Re: quicklog -- steph/bruce: dive bar.
[Maybe Bruce didn't have the best sense of humor in the world, but he recognized that Stephanie was teasing and responded accordingly. He leaned forward, chin on his hands and his expression one of exaggerated, rapt attention. (He assumed that was how teenagers looked when involved in conversations about love and the like.) It didn't last, though, and he sat back with a weak chuckle at his attempt. Perhaps it was irresponsible to drink with such careless abandon—and it wasn't typical behaviour for him—but he was under a lot of stress, they both were, and he thought a few hours of carelessness and irresponsibility was warranted. He just wanted to drink in a bar; he wasn't planning on doing any real damage. He was tired, stressed, under pressure, but he wasn't a teenager and he hadn't entirely taken leave of his senses.] I vote for calling a cab.
[He watched her down the rest of her drink, and for once, he wouldn't lecture.] But I'm so very good at beating myself up over things, Stephanie. [As for whether or not there was a point where he needed to step back, to make a choice, he wished he could answer with certainty. He hated being uncertain.] I don't know. Interfering drives her away, but stepping back could mean letting her get hurt. She was angry, that's how we left things. She told me not to contact her. [His smile was sad, knowing. Of course he was going to keep trying, keep reaching out.] I wish I had the answers. I feel like I did, once. Nothing feels the same now. Everything's different. [Bruce stopped just short of saying maybe he was different, too.] Eddie and I spoke briefly. That's all. [He nursed his second drink as the waitress arrived with Stephanie's drinks and their shots, and he thought about reaching out, thought about what he would say.] I can try. I don't know what I'll say. Especially to Selina. [Something had changed between them, something that felt permanent. And he was caught up in trying to keep Damian and Jason from killing, trying to remind them what the symbol they fought for was supposed to represent—it wasn't always easy to remember.
But, it was as he'd told Alfred all those years ago, in a very different world. He was meant to inspire good, not death. Not blood spilled on the streets while the mob heads were safe and unblemished up high.
He raised his eyebrows at the shots.] I can tell. [A pause, during which he looked at her, and despite the pain they were both feeling he managed a smile back.] I don't know. What's the proper way?