Re: log: gatsby, bruce/selina (adult)
He hadn't meant to make her fall. He hadn't meant to shove. But she was trying to make him angry and Bruce knew what he was like when he was angry, he knew. He lost control too easily. Anger became something else, a living force that turned him into something he didn't like. Bruises and pain and blood, and he didn't want to hurt her anymore. He was so very tired of hurting her.
But, remember? He always hurt her. No matter what he did, there was no right choice when it came to Selina. He'd damned himself just by coming here.
Dismay and guilt warred in his expression, and he struggled to his feet when she sprawled back on the floor. "Selina," he began, but whatever he'd intended to say didn't matter. Nothing mattered. She scrambled to her feet before he could even string together coherent thoughts, much less words, and he stared helplessly as she spun and ran into the bedroom. He didn't follow. The door slammed, and he stood where he was, bleary-eyed and so, so very drunk.
By the time he made himself move, she was already gone. The bedroom was empty, window wide open, and he remembered then that she was injured. Her arm, wasn't it? She was hurt, and he'd just hurt her even more. That was all he was good for-- hurting people.
The open window was like an invitation. He wanted to, oh how he wanted to, to just close his eyes and fall, fall, let the black nothing come and swallow him whole. But not here. Not now. He wasn't going to die here, like this.
Not yet. Not yet. But soon. Because he didn't want to live like this anymore. He didn't want to live at all. He was tired of causing pain. Tired of doing everything wrong even when he tried so hard to do the opposite. He was tired of being Bruce Wayne. Tired of being Batman. Tired of every last part of this farce he called a life.
Somehow, he managed to stumble out of the apartment. He left behind knocked over tables and shattered vases, but he made it out. There were bars, here, places to drink, there had to be, and he would find one. He'd drink until he passed out, and for a few hours, he could have his nothing.
Within his mind, a mental countdown began. Tick, tick, tick, counting down to zero.