Re: Bar: Cat C/Bruce W
Oh, Cat knew he wasn't sorry. She could probably count all the times she'd seen Bruce contrite on one hand. Twenty-plus years, and all she needed was five fingers. As for pride, that was her shtick, and perhaps she was attributing it to him. There were worse things. Cat was walls and pride, and it would be something good, if only it wasn't all such a huge farce. Her strength wasn't pretense, it wasn't that, because it was carved into her spine by this point in her life, but there was a longing beneath. Ah, well, it hardly mattered now.
She aged, but slowly, and she wasn't blind to the gray heavily dotting his temples. The injury made sense, and she wondered how badly he'd take if she told him that he should take it easy. In the end, she decided she didn't care how he took it. "Are you handing the mantle over to Damian? He's been flying around the Capital, while you've been away. Well, I think it's Damian. Jason doesn't have the flair."
Better. No Russian for a full thought.
"No. He was angry. He had a strong grip. He growled. None of these are good things. He didn't mean anything by it, and he's not dangerous." Which was true. Dr. Isaiah Bishop was not dangerous. But there was more to it, wasn't there? She took a healthy swallow of her vodka. "His father was the scientist at the docha. He did all the torture they called testing." A pause, and then the Russian again: "His father created the serum. Isaiah reminds me of him." That, she assumed, was explanation enough.