was gone, the easier things would be. Her stomach rebelled again, and she tried to ignore it. There was nothing in her to throw up, but the nausea clung and eventually caused her to start shivering in reaction.

Bruce didn’t realize that Death coming to him for help might cause problems simply because he’d never quite been privy to the trouble between her, Eddie, and Stephanie. There had always been other things to worry about, and in all honesty he likely hadn’t paid much attention if someone had mentioned it. He knew Selina was none too fond of her, and he knew Death and Eddie were acquainted, perhaps friends, but he never pried nor did he think he was in any position to do so. And it counted for something, too, that he didn’t know about Death spilling the secrets of Damian’s last moments either. He knew of nothing that would make him hostile against her and so he didn’t think much of retrieving the Lazarus Pit sample, or whatever it was, from her. For even a small amount of the Pit to fall into the wrong hands would be disastrous, and he was one of the few who wouldn’t use it for his own selfish desires. Jason might have blamed her for Damian’s death, but he didn’t. He blamed people; he blamed the man who’d killed his parents, he blamed the Joker for Rachel and, by extension, Harvey, he blamed Firefly for his son. And, of course, he blamed himself above all. But why would he blame Death, when in his mind she simply collected the lost and fallen souls when they would, otherwise, be alone and afraid?

The transit stop was more public than he would have liked, but if it was a choice between Bruce Wayne being seen or the Bat, well, the latter was more preferable, and at least any curious bystanders would keep their distance-- and, too, no one would write tabloid articles about why Batman was where he was. Getting there was simple enough, as he traveled high rather than low, and he observed the area from a rooftop before dropping down to the ground, weight evenly distributed enough to make it a clean landing. He remembered what Death looked like before, all that time ago, since he hadn’t quite been in the best state of mind when she’d visited him in the Cave, and most things after Damian’s death were little more than a haze in his memory. As a result, he was expecting someone else, but all he saw was some pitiful-looking body curled up on the bench.

For a moment he was puzzled, until his gaze fell upon the valentine’s bag at the other end of the bench and things clicked into place. He paused, oblivious to any stares he might be garnering, and slowly knelt down beside her. “Death?” His voice was quiet enough that it wouldn’t carry, and he hesitated, unsure of whether or not he should touch her.

She did her best to push those possibly curious passers-by away, though it was a cause lost before she even really tried. It only made her shiver, a long shuddering thing, and she sighed into her knees without lifting her head. She realized, for the first time, that she didn't want to be seen. She didn't know exactly what she looked like, but she knew the color of the backs of her hands, and didn't kid herself that the rest of her looked any better. Even if she hadn't looked in a mirror to check. For a fleeting moment, before he spoke, she hoped that maybe he would overlook her, think her just one of Gotham's poor who had nowhere else to be. She hoped that he would take the bag and leave. She hoped.

But then he was close, closer than she wanted, and she shivered again, curling her toes around the edge of the bench's seat. The flex of her feet made the scars on her skin shimmer, not that she knew it, careful not to lift her head or peer out of the curtain of hood and hair. "It's in the bag," she finally said, quieter even than his voice, and shot through with the roughness of gravel. She cleared her throat, a painful sound somewhere high in her chest, and tried again. "In the bag."

He had no idea if it was the bag and what it held which had reduced her to this state, or if it was something else entirely. Or, a third option: both. Asking if she was alright seemed a pointless waste of time since she quite clearly was not, and if the Lazarus Pit was harming her in some way then the longer the bag remained, the worse she would become. Death she might be, but just then she looked weak and vulnerable. Bruce couldn’t help but have sympathy for her, at least to some degree.

“Yes, the bag. I’ll take it,” he assured her, and after a moment he rose from his crouch and went to the bag, picked it up. But he hesitated, because leaving her here didn’t sit right with him. “Will you be alright if I go?”

The strange sound that escaped roughly from her throat was a laugh, one aimed not at him, but at herself. She was still for a moment before she finally lifted her head and turned it just enough to peer at him, and that didn't help anything at all. Her face matched her hands, a colorless grey framed by limp black hair, the only color to it were the dark purple shadows beneath her eyes. She hadn't lied about the cut, it was healed (or at least it was closed), the scar not silver like the faded tracks along her legs, but still a dark shade that matched the shadows beneath her eyes. There was a thin hollowness to her face, skin stretched over bone, and it was obvious enough why she had done her best to keep herself hidden from not only him, but also the rest of the people walking by. She barely looked human, or at least not a living human, and even Gotham's residents were likely to have a problem with that.

"Why? Would you try to save me if I said no?" Her eyes were dark instead of light, shadowed enough to not betray any color to them at all. If there was any. She couldn't keep up the challenge of her words, though, and eventually dropped her gaze away. "I'll be going back through the door once you leave. I'm hoping I can, once that's gone." She lifted one arm to gesture toward the bag in his hand, but her hand fell again after a brief motion of her fingers. She tucked both her arms between her body and her legs, huddling in on herself as if trying to warm up against an outer chill, barely even realizing she was doing it. "I'll be alright." It was meant to be certain and reassuring. It sounded more like she was trying to convince herself.

Bruce wasn’t sure if she was laughing at him or something else entirely, and behind the cowl his brow furrowed. He started to say something, the sound of words beginning, but then he stopped when she lifted her head and turned it towards him. No, this was certainly not how he remembered her. His gaze took in the color of her skin, the darkened scar, how her skin stretched almost grotesquely over bone; it was little wonder she kept her face hidden. He could look upon her with no outward reaction, but most were not capable of the same and some would likely have been frightened. She certainly didn’t look human. Not as humans should look, at least.

“I would try to help,” he said without missing a beat. There was no use in lying; he was incapable of turning his back on anyone in need. Well, almost anyone. “Is going through the door safe?” For whoever was on the other side, at least, though he had his suspicions there. Even with the bag gone, he wasn’t so sure she would be alright. He thought for a few moments. “I’ll bring the bag elsewhere,” he conceded. “Take care of it. Then I’ll come back. If you’re not here, if you’ve crossed, let me know.”

Her gaze tracked upward, until she was looking at him again, and the hood fell back from her face, slipping back to reveal that her appearance had nothing to do with the fabric's shadows. She could see in his expression, as masked as it was behind cowl and years of practice, that she didn't look the way she was supposed to. There was a tightness around his eyes as he looked at her, and she sighed, knowing that he wasn't likely missing a single thing about her appearance. After that moment, realizing her hood had slipped down, she shifted to bring her hands up, tugging it back forward again to add shadow that would hopefully disguise some of the worst of it.

It didn't completely hide the slanting slide of her mouth that was meant to be a smile. A small, wry one, but a smile nonetheless. Were she in better form, it would have been accompanied by a raised eyebrow - an actual smirk. "Taking the bag is helping," she said, and then shook her head to the next. "Safe for who?" The words were soft, maybe not meant for him, but nothing immediately followed it. She couldn't believe that everything about her current state had herself to blame. She knew what was happening on the other side of the door, and she knew that some of the problems started there. But she knew more than that, of how Bruce and Iris were a strange sort of friends (even if Iris didn't believe it to be true), knew that Iris didn't believe Bruce knew that she and Death were connected (though the knowledge of it was there in his eyes as well), knew how much the woman didn't want anyone to know what was going on behind closed apartment doors that only a single nurse could get past.

She shook her head as she looked at him. "Just taking the bag is more than I should have been able to hope or ask for. Don't come back. ...I'm taking care of everything else myself." And then softer, because it needed to be said in place of so many other things that didn't have the words. "Thank you." And then, as she tried to decide what else could be said, she figured that there was something she could offer him. "It kills me," she managed quietly, with a glance down at the bag in his hand. "The Pit. It only takes a few drops to get it started. I don't know what more of it would do to me." She looked back up at him with her shadowed smile. "So if you ever need to get rid of me, that's how you can be certain to do it. That, and then don't burn the body. ...It doesn't stop people from dying, though. And it doesn't bring anyone back."

Had he believed that she would have been entirely honest with him, Bruce would have asked if it was just the proximity of the Lazarus Pit which caused the change in her appearance, or something else, something more. But he wasn’t sure she would tell him, and so he didn’t ask. He often had other methods to fall back on when directness didn’t work or, simply, wasn’t an option. “Taking the bag is only the least I can do,” he said without missing a beat, and his expression became a touch or two more guarded when she asked who crossing would, or wouldn’t be safe for. “Your person on the other side, at present. Or should I be concerned about both of you?” No one had directly told him who Death’s Vegas side was, or in turn who Iris had through the door, but he was capable of putting pieces together even when he only had limited knowledge to work with. But he did realize that, technically, he wasn’t supposed to know, and so he waited to see what she would offer without offering up anything of his own.

He ignored her when she told him not to come back. He often ignored what he didn’t want to hear, or what he had no intention of following through with, and he shook his head when she thanked him. “You don’t need to thank me,” he said simply, though he never thought anyone needed to thank him regardless of the circumstances. His gaze turned sharp, however, when she admitted that the Pit killed her; as he’d told Jason, he hadn’t thought it was possible to kill Death. “How do you know?” Obviously, he had no intention of sharing this information with anyone else, especially those prone to acting impulsively without stopping to think first. “I know. I’m not Jason.” It wasn’t said harshly, just stated as simple fact.

If Bruce had asked, she might have given him an answer that was more honest than it should have likely been. In times of stress, the words just seemed to pour out of her with no real attention to what should or shouldn't be said. It was what had caused a problem more than once, and so while she saw the questions lurking behind his expression, she was glad that they weren't asked. And she smiled, something sad and with a small shake of her head, at his insistence that what he was doing for her was the least of what he could do. It wasn't, far from it, but she wasn't going to actually argue that with him. And at the question of other sides and being concerned…

"Neither one of us is very good for the other," she admitted. "We haven't been for a while, now." Things had started out, so long ago it seemed, with Death feeling that she could help Iris into something more positive and healthier. But that had been before both of their worlds had gotten even more complicated, and now it just seemed as if everything one of them did was hard on the other.

And as to how she knew about the Pit's unfortunate side-effects where she was concerned? "Because it's happened before. And it was only a coincidental mistake that brought me back." She shifted enough to rest her chin on her knees, the fold of her body seeming somehow impossible. Or at least not comfortable. "Jason is angry. And sad. Both at once. I don't blame him." She paused, and then her slanted, sad smile deepened at one corner of her mouth. "He's not the first one to want to try to kill me. He just had a better chance at it than most have."

Bruce was very, very good at arguing, and he possessed a tireless determination that often wore down those he argued with. But arguments, as with questions, seemed a waste of time now, and he was relieved that the most protest she gave was a shake of her head. “I am worse for the boy than he is for me,” he admitted. Which was true. Luke had changed, and in a strange way he was proud, but it meant that his newfound quiet life wasn’t so quiet when Gotham factored in; he felt more guilt now than he had in the beginning. “It’s difficult to keep our problems separate. They bleed over sometimes.” He did understand that, too, but he didn’t think it was really anything Death or Iris could control.

He hadn’t known that she had died before, and that made him realize just how much he missed in some areas. He liked to think that he had his finger on the pulse of Gotham, that he knew everything, but clearly he’d been wrong. “How did it happen before?” He was curious, though not entirely expectant that she would tell him. He nodded when she said that Jason was both angry and sad, because though it was a simplified way to describe what he was feeling, he knew. “I know he is, but killing you won’t get rid of either. It won’t bring--” He paused. “It won’t bring Damian back.”

Death wasn't going to give any sort of judgement on who was better or worse for their opposite side, so her expression simply tipped into another almost-smile that was more an acknowledgement than anything else. Maybe Bruce was worse for Luke, maybe they all had negative influences on each other. "They do bleed," she finally said. Even she wasn't certain how much of their (her and Iris') problems were from each other, and how much was from themselves. Maybe there wasn't even a division like that anymore. There was no way to stand alone when someone else was so desperately tied into your mind and thoughts.

As to the question of her previous death, she simply stared at Bruce for a very long moment. Her eyes slowly shifted from an inky black into a light silver and then back again, slow seconds as she looked at him. With the words of Stephanie's letter echoing in the back of her mind, and her caught somewhere between anger and self-pity, she wasn't certain that she wanted to tell Bruce her version of how everything had happened. She drew a breath, obviously preparing to say something, but she let it out again without a words. She only nodded at the statement of Damian's death being permanent. It had taken so much from her, but she knew that he had gone how and where he was meant to. And with the family keeping him away from his grandfather's green legacy, she carried enough faith that he was gone.

Bruce would never admit it to anyone, but sometimes, though less often than before, he wondered if it might be better if he simply disappeared. He would go home, back to his Gotham, and Luke would be free. Maybe it would be better if they all did. Gotham was too much for its own citizens to bear, much less outsiders who had been dragged in against their will. There was no way to make it happen either, unless Luke and Wren moved, but he didn’t think they were in any position to do so just yet. And so there was nothing else to do but keep trying to shield those on the Vegas side from the repercussions as best he could, which was easier said than done, especially when he had a hard enough time shielding those in Gotham from their troubles.

Again, he considered pushing for a response, but decided to leave it be for the time being. Death didn’t seem in any condition to be pushed and, really, did it matter? She’d come back from it, and he’d come to ensure the Lazarus Pit sample didn’t fall into the wrong hands. “You shouldn’t be around this any longer than you already have been,” he said, finally, nodding towards the bag. “I’ll take it and go.”

Of anyone in Gotham, Death wondered if Bruce would understand. The strange line between duty, that core of being that might never change, no matter how much its owner might desire it. She thought of Iris and wondered if the subtle connection there would somehow spill over to her, allowing her, if not a friend, someone in Gotham that she could at least talk to. She cradled that thought in a moment of vulnerability, and nearly changed her mind about keeping things secret. For that tentative moment, she almost opened up.

But the next moment brought with it memory. And realization. It brought recollection of the words of the letter that was tucked in the front pocket of the hoodie she wore. It brought the sight of Jason leaning over her with a knife so sharp it caught the light. It brought the knowledge that the possibility of forging a connection with the man before her had been lost when she took his son. Her expression smoothed even as her stomach twisted and dropped, and she nodded. "Thank you." She didn't apologize or again insist that it was more than she deserved to have the sickly green taken somewhere away from her. "I hope you have a good Valentine's Day, Bruce." Her voice was carefully low, and anyone that had been nearby had long since found a reason to wander off. There was no one there to hear her naming him. "I hope your gift was better than mine." She wanted to get up, to walk away, but the truth was that she wasn't certain that she could do it. At least not and keep her dignity at the same time. She felt perhaps a bit better with the bag in his hand, knowing that it would soon be moving even farther away, but she didn't feel good. She wondered if she would even when it was gone.

That was a thought for a different time, though, and one she could consider once he'd left. "Hopefully we won't have to do this again," she managed with a smile and a resting of her chin on one bony knee.

Bruce knew duty better than most. He knew the weight it brought, and he knew the sacrifices which, at times, could not be avoided no matter what choice was made. But he wasn’t the sort of man to offer that sort of information up willingly, and with nothing given first, he was silent. He thought of telling her, again, that she didn’t need to thank him, but he always told people as much and no one ever accepted it. Instead, he inclined his head. “You’re welcome.” That was usually better received. He didn’t say that he intended to give Valentine’s Day to Luke, because there was nothing for him here. The menton of his name made him stiffen, but not as much as it once would have, and he doubted anyone else had heard, regardless. There were more important things now to worry about, things that eclipsed his secret identity. “My gift was…” He paused. “It was very thoughtful.” He wondered, though, what the photo album really was a reminder of. People he didn’t want to forget, he’d thought, but maybe it was a reminder of the price that came with the path he’d chosen. The people who would always be at risk, the people he couldn’t save no matter what he did.

But that was neither here nor there. “Yes,” he said. “Hopefully.” Hope didn’t seem to be much good here these days, but he hadn’t lost it. Not yet. He hesitated a beat longer, and then he turned to retrieve the bag, holding it carefully, even though logically he knew what was inside couldn’t actually hurt him. “Goodbye, Death.”

Very thoughtful, said like that (lack of smile, lack of warmth, just an awkward handful of words), even with Bruce's normal stoicism, made something deep within the back of her mind go quiet and still, and she blinked black eyes at him.

Hopefully they wouldn't have to do it again. Hopefully. So many things to hope for. She nodded, and when she spoke, it was quiet. It was soft. It was a little sad. "Goodbye, Bruce." And she turned her face back to her knees, hiding it there to keep from the prying eyes of Gotham's passing citizens until she found the energy (or lack of time) to send her back through the door.