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Bruce Wainright has (onerule) wrote in rooms,

Bruce had been neglecting Iris.

Albeit unintentional, the truth was that he'd been around less and less and often returned to the villa after dark, usually on horseback, and left again before dawn. He liked to watch the sun rise and set in the city, from the tallest tower, where he felt so very far away from the world below. The view was breathtaking, nothing like Gotham's gritty skyline. He liked the contrast between early and late, when the activity on the streets dwindled for different reasons. Church bells struck the hour, the devout filed in and out but he had yet to venture inside the walls; religious leaders were the most corrupt in this time, and he'd never been one to put very much faith in any god regardless. Stalls opened, food and goods being sold inside and behind doors, and he learned the city. He learned which buildings belonged to whom, towers well guarded, brothels and homes and banks, stores that sold fabric and blacksmiths for those so inclined.

He kept an eye out for the men, too, the assassins he'd met that day; he had yet to find them again, but it became a challenge of sorts. Sometimes he followed the guards, tracked their patterns and where they went, for how long, but he kept his distance; until he had reason (again) to interfere, he would only watch.

Lucia wasn't pleased. He'd managed to evade her for the most part but she always had a fair amount of angry Italian to direct his way when they did cross paths, often when he are to placate the household staff and fend off any whispers. He hadn't explained who Iris was yet, but he didn't treat her like a mother or a sister, didn't look at her like one, and part of him knew they had already drawn their own conclusions. That she was there, with him in a broad sense he refused to explain, was enough; or, in his mind, it should be enough. He'd instructed that she be taken care of, given whatever she needed, but Lucia pointed out quite emphatically that it wasn't enough-- she was right. Iris deserved better. But Harley's words had gotten under his skin and he had a hard time letting what she'd said go.

Because maybe she was right. What if he did hurt Iris? Was he taking advantage of her? Was it inevitable? Harley had no right to lecture him on things she didn't understand, on things that weren't her business, but she'd made him question himself regardless. He hated that she had. She didn't know him; who was she to tell him what to do?

Finally, though, Bruce realized what he had to do. Lucia's nagging had paid off; he didn't take off before dawn. He slept, and he awakened when the sun was already high in the sky. He washed, dressed, bypassed breakfast and set off to look for Iris. She wasn't in her room, and one of the passing stableboys told him she was walking the grounds with the dog.

So, he followed the sound of barking.