Re: log: gatsby, bruce/selina
"I'm different," he echoed, and wasn't that an understatement? Bruce had never felt more different then he did at this point in his life. It was like he didn't belong back in Gotham. Like he didn't belong anywhere, because his Gotham was gone, gone, and he doubted he would ever return, and he was still alive, too. Not even death would have him. "Yes, you have a point. Of course it would be different." He didn't understand the fondness in her voice, because in no way did he think it was a good thing. Maybe, he reflected, he was just imagining it. That made much more sense. And as for this Gotham being kinder, he just shook his head. Kinder than her Gotham, maybe. Once. But not anymore. "It isn't kind now, Selina," he said, solemn. "Would you go back to yours, if you could? Is it better than what this one has become?" He looked at her when she said he wasn't alone, and he wanted to laugh. It started, bubbling up from deep within, hysteria and no humor, but he forced it back down with another deep gulp that burned his throat. "Yes. She left." If Selina had run into her, then there was no need for elaboration.
He listened. Quiet, not interrupting, and he didn't know what to say. He couldn't argue that she had a place in Gotham when he couldn't even find his own. And she was miserable there; better if she didn't come back. Tony asking her to leave Marvel puzzled him, however, even now, and he frowned. "Why? Tony likes you." So much slur, and so much certainty. "I'd have thought he would want you there. Him and Banner." It surprised him, that she was here and not there. Oh, he knew what the general opinion of him was, in his world and theirs, but Selina was different.
Stubbornly, Bruce shook his head again. "It's not the same, Selina." He refused to compare his situation to others. It wasn't that simple. He looked into his glass when she said this Gotham had become her own personal hell; he understood that feeling. He understood it better than she probably knew. All that anger and hurt, that bitterness and resentment, he kept it buried deep, and he pretended. He hated it, but he had to. When she asked if dying would have been preferable he still kept his eyes downcast, and he didn't answer. He said nothing. Silence, and let her take that as she would. Lies upon lies, and he was tired of caring about what it said about him, what kind of person it made him, that his life had come to matter so little.
"Yes, you did." It was simply stated, matter of fact. "I've hurt you. I've hurt you a great deal. In fact, all I've done is hurt you." More fact. "It doesn't matter how many times I apologize. It doesn't matter what I do. I know what I've done. I know things can never be fixed." He downed the rest of his drink and looked up. "You deserve better. Everyone thinks so, and it's true."