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Bruce Wainright has (onerule) wrote in rooms,

Re: In-person: Selina/Bruce
[The loft had smelled like death when he'd gotten there. Death and rot, sickly sweet overripe, and it reminded him of zombies. Body parts, decomposing and decomposed, and as Bruce gathered up the grotesque hands he felt his anger rise, his hatred for Ra's becoming a wildfire that licked and burned at his insides. He had them taken away, money providing discretion, and then he cleaned, cleaned, hands and knees and the smell of bleach and sharp lemon-lime mixing together. It was a distraction, a way to let his mind go blank, and by the time he was done the scent of death had faded, buried beneath disinfectant and cleaning solutions. He opened up the windows to air it out, and then he waited.

Across town, in a hospital bed, his daughter was caught in a struggle between life and death. In the streets they washed blood from cement. Supplies were being distributed, and people were helping one another in a display of selflessness and hope that should have made him proud. Eddie was right; the city was stronger than ever. But beneath his anger he felt hollow, empty, not like this was a victory at all. He wasn't sure why. Ra's was caught, and he'd spend the rest of his life locked away in the Underworld. That was a good thing. And, yet, he found himself wishing he'd killed him instead. It was an echo of his youth, a gun in his pocket and hate in his heart. He was tired, but he couldn't sleep. When he closed his eyes he saw blood, saw be headings and a television screen. He felt the sting of needles in his neck, shackles on his wrist. Further back, back, and it was death, people dying all around him while he was helpless to stop it.

He tried pacing. He tried sitting still. But the gunshots still echoed in his ears, so many, and the voice of the man who'd shot Helena. Tell the Detective... He wanted to scream, but he was silent. He wanted darkness, numb, but he was awake and present in the world. He missed the suit, the safety of kevlar and a cowl; he'd changed into sweatpants and a turtleneck, both dark, accentuating the circles under his eyes without him realizing it.

Waiting, waiting, waiting. The cat, whose name escaped him, jumped up beside him for company, and the feel of warm fur under his fingers was oddly reassuring. But then the door opened and the cat was gone, off to investigate, and Bruce waited a few seconds before rising to follow. He rounded the corner to see Selina staring, and he stared a little too long in return, processing, processing, his mind reassuring him that she was here. She was fine, or as fine as she could be considering the circumstances.

He smelled like the loft did, disinfectant and lemon, and his hands were red and raw from cleaning. His lips twitched with effort before he managed a small, small smile, and he exhaled quietly as he moved forward.] Hello, Ms. Kyle.