log: bruce & selina, potc Who: Bruce & Selina What: Vacation (1/2) Where: Pirates door. When: Recently. Warnings/Rating: None.
Selina hadn't been back since zombies.
She'd signed papers to ensure that the business in Tortuga kept running, and she'd informed the old and craggy butler at the house that she would be gone a while. And she knew it would all be there, waiting, because there wasn't anything to ruin it. No Ra's. No Crane. No Joe. No Gotham rogues waiting to crawl out of the shadows to become serial killers and stars. No, her escape would still be there, and while she'd promised herself she wouldn't isolate herself there again, she didn't think there was anything wrong with this. After all, it would be a little stroll into her psyche for the man joining her, and there was a vulnerability in that. Oh, she wasn't naive enough to think that her choice of escape said nothing about her. She'd lived in Port Royal for a month without any contact beyond the watery world, and that said something in and of itself.
And those days had been low days. She'd had a lot of bad in her life, but she'd never been as close to throwing in the towel as she had then. And she teetered sometimes, and she was glad the ordeal with Ra's ended when it had. She was tired, and she was done, and as soon as she'd been able to cross the loft unaided, she left a note on the kitchen table, telling him to follow when he was ready.
Oh, she could've waited and gone with him, but there was a perceived vulnerability about changing into that kind of dress around him, and it was better not to. Silly, maybe, but she was still wound up in protection and pride, and that tiny thing was somehow too much, and maybe that came from the suit, from an entire adult life spent hiding behind a persona that just couldn't exist where they were going. Anyway, easy enough to say she was going ahead to inform the servants that her husband was coming. It was, she thought, a lovely excuse.
Maria Wells née Huntington came home speaking her native Italian, and the motley crew of servants aired out the rooms and ordered meat from the butcher. Her servants were prostitutes and servants that were too old or sick to serve, and they were glad to see their mistress home. Her husband? They weren't as sure about him, but they whispered among themselves, promising to make Commodore Huntington's life a living hell if he caused trouble. And that was their fear, a house populated with women who jumped whenever a man spoke too loudly. The youngest girls were missing tongues, and the oldest had burns on half their faces, and there were more elderly than when Selina had last been, their fingers no longer steady enough for work. The stables were populated with horses too old to ride, and the groundsmen were missing teeth and limbs and eyes. Oh, they were rough and violent, but she knew her husband could hold his own, should he get on the wrong side of her protectors.
She knew it would take him time to get to to the house from Tortuga. Making his way from the Faithful Bride to the docks would be easy, and she'd left a boy behind to help him, but she couldn't send her actual ship to him, not to a Commodore, so the ship that brought her from Tortuga home would need to set out again. It gave her nerves time to settle, and he'd be treated like a king on that ship. After all, he was the law.
She asked them not to tell her when the ship neared port, and the house had no view of the busy town on the water. The extra few days gave her back the last bits of her strength, and the sunlight helped. As much as she loved Gotham's smog, she liked the barren rocks that made up Port Royal's waterside. For all the beauty of the old house, it was a hard life, no electricity, lawlessness in the law, and thrill on the waters.
She dressed, hair made unruly by lack of straighters, and she struck out early that morning. Still dark and no sun in the sky yet, and made her way down the cliffs and to the old dock there. The servants had orders to let her husband know where she was, should he arrive, but they'd had those orders every day, and she had no way of knowing how the tide would run. Fancy was docked in the cove beyond the house, slumbering, and without being on the water? Well, the kitty cat wasn't exactly an expert in the winds. She sat, bare feet hanging off the side of the wood, and she tipped her head back and closed her eyes. It was her therapy, self-devised, to find only sunlight behind her eyelids, and not Gotham's hells.
Leaving Gotham with the knowledge that it was temporary, a vacation rather than an escape from a city he loathed, lessened Bruce's guilt significantly. It didn't feel like abandonment, and it certainly helped that people like Stephanie actually encouraged the time away. He knew he hadn’t been taking care himself as much as he should have been. He knew Selina hadn’t, either. But they hadn’t talked all that much since Ra’s was captured, and maybe they were both waiting for this, for time alone, where there wasn’t anyone else to interfere or interrupt.
He didn’t need time, once he found the note. Oh, he could have stopped to think about why she went ahead, about why she hadn’t waited to go together, but he didn’t. Briefly, maybe, but he didn’t dwell. They were still on shaky ground, rife with uncertainty, vulnerability hidden behind defenses that neither of them really knew how to lower. It had been a long, hard road for both of them, and this was the first time they’d actually decided to give it a shot. For so, so long, most people had only known him as Batman, and it was only recently that the real Bruce Wayne, not the playboy or the bat, made appearances more often than not. It certainly wasn’t the Bat who stepped into Pirates, nor the playboy; he had leftover clothing from Italy, and maybe it wasn’t quite right, but it would do. He could make it work. This was his first time in this particular door, and he was more than a little surprised to find himself in… what he assumed to be some kind of bar, which to his misfortune happened to be very loud and very crowded at the moment he decided to cross. This, thankfully, wasn’t where he needed to be, and Bruce wove deftly through the crowd to the outdoors, which wasn’t much quieter, and made his way down to the docks. He’d been sailing once or twice with his parents when he was very young, but never on ships like these, and while he’d leapt from tall buildings and done all sort of death-defying actions, the prospect of being on a proper ship was met with slight apprehension.
But adapting was something he could do. A man of few words was who he decided it was best to be, and it worked. He found the boy Selina had left for him, who led him to his ship, and he was greeted with a surprising amount of respect. Gotham wasn’t exactly big on respect. And his clothing might not have been precisely befitting of a Commodore, but he had no interest in the uniform, and luckily no one questioned him.
The trip to Port Royal took time, and on a ship his options were limited. The boy seemed twitchy at first, never making eye contact and keeping his distance, but Bruce managed to wear him down, patient questions and a very obvious lack of intent to arrest or otherwise bring the law down on his head working in his favor. He’d always had a soft spot for children; he might not have thought himself a competent father, and he still didn’t think he ever should have been one, but that was on him and not children themselves. He found it oddly soothing, the sun and the water, and it was like Italy in the sense that it felt similar. That same calm, that same distance, and both were very much not Gotham. That counted for something, too.
Time was slippery, as he measured it himself, and it was very, very early when the ship docked. The sun was just beginning to rise and it was quiet, quiet in a way Gotham rarely was even as dawn approached, and again the boy was his guide. They walked, as Bruce didn’t need a carriage or anything of the sort, and maybe it was just a way to buy extra time even though he refused to admit as much. Now, the boy may have been easily won over, but once they reached house he was immediately aware that the rest of the household wouldn’t be the same. Selina had their loyalty, not him, but he didn’t want any trouble; there were countless other places he could go for a fight. They eyed him with suspicion, wary gazes and whispers, but he was polite, didn’t ask for anything, made no demands and gave no orders. He knew violence. He could sense it, and he knew how to fight it, to respond, but there was no place for the Bat here. There was no war to fight.
Eventually, they told him where Selina was.
He thought it a small victory that he set off to find her without any bruises or spilled blood. They watched him go, he knew, and Bruce wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had followed to make sure he didn’t… well, he had an idea of what they feared. But he didn’t look back, didn’t look over his shoulder, and he caught sight of her soon enough, a figure down by the water. He could have made his approach silent, but his boots thudded on wood intentionally.
“Hello, Ms. Kyle.” There was no one here to hear, after all. His lips twitched. “Or should I say Mrs. Huntington.”
"And here I thought you were known for you stealth, Mr. Huntington." She knew the weight of footfalls on the wooden dock was deliberate. After all, she knew how quiet he could be when weighed down with kevlar. And that? That wasn't kevlar.
Her hands were back against the wood, braced and elbows locked as she watched him approach, her lush smile slightly nervous. Movement, and a glance toward the cliff and stones behind him made her chuckle; she waved her fingers, go, to the stable lad that waited there, watching. "They didn't try to kill you? That's promising. They keep attacking the bankers who come insisting a woman can't manage finances. They think you, Mr. Huntington, are very neglectful." It was all said with a smile, entertained, and none of this was real. She knew that, and that made it simple in a way the intricacies of Gotham could never be. Even if everything here blew up, it wouldn't be like losing home, and she'd realized that a long time ago.
She let her mossy gaze slide along the length of him, and she tipped her head in faux consideration. The ends of her brown hair swayed against the wood as she leaned back, and the pink bunched at her knees as she pulled her legs back from the water. "So, how do you suggest we deal with the jitters, Bruce?" Because, oh, what was the point in pretending? They'd shared the loft for a month now, but it had been madness and ships passing in the night. There were exceptions, of course, and she could remember every single one. But it wasn't this. There were no excuses here, no exhaustion, no reason to rush out the door for something.
She looked out toward the cliff, across the water and toward the cave. "I could show you the ship. That could be distracting." She motioned to the rowboat, giving him the option. Distraction, or conversation, or a bit of both.
"I am." He paused, deliberately, looking out over the water before his gaze shifted back to her. "When I choose to be." Bruce knew they were both aware that he was only heard because he wanted to be; he was never that sloppy. It was different seeing her like this, outside of Gotham, no kevlar or sleek black between them. They were, he reflected, more human as a result. He glanced over his shoulder when she chuckled, just briefly, but he didn't really need to in order to know who she was waving her fingers at. He thought it was sweet, their protectiveness, even if it meant he walked a fine line as a result. "No, not yet," he said, when she asked if they'd tried to kill him. "I tried to say as little as possible. I think that helped." He returned her smile with one of his own, because really, it didn't matter how many people thought him a neglectful husband. It didn't even matter if her hired help despised him. This wasn't permanent, and it wasn't real. There was less pressure as a result. No real expectations. He could get behind that. "I suppose I'm not a very good husband." He didn't sound all that upset about it, though.
Sharing the loft had brought them closer, in a sense, but in a way there was still a lot of space between them, words unsaid and things untouched. Occupying the same space as someone else didn't necessarily mean they were with each other all the time, and Gotham had been so hectic that there hadn't been much opportunity to just stop. This, here, was different. They had nothing but time, and there was nothing to call either of them away. "We could find something to do," he suggested. It was a broad statement, but maybe their nerves would abate if they were doing more than standing on a dock while a stable boy watched.
She was giving him the option, and he considered it. They'd have a chance to be literally alone, with nowhere to escape to, which might be good. "Alright," he agreed. He tipped his head to the side, a hint of teasing in the gesture, and offered a hand for her to stand. "I suppose I should see my wife's ship."
She chuckled and took his hand, and the sound was warm in the early sunlight as she stood. "I think you're supposed to at least sound concerned about being a terrible husband, Mr. Wayne," she teased, and she moved close enough to feel the odd fabric of the shirt he wore. Her fingers slid along the buttons, down his chest and up, and this was easy enough, this banter, this pretense. Home, in a strange and safe way, the banter, even if she wasn't as sure about not being rejected at the end as she had been once. But her smile was warmer when he said he would see the ship, and she was a cant of hip against him, a momentary and deliberate sway and press of pink. "Wife," she repeated, and it was a purr. When she stepped back it was with a turn, and with a deliberately coquettish glance over her shoulder. "Did you ever plan on having one? A wife?" Despite the teasing tone in her voice as she slipped beneath the wooden bannister and crossed, daringly barefoot, to the lapping water's edge, the question was a genuinely curious one.
She stopped at the rowboat that stood there, hidden away from sight above, and only visible from the creaking dock itself. It was old wood, greyed with age, and two oars, beached upon the dark sand to keep from rotting. She'd pushed it out a hundred times, but she didn't push it out now. Instead she climbed in, pink and white beneath, and she sat on the crossbar of wood and settled her skirts around her, as if she'd really been born to this life of makebelieve. "You can push it out. And you can row." Her smile was teasing, the role an easy one to play, and she'd had an easy time of it here on account of it; winning over pirates with a smile was a simple thing for a cat. But, and it was a very deliberate thing, she met his gaze as she answered her own question, in a roundabout way. "I never thought I'd marry. Even when I was little. Some of the girls thought that would be their escape. Marriage, but I was never that naive. Now? It just seems like an awful lot to risk, an awful lot of hurt. Oh, I'm not scared of risks, but that one's- I talk to Steph a lot lately. She talks about duty and failing." She trailed off, the thoughts lost with the lapping of the water.
He could have pointed out that, since they weren’t actually married, being concerned about his failure as a husband was useless, but he didn’t. Bruce realized that part of the appeal of this place was that nothing was real, and so there was nothing to worry about; her laughter said as much. Her smile, too, was warm, more than he’d seen in a long while, and he was in no hurry to do anything that would ruin it. “I’m very concerned,” he told her, deadpan, fingers closing around hers when she took his hand. “I intend on rectifying the situation as soon as possible.” It was familiar, the teasing, even the way her fingers trailed over his buttons; no real vulnerability, not yet, or maybe the pretense just kept it at bay for now. Words could be armor just as much as black and kevlar. For a brief, brief moment he was reminded of Italy, of how the servants there had assumed Iris to be his wife, but he quickly pushed it from his mind. Iris was just a friend, nothing more, and he didn’t particularly want to be thinking of her while he was with Selina, no more than he would want her thinking of Banner. And this was different, regardless, because he hadn’t felt an unfamiliar twinge in Italy, hadn’t felt like the word wife was loaded with so much more. He hid it behind a smile when she swayed against him, a raise of his eyebrows, and he lifted one shoulder in response to her question. “I suppose I never really thought about it.” A short answer, yes, but no less true for the lack of words.
After a moment’s pause he followed her onto the dock, only then noticing the rowboat that awaited. He’d never actually rowed anywhere, having only been on boats a tad more sophisticated, but he wasn’t the least bit surprised that she expected him to do all the work. He wasn't surprised, either, that she sat like she'd done this a thousand times before. "I figured," he remarked dryly, and he set about pushing the boat out as she spoke, his attention split between the task at hand and listening. Marriage had always seemed something meant for others, not him, like children, family, happiness. He still couldn't understand how or why he had a family in the first place, despite the hardships that came with it. "She's hard on herself," he said, finally, once the rowboat was on the water and he'd climbed inside. The oars proved another challenge, and he frowned at them for a moment before deciding he might as well try; the worst he could do was make a fool of himself.
"Marriage was never really something I gave much thought to," he continued, elaborating on what he'd said before. "Here and there, maybe, but... it's never been high on my priority list." For obvious reasons, he thought. "I don't think it's something to be taken lightly. Both people involved have to be committed. Eddie and Stephanie have their struggles, but they love each other." He shrugged.
For all the safety in the teasing, this felt more serious than it had in the past. Even with the makebelieve environment it had more weight, and she wondered - not for the first time - if she'd made the wrong choice. Somewhere safer, somewhere without vulnerabilities that made her skin itch beneath the soft pink fabric that took away her sharp edges in a way the suit never did. Slinky black, and people looked where she wanted them to. It was all distraction, but this was different, wasn't it? This was about not distracting. The kitty cat had been jumping off rooftops her entire life, and yet this particular leap scared her. She had no idea he was thinking about Iris, and she only noticed the smile and raise of eyebrows, his assertion that he'd never thought about marriage. She assumed he had. His parents had been happily married, hadn't they? She assumed that kind of thing lingered. And he'd been in love with his lawyer. The Bat she'd known? He'd never loved a woman; she would bet her whip on it.
She watched him figure out the rowboat in silence, an entertained smile on her lush lips. "She is hard on herself," she said of Stephanie, but she left it there, the shadows on her features hidden by the wind-whipped hair against her cheeks. She was wary of criticism when it came to Stephanie and Eddie, and time hadn't changed that. Oh, she was playing nice these days, but catastrophic conversation after catastrophic conversation left her wondering just how long she could keep it up. Be yourself, Em had said. But there was so much risk in that. She'd played that game for years, and it only ended in half a year of Stephanie and Eddie convincing her Bruce didn't want to talk to her, and that she was terrible for him. She wasn't sure she could go back there, and so pretense mattered. And then there was the ever increasing problem with Helena and Damian, and she shook the thoughts away as she pushed back the dark tangle of her hair.
"Are you warning me, Mr. Wayne?" she finally asked. "If I'm after you for your money, I should turn back now?" she was teasing, but perhaps there was a little truth in the question, somewhere beneath the smile and the warmth in her mossy green eyes. She nodded toward the cove entrance. "There. There's a bigger cave beyond the rocks. She's huge. You can't miss her."
Though it wasn't something he intended to bring up, Bruce had some understanding of the significance behind her choosing this place for their vacation, getaway, whatever it was. She wasn't the Cat here, no more than he'd been the Bat in Italy, and they were both more human than they usually were. But if this was going to work, really work, they couldn't hide behind kevlar and sleek black forever. As for love, well, it wasn't that he was entirely unfeeling; he wasn't ice or stone. His parents had been happily married, and though it now felt like so long ago he had, once, loved Rachel. Or he'd thought he had, at the time. But even so marriage had never taken up all that much space, because as a child he'd always assumed it was some grown-up thing he didn't need to worry about and later... later other things came first.
He failed to realize that the lack of elaboration about Eddie and Stephanie was deliberate. Harley had mentioned Selina's worry about fitting in, about the rest of the family liking her, but for some reason he hadn't factored those two in. They were, arguably, two of the people he was closest to, and Stephanie especially seemed to be rooting for him and Selina to work. No, if anyone was the problem, it was Damian and Helena; he knew she had difficulty with both of them. Things might have gotten better between himself and Helena before she was shot, but he felt like he was fighting a losing battle with Damian. He was trying, but getting nowhere, and even though he didn't intend on giving up it was a little discouraging. "I told her she doesn't need to be," he sighed, "but she's very stubborn."
The thought of her being after his money made him smile, because if there was one thing he was sure of it was that his money didn't interest her. "No, Ms. Kyle. I'm just answering your question." It was said innocently enough, but his eyes crinkled up into something like a smile, amusement. "If you were only after my money, we wouldn't be here," he added. He looked up when she indicated the cove entrance, and after a few moments of maneuvering managed to row the boat in the right direction. Once a rhythm was developed it really wasn't that difficult, and he rowed in further, further, until his strokes slowed and the boat did too. "Do you miss it?" An honest question, no teasing to be found.
"She is stubborn," she agreed of Stephanie and there was honest fondness there. And, oh, she was fairly sure Stephanie meant her encouragements now, just as she'd meant all those deterrents in the past. This Gotham was about forgetting wrongs, and the kitty cat just wasn't very good at that. For his sake, she was trying, but she was starting to wear thin. She could only be polite so long, and her recent conversations with Stephanie had gone terribly anyway, hadn't they? So what was the point in sheathing her claws. Maybe it took coming here to finally settle on that. Because this - whatever this was - wasn't going to be worth anything if it was based on her pretending to be some domesticated little kitten. As for Helena and Damian, well, they could only ignore that for so long. "Damian thinks I come between you two. Helena would rather you be spending time with someone else. How much does that matter, Bruce?" Because why not ask? Enough soft-pawing around everything.
The boat evened, and then the boat slowed, and she pointed to a roughly hewn dock in the stone of the tall, damp cave. "If I was only after your money, I would've found a way to clear you out at the bank." She said it easily, surely, and without even a hint of remorse. When he posed the question about missing it. "This?" She looked around at the tall stone walls, and she smiled at the big ship ahead. "No. The only thing I miss about this place is the acceptance. I know Stephanie and Eddie mean well, but there's nothing I can say that's right with them. Nothing. I don't think they're intentionally belittling, but I've been nice about it until now, because I didn't want them to get in the way of things again. I'm done being nice about it." She stood, the rowboat teetering, and she climbed onto the stone ledge without waiting for him to dock. "Are you sorry you asked?" she called over her shoulder, and her voice echoed along the cave walls.
And this wasn't Gotham. There were no rooftops, no kevlar and slinky black, but she still managed to disappear in a swath of pink. The only left to indicate where she'd gone, by the time he tied the rowboat, was the slight swing of the rope ladder along the boat's stern.
There was no one aboard, and none of the lanterns were lit save one that suddenly flickered on ahead, in the captain's quarters.
The cabin took up the prow, and even with the flickering lantern on the table it was dark. Wine glasses were out, left, it seemed, and a glass of old red wine stood beside them. The bed was unmade, as if it had been recently slept in, and the door was ajar.
He was surprised that she brought up Helena and Damian so directly, even more so that she asked how much their opinions mattered. Somehow, he thought if that conversation was ever going to happen he’d have to be the one who initiated it. But, he reflected, maybe this was for the best. They had to talk about it eventually, didn’t they? “Damian’s been angry at me since he came back,” he said. “Before Ra’s, I went to see him, and… I think we started to work things out, but since then we haven’t spoken much.” Bruce paused, frowning more to himself than it being directed towards her. “I’m not doing a very good job of reaching him.” Helena, however, was a different story. Aside from Stephanie she was the one he’d become closest to, of all his ‘children’, and even though he was aware that more than Selina had issues with her it was hard for him to look at things objectively when she was involved. He didn’t understand how, or when, things had gotten so bad with the two of them either. “He’s my son, and she’s my daughter. They might not see me as their father, but that doesn’t change how I feel about them. But for a very long time I listened to everyone else and let them tell me what I should do, how I should feel, and I ended up miserable,” he explained. Calm, matter of fact. “Cutting you out of my life won’t fix things with Damian, and if Helena doesn’t like it, she’ll have to learn to accept it regardless.” He sighed. “I’ve tried so hard to be what I thought they wanted, Selina. I don’t want to be some other Bat, or another Bruce Wayne. I just want to be me.”
It was quiet, the echoing sort, and he steered the boat towards the dock. She had her ship and her house, and in Italy he’d had horses and his villa, but neither were real, and neither were meant to last. He hadn’t gone back, and with Luke and Wren now using the place for their own needs he doubted he would again. “I know.” He had no doubt that, if she’d wanted his money, she could have gotten it with far less effort and complication. He understood missing acceptance, understood what it was like to feel as though he couldn’t say anything right. He watched her stand, and he watched her climb onto the ledge while he was still struggling with the boat. “No,” he said. “I’m not sorry. And I think you’re entitled to a break from being nice.” Gotham wasn’t really nice, and he mulled that over as he tied up the boat, thought about how life hadn’t been kind to any of them and so being kind in return wasn’t something learned.
By the time the boat was secure she’d vanished, but as there weren’t very many places she could have gone he wasn’t worried about finding her. The swing of the rope against the stern gave him direction and he climbed easily, hauling himself over the edge and onto the deck. Wood creaked under his boots as he walked, and he nudged the door open with his foot, lips twitching in the start of a smile.
There wasn't any point in demuring. In fact, she was disappointed with herself for even trying to become some declawed version of who she really was. Oh, it wasn't his fault. It wasn't even Gotham's fault, not really. She'd started doing it in Marvel, when Robert insisted on compartmentalization and normalcy, and it had carried over. In Marvel, it mostly worked. But in Gotham? In Gotham it was a lost cause. Gotham wasn't a place for skirting the issue, and she'd never been that Cat. It had just taken a little while for her to remember. Maybe it was the cabin fever, weeks mostly motionless as she recovered after Ra's, or maybe it had been a long time coming. Anyway, if he wanted someone polite? Well, she was sure Iris was still around somewhere. If he wanted her? Well, she came with claws.
She listened to everything he said, but she addressed nothing, not immediately, not until she was in the ship, in that cabin, the window shutters thrown open and the breeze from the mouth of the cave making the room cool and humid. When he nudged the door open, there was nothing. No movement, nothing to indicate she was even there. But the door slammed behind him almost immediately, and she was leaning back against the wood, key in the lock and the selfsame key slipped over her head on a ribbon, brass slipping beneath the layers of pink and white, out of sight. She grinned, the Cat that caught herself a Bat, but her expression sobered after a moment. The conversation from the rowboat - right.
"Damian, I think, thought things between he and I would change when he came back older." And maybe that was a slightly delicate way of putting it, but it was true nonetheless. "He's never going to like this." She motioned between them. And as long as they were being honest? "Helena found out about Robert and I a few months back. I have no idea how, but she posted about it loudly and publicly. She was angry, and things never got back on track after that." Again, honesty, but she'd sobbed all over this man at a wedding, and she'd pleaded, naked, on his lap. This? This was nothing compared to all that. "I care about both of them," she admitted, because she figured he knew anyway. "Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to be enough." As for Eddie and Steph? The bats and the birds? "I've tried too long to be something I'm not. I watch how outsiders treat Harley. I watch how Eddie keeps ending up miserable, trying to be someone he isn't. I'd rather just be me, and if I fail? At least I fail with my convictions and my pride intact." Her grin returned, and her hand tested the doorknob, ensuring it didn't turn between her fingers before she pushed away from it, hip and sway to where the wine and the goblets were. "Anyway, declawed isn't what you want." There was a hint of her old confidence there, a hint of belief in the purr. "Pour?"
It was Harley, funnily enough, who’d brought up the differences between Selina and Iris. And he knew they were different as night and day; perhaps that had been the point, then. Just like he and Banner were different, and maybe they’d both been trying to do the same thing, to forget and to escape, but Bruce had little inclination to psychoanalyse himself. Or her, for that matter. He knew she had claws. He knew she wasn’t polite and demuring, wasn’t quiet, but it was all the things she was that had drawn him to her in the first place.
And, she was good. He’d nearly forgotten. Swift and silent, and he turned when the door slammed suddenly behind him, eyebrows raised. He was impressed. Of course, he would claim that the only reason he was locked in the cabin was because he wanted to be, but that aside she wasn’t weak. No, she was the furthest thing from it, despite how Ra’s had affected her. He wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know how Damian had thought things would change between himself and Selina, but he remembered how it had been before, remembered how he’d reacted when he found that flash drive. No, Damian would never like it. He might always think he cared more about her. But it wasn’t a competition, and the boy turning it into one was destructive. As for Helena, well, his expression hinted at surprise, because he hadn’t known she’d made some kind of angry public post about her and Banner. Though, it explained a lot. “Damian is going to learn how to deal with this,” he sighed. “He can’t blame all our problems on you, that isn’t fair. You’re not at fault.” He thought for a moment about Helena. He was reluctant to talk to her now, when she was so weak, when the fear of losing her was still fresh, but later, maybe. “Helena is going to have to do the same. I’ll speak to her.” His expression softened ever so slightly, barely perceptible; one had to know where to look, and how, to see it. “I know you care.” He nodded when she said she would rather be herself, because he agreed. He felt the same. He wasn’t a general. The bats and birds weren’t his soldiers. He wasn’t the man who’d done this or that, wasn’t any of the Bruce Waynes the others had known, and he refused to try to conform ever again.
“No, it’s not what I want.” He paused. “Declawed would be awfully boring.” Deadpan humor, and he smiled fleetingly when she told him to pour. No please, but that was simply her, and he didn’t mind. He crossed to where the glasses were and poured, smooth, like he’d done it countless times before (which he had), and lifted one in a mock sort of toast. “To being ourselves, no matter what anyone else thinks.”
She felt better. Taking it easy for weeks had been nearly impossible; she just wasn't made for sitting still, but it had been worth it. Something had been physically wrong with her since the Watchtower bomb. It had been a journey from thing to thing after that surgery, without time to recover from any of it between. But, now, she'd let health catch back up, and by the time she'd managed that walk out of the loft without needing assistance from person or wall? She'd been going insane with boredom. Even Ra's had managed to slip from the forefront of her mind, because coping was what Gotham was all about. Maybe not Bruce, maybe not his Gotham. But the rest of them? She lived in a Gotham where the Joker had a facemask made of a human skin, and he changed it regularly, and that was normal for her. She wasn't sure the people in Marvel would ever understand what it was to grow up as she had. Sometimes, she wasn't even sure Eddie would. Even his Gotham seemed better than hers. After all, everyone else's Gotham? Killed Jay, but brought him back. Hers? Killed Damian and kept him dead. So, time made Ra's fade. The fear was still there, but it was shoved into a dark corner, and the kitty cat had gotten good at ignoring the dark corners until someone lit them up again.
She smiled as he deadpanned. She took the wine he offered, her fingers deliberately brushing his, and she leaned a shoulder against the cabin wall, all hip and laze, as if she had no cares in the world, and as if nothing about what he said was worth stressing over. It was a very good display, and she lifted her glass and toasted, refusing to break eye contact as she took a sip of the rich and very stolen red wine. Once she lowered the glass, she didn't stop looking at him. "I want," she finally said, setting the goblet aside, "to know none of it'll sway you. That if Damian threatens, him or me, you'll find a way. That if Helena makes it difficult, you'll find a way. That if Eddie manipulates you in order to keep you from coming to me, you'll see through it." She pushed away from the wall entirely. "I need to make the same promise, for what it's worth, if this is going to go anywhere." She'd let both Stephanie and Eddie convince her of things. If Damian walked up to her and told her that she was ruining things with his father, she would be very inclined to take a step back. And Helena? Helena always made her want to hide somewhere and lick her wounds.
And she had the key to the cabin, yes, but they both knew that was only symbolic; he could break that wooden door down in under a minute if he wanted to. Her strength was speed, not muscle, and she could only be so quick in yards of fabric. She took two steps toward him before stopping in one of the rays of light from the windows. She looked young there, all that pink and dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. "Are you going to reject me?" And that was a tell, because she wasn't sure she could touch him without knowing first.
She’d needed time, and Bruce was glad she managed enough patience to take some for herself. Time to recover, to get back on her feet, and while he knew better than to think she’d resolved all her problems, especially Ra’s, she was better. They were all still struggling to cope, he knew. Even him. But in the end they had to keep going, and they had to find reasons to keep going, because no one was going to do it for them.
He was aware of the way her fingers brushed his, and he met her gaze steadily as she took a sip of wine, doing the same while refusing to look away. Those words, I want, weren’t ones he heard often, nor ones he used. And so he was quiet, waiting, listening, not wanting to interrupt. This couldn’t be easy for her, talking, saying things, and if she was going to make an effort then he owed her the same. Damian had threatened him before with ultimatums, and Helena, as much as he loved her, was the epitome of difficult; Eddie, too, had a tendency to meddle that, while good intentioned, didn’t always turn out that way. So many outside influences, and it wouldn’t be easy to overcome them all. But, and this was important, he realized, they could be, if he wanted it enough. If this, her, was worth fighting for. He knew what it was to be without her, to push her away, and he’d been miserable the whole time.
“None of it will sway me,” he said, after another sip of wine, and he set the glass down. “No matter what anyone says or does, I won’t let it. If I won’t, and you won’t, this can work.” And he knew, despite her having the key, that if he wanted to get out he could; it would take more than a door to stop him. He watched her as she moved towards him, and she did look younger, there, in the light, pink instead of black, a dress instead of the suit. Her question, whether or not he was going to reject her, made him ache, pain beneath his ribs, because he’d given her reason to ask. “No,” he said, quiet. “I’m not going to reject you.” She’d begun to close the distance between them, but he finished it, fingers on her jaw to pull her into a kiss.
She was a rogue. She never told anyone she wanted anything; she took. Like every last villain in Gotham, her life was about taking things that weren't hers. Oh, she and Eddie had discussed roles, and maybe Eddie was right. Maybe her role was a thing more robust than his, but it was still a role, wasn't it? Obsession was obsession, and once she wouldn't have bothered with telling Bruce what she wanted from him. She would've stolen what she could from him, and she would've left to lick her wounds when he didn't give her everything she expected. But maybe the past year had been a little informative, or maybe it was just the fact that she knew what it felt like to want things from him and just expect him to understand. He never understood, and then she just got more upset, and they ended up where they'd been a few months ago. And that place? That was a place she had no desire to return to.
She had to chuckle when he said this could work. It was, possibly, the most unromantic thing he could've said. Once, it would've been nettles beneath her fur. Now? Now it was so very him that it was perfect. Oh, it wasn't dripping with sentiment, no. But that was her thing, not his. And the Bat she'd grown up with? He matched that sentiment with anger. But this man? This man was different. Quiet, direct, and this can work was as good as any declaration. And maybe she needed to stop being swayed, too; he was right about that. Stephanie said they didn't know each other. But maybe knowing each other had nothing to do with favorite flavors of ice cream, and she let people's opinions matter too much.
She knew there was a long way to go, and she knew this was like zombies; safe. Out there, in Gotham? That was the challenge. Not this. The only demons in this cabin were the ones they brought with them, and everything else was in another door, far away. And she didn't expect him to finish closing the gap between them when she asked the question about rejection. She was too busy listening to the echo of his response, and she was too busy trying to make herself believe it. And that was her demon, one that fit poorly over skin that was accustomed to slink and confidence. But his fingers were on her jaw before she could think on it much, and she pressed against him when he kissed her. She was stretch and sinew, fingers impatient on those ridiculous buttons. Tug, and a few of the buttons clinking onto the floor by the time she made it to the last one. The kiss was teeth and time and, even in the soft pink fabric, she was a thing with claws.
Gotham, as a whole, was comprised more of taking than asking. More than once Bruce had heard it described as selfish, and maybe it was. Maybe that was part of the reason why it had gotten as bad as it was, caught in a seemingly never-ending war against corruption and crime. And so, raised in such an environment, they learned to take. But things could change, people could change, and one of the reasons why he and Selina had ended up in such a bad place before was his failure to understand what she wanted. She had expectations, and she was hurt when he didn’t meet them, and he in turn had grown bitter and jaded in his belief that he wasn’t enough. He didn’t want to go back to that, no more than she did, and so he was glad that she was telling him what she wanted.
He wasn’t much of a romantic. Often it was mistaken for him not caring, but that wasn’t true. In his own way, he cared, and he struggled with expressing it, but those who knew him well enough could tell. Maybe it wasn’t the most eloquent way to put it, this can work, but it was honest, and the sentiment was there, just… different.
Everyone had their own opinion of what they thought their relationship should be. The trick was to not let that influence them like they had before, which was easier said than done, but with effort on both their parts it could work. It could, and he wanted it to, which he thought might make all the difference. But then she pressed against him and he wasn’t thinking very much at all, and the feel of her fingers on his buttons made him chuckle against her mouth. He didn’t care if she tugged them off, and his own fingers moved down from her jaw to her shoulders, pulling on the fabric of her dress, impatience climbing with each tug and yank of pink. He kissed her harder when she added teeth, and maybe he didn’t have claws of his own but he had something.
If the trick was to not let others influence them? Well, it was a trick they hadn't managed very well in the past. But it felt different this time, and maybe if she let herself think about it for long enough she might be able to pinpoint why it felt different. But it was hard to concentrate on any of that when he was chuckling against her mouth, and it helped ease some of the nervous tension that was thrumming beneath her skin. Oh, they'd kissed since their little sabbatical with the undead. But that was all they'd done, and there was a safety in that, a reassurance in knowing that it wasn't going any further. And that nervousness was, she suspected, all hers. Even the day in the bathtub had made her tense in anticipation of rejection that had never come, and they'd both been exhausted, and there hadn't been any way that was going to turn into anything more than a bath. But this, this was different, and the laughter against her mouth made her exhale against his lips with a touch of relief.
The slide of his hand from jaw to shoulder made her stop the progress of her own fingers, lost in the ties of the shirt beneath the buttons she'd sent clattering. She almost told him that she'd wanted him to touch her for months, but she figured he knew. He had to know. He tugged and yanked at fabric, and now it was her turn to chuckle into that kiss, hard and unforgiving and nervous laughter. It was unbelievably silly, really. She'd had more sex than she could remember, and seducing this particular man was as natural to her as breathing, and yet she was nervous, silly or not, and she hid it in the brush of her lips along his jaw as she stepped back from him. "Do you need help, Mr. Wayne?" she purred, and ah, there, that made it easier. Another step away, and she reached back for the two silk buttons high at her back. One, two, and she took another step as she pulled the pink over her head. She tossed the dress onto the table, beside the discarded goblets of wine, and the shift she wore was delicate, embroidered, and thin enough that her silhouette was perfectly visible in the light from the windows. There was nothing underneath that white, because that's just how it was here, and she quirked a brow, all well, as she watched him from across the cabin. "When you came back from being gone, do you remember what you asked me?"
He didn't fear rejection the same way she did. It was his fault, he recognized that. His fault for pushing her away, literally, which was bound to make her feel unwanted, even though he thought he'd been doing the right thing at the time. He wasn't nervous, exactly, though he knew (or felt) he had a lot to make up for. And, too, in the very back of his mind a spark of jealousy remained, because he knew she'd been with Banner, even temporarily, in a way he hadn't been with Iris. He wasn't a complete idiot. But, like not letting others influence him, he was trying to let that go and not dwell on it. She wouldn't have brought him here if she wanted someone else. And, now, he had to show her that he wouldn't be here if he wanted someone else either.
Despite not sharing her fear, there was still something reassuring about her nervous laughter. He'd done a very, very good job of not thinking when it came to her, but on some level he knew that this was all she'd wanted while he was busy trying to distance himself. He'd wanted it, too; he just hadn't admitted it, not to himself or anyone else. But it translated into the way he pulled on the dress, reluctant to pull away and actually focus on getting it off properly. Which probably wouldn't have happened if she hadn't stepped back, lips against his jaw and teasing purr, and he gave her a look. "I was getting there, Ms. Kyle." He watched as she moved further back, watched as she reached behind herself to undo the buttons and, afterward, pulled the dress over her head. The shift, now, he had full confidence that he could get that off easily, and his gaze darkened a little, enough to be noticeable, as he looked her over. Impatience served him just fine with his own shirt, cast aside, fingers tugging roughly at ties, and he'd taken two steps forward towards her when she spoke. He paused, and he really did try to remember. But he'd said so many things, and he wasn't sure what, exactly, she was referring to.
"No." His expression became somewhat apologetic, beneath the heated interest, and he pulled the remaining fabric over his head and let it fall. "Is that a strike against me?"
If she'd known about his jealousy, she likely would have tormented him about it. Oh, it wouldn't be kind, but it would make her feel better about all those pathetic weeping sessions. But he'd never expressed much of an interest in her relationship with Robert, and she assumed it didn't bother him. She knew he'd been with Talia back in his world, during the intervening years; Selina hated Talia, but she didn't expect the same kind of vitriol for Robert in return. Even here, now, she didn't perceive Bruce's interest to be anything in comparison to her own. She'd always loved more than him, here or home and, as Eddie pointed out, that was unlikely to change. Oh, and Iris? She still wasn't entirely sure that wasn't more than he said he was. But trusting wasn't exactly the kitty cat's thing, and she'd keep her eyes open.
His darkening gaze helped; it helped a lot, and she soaked it up like a narcissist denied attention, a flower denied sunlight. Her mossy gaze dropped to his hands, and she watched the movement of his fingers on the ties of his shirt with the kind of interest that made it plain she just liked watching him. Even out of the cowl, he was still impressively capable, even with it came to pulling a shirt over his head. She swayed a little when he moved forward, but she held her ground and refused to close the gap. No, he could come to her for once. She made a sound of protest in the back of her throat when he stopped moving, not at all deliberate, and her gaze rose from his bare torso to his face. "Keep moving, and it won't be a strike against you," she bargained, but her smile made it clear that, no, she hadn't expected him to remember at all. "You asked if I still wanted you. I think I didn't make myself clear at the time."
Her grin was slow, lush and catlike, a cant of hip beneath the shift and the tumble of a long lock of brown hair over the eyelet and embroidery at the neckline of the shift. Personally, she thought the fabric would sound wonderful as it tore. "I think I should remedy that." Purr. "Don't you, Mr. Wayne?"
It was almost laughable, practically ridiculous, that the only person who actually knew he was jealous of Banner was Harley. Oh, Bruce was sure some of the others might suspect, but Harley knew bringing up the other man could get a reaction out of him; she was more perceptive than most gave her credit for. But it wasn't something he was going to bring up on his own, certainly not to Selina. Maybe he should have, maybe he should have flat-out asked what they had been, what they were now, but he just wasn't that kind of man. He was very, very good at avoidance. And he had no idea that she thought he might be downplaying his relationship, or lack thereof, with Iris, no idea that she was sure she felt more than he did, because as perceptive as he could be there were times when he was woefully oblivious.
And this? This was new. Not sex, but a relationship, something more. The closest he'd ever come was Rachel, and that was so long ago, when he'd been much younger. Now, now he knew it never would have worked. Couldn't have. He was too self-aware to miss the way she watched him, able to sense her gaze even when he wasn't looking at her, and it almost made him smile, a twitch of lips that stopped before it became something more. He wasn't expecting her to come to him, and so he wasn't surprised when she stood her ground. Her sound of protest, though, when she stopped made it tempting to stay still, to see how long each of them could maintain the distance until one of them gave in. She said it wouldn't be a strike against him if he kept moving but he didn't, not right away, and he raised his eyebrows when she said she thought she hadn't made herself clear about whether or not she still wanted him. "Oh?" Admittedly, he didn't remember, but she didn't seem all that bothered by it.
His gaze dropped, this time, to the cant of her hip beneath fabric, and traveled back up to her face. "I think you should, Ms. Kyle," he agreed. His steps were slow and deliberate as he crossed the room, and when he was close enough he reached out, fingers tangling in the white fabric to tug, tug, almost idly. "This is nice." It was a casual, offhand remark, and he looked up. "I'd like it more if it wasn't in the way." A smile, almost roguish, and he yanked with enough strength to rip, tear, muffling any protest she might make (not that he thought she would) with a kiss that was all want, demand and teeth.