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Bruce Wainright has (onerule) wrote in rooms,

Not once had Bruce thought, for even a second, that Iris was using him. He was more than happy to offer his help and she was stubborn in her own way, not conceding easily; regardless, he knew she wasn't that kind of person. She was the furthest thing from selfish imaginable. She was probably the only person who wouldn't have resented him for leaving Gotham, who wouldn't accused him of being selfish and not caring. She was different in every single way, so very not the gritty city he'd grown up in, and he liked that.

Time seemed slower here. Calmer. He could breathe easier, and he hadn't woken up disappointed that he was still alive in weeks. That had to be progress. And Iris's presence seemed natural, somehow, not like an intrusion at all. He only regretted leaving her to her own devices so carelessly even though that hadn't been his intention. Perhaps he would do better with words here, with her, neither willing to break the contact they'd established. He tried to keep his strides slow so she could keep up, a small courtesy.

The dog's presence earned a hint of a smile, but he sobered quickly enough when returning to the conversation at hand. "I'm glad you haven't been alone," he said, "but you are, technically, my guest. You're staying in my home, and you're not even familiar with the language." He failed to realize his use of the word home here, when it had for so long referred to Gotham. "I'm not doing anything of importance. Not really. I should have been here. I will be," he added. "You haven't seen the city. I could show you."