Re: Bar: Cat C/Bruce W
Rooftops or no rooftops, Bruce had never had easy physical familiarity with anyone. He was always deliberate, rarely unchecked, and it was almost impossible for him to make any physical action without thinking about it. Perhaps that was the appeal of most rooftops. He watched her move around behind the bar as the cold from the drink slipped past his throat. He barely tasted it. More incautious trust. He noticed that she, to the contrary, was making an effort to collect herself while he was there watching her.
"Damian is not my size," Bruce said. The tone in which he said it implied a dry leaf humor, not disdain or anger. He had visions of Damian tailoring, the way he had when he was very young. More conversations for father and son to Not Have. They were so good at that.
He tilted his head ever so slightly, the way he had done back when the cowl hadn't let him do more. The chuckle confused him, and he didn't say anything either. It wasn't the intimacy. It was the medical part. It was like him asking about her last doctor's appointment. He watched her a few more seconds, face unreadable as he tried to decide whether his presence made things easier or worse. He decided upon the latter, and carefully shuffled back from the bar. "I did not think you were going to murder anyone."
It was a ponderous trip back in the direction of the door and the night. Gone, it seemed, were the days in which he could vanish without preamble. "Thank you for the drink."