Bruce Wainright has (onerule) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-11-13 12:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | !dc comics, *log, bruce wayne, selina kyle |
log: bruce & selina, gotham.
Who: Bruce and Selina
What: Post-party visit. (2/2)
Where: Selina's loft.
When: After the hotel party, before Damiangate.
Warnings/Rating: Fuzz.
Her laughter surprised him. There wasn't very much to smile about in Gotham, much less laugh about, and he was surprised, too, that the sound lasted as long as it did. He didn't joke often, that was true, but usually when he tried his humor fell short. And this wasn't false laughter, it wasn't a smile wrapped up in walls and walls. It was her, and he'd already taken the step to let his walls fall. Being here was a concession, trying to convince her to give them a chance was more vulnerability than he'd shown in a long, long time. She could reject him. This could all be for nothing. He'd certainly given her enough reason to say no; good intentions or not, he would never be able to forget how much he'd hurt her. But he couldn't go back and change that. He couldn't, and he needed to either accept that or live in the past forever and let it take any possibility of a future away. He raised his eyebrows when she mentioned Eddie, and an idealized version of her, only because it seemed to have come out of nowhere. "An idealized version," he said, slowly. "Maybe, after time. I don't know. I remembered you." He shrugged. "Maybe we idealize everything we lose. Not having them makes it that much more precious."
Dead ends certainly didn't give hope that maybe the missing girls weren't part of something so sinister. She and Damian had eliminated the obvious options, and it didn't leave much else. "They didn't disappear into thin air," he said, finally. "There has to be something to find." Even if he wouldn't like it when he did.
Frustration wasn't often met with smiles, and he hadn't even realized he'd referred to Gotham as his home; thus, he didn't understand her fondness. She was endlessly complicated, but he knew she'd just take it as a compliment if he told her as much. "You being asleep doesn't change anything," he told her, and he meant it. She'd felt safe enough to fall asleep with Banner, and it had been an intimate memory. But maybe Damian and Helena were a bigger problem; he was beginning to see that, in her mind, they were. "I don't think they'll be apologizing anytime soon," he admitted quietly. "But you're right. It's always up to everyone else to mend bridges, and they don't see it that way." He didn't know what else to do. It had taken him so, so long to fix things with Helena, and trying to make amends with Damian was going absolutely nowhere. "I know you've tried. I know. But no one is going to make it easier with them, Selina. You're not the problem. That's my point," he added.
He watched her stand, words of concern never making it past his lips. Why Helena and Damian had such a problem with her, he didn't understand. It worried him, that the boy could hurt someone who cared about him, someone he'd once cared about too, and he wasn't sure any amount of talking would get through to him. But Damian wasn't here; she was. She said that Banner wasn't better for her (which he still wasn't sure about), and she asked if Iris was better for him. He stood, then, and came up behind her. "No. She isn't." His voice was soft, and though he was close, warmth at her back, he didn't touch her.
The surprise on his face was something new, something entirely him. Even here, in this Gotham, when she'd been a kitten curling herself around his legs, he was a mask of impassivity. Throwing him off his game was something that hardly ever happened. He was always too wary for it, and she liked managing to slip past the guards he erected to keep the world out. But then she was obsessive, and he was her obsession, and it was easy to blame it on that. Even if this had gone beyond being obsessed about a bat in kevlar a year earlier. She could almost pinpoint it to the minute, when it stopped being about The Bat. As for living in the past, she was trying not to. Live in the now, and she'd always been better at that. Oh, she wanted a future, but Gotham was a place with dark pasts, and wallowing in them was never good. It was a rogue thing, and they always tried to kill each other. If she hated everyone who strung her up by her tail to get at the Bat? She'd hate everyone. And so it was easier for her to forget bombs and pesky Watchtowers. "You know," she said, when he humored her by responding to the non sequitur, "I got together with Robert in the weeks you were gone. I thought you weren't coming back."
She didn't want to think about the missing girls, not now, because she knew she'd have to deal with that once she was back to snapping her whip. She was fairly sure Damian dropped it, and while she didn't want to take this on? She had no real choice anymore. It was better to stay in the moment, to watch his confusion melt into certainty that her being asleep hadn't changed anything about the intimacy he witnessed in the memory with Robert. "Alright," she conceded. "It was an intimate relationship," because they were being honest, weren't they? "And you and Iris were intimate in different ways," she suggested. Because threats were threats, and they might as well show their cards.
It helped slightly, his agreement that Damian and Helena were always looking for other people to apologize, but she wasn't sure he understood her concerns, and she was thinking about that as she moved to the window and looked out at the city that would always feel like home, regardless of the version. "I just don't want to do this, to let myself do this, and to then have it come down to a choice between me or your kids. I know where I'll end up if that happens," she admitted, and then he was close, at her back, and the comment about Iris made her breath catch. Soft and warm, and she leaned back the small amount that would put her shoulders in contact with his chest. "This is more intimate than sleeping in the same bed as Robert," she said quietly, the warmth of his body against the back of her shirt. "You have more of me than he ever did, and that's terrifying," she confessed.
Bruce hadn't been able to pinpoint the exact time she and Banner had begun their relationship. He could trace it back along a vague timeline, to when he had started to suspect their friendship was more, but those past few months were a haze of hopelessness, self-loathing and the desperate desire to get away. And then he had, and he'd needed that breather. There was no telling where he'd be now if he'd forced himself to stay in Gotham. "Oh," he said, for lack of anything better. "I'm not sure if anyone thought I was coming back. Even I didn't know for certain," he admitted. The end goal had been to return, but he hadn't known if he would ever reach that point. He wondered, now, if he really could have stayed away for good. Unlikely, but he wondered all the same.
The subject of the girls was put aside, at least for now. He wasn't sure how to feel when she admitted that her relationship with Banner had been intimate, because he'd already known. Any other answer would have been a lie. He ignored the jealousy that reared its head, and he focused on her question instead. "Iris and I weren't... physically intimate," he said, choosing his words carefully. He paused. "But I suppose... in other ways. For a long time she was the only person it didn't feel like a chore to talk to. It was easy. I didn't have to pretend with her." He knew Selina and Banner were still close, and he knew that wasn't about to change. It was something he was still attempting to reconcile himself with, and he wondered if she was doing the same. "It's hard for you, that Iris and I are still friends," he said, more coming to a realization than asking a question. "Like it's hard for me, with you and Banner." If they were being honest, he might as well keep up the trend.
Maybe Helena and Damian (more so Damian, he thought) wanted him to make a choice between them and Selina. Maybe that was the only way he would ever mend bridges. But if that was the cost, if he was going to have to sacrifice someone he loved to placate their temper tantrum, well, he didn't want to pay it. No one else was behaving like that. No one else wanted him to choose. "It won't," he told her. "Everyone else understands that me being with you doesn't mean they're less important. I can care about more than one person at a time." He sighed. Why Damian had such a hard time believing that, he really wasn't sure. But then she was leaning against him, her shoulders against his chest, and he smiled a small smile when she admitted that this was more intimate than being in bed with Robert. She was right. This was something else entirely, not sex or smiles under the sun or sleeping in a bed. It was the kind of intimacy he hadn't experienced, hadn't let himself, and it was a huge risk for both of them.
"It's terrifying for me, too." It was a slow, slow thing, the slide of his arms around her waist. "But going back, not having you... that's terrifying, too." A heady confession, and maybe it was easier without her looking at him.
He wasn't sure if he was coming back, that was what he said, and she knew he'd misunderstood. Oh, she could've left it. Left the misunderstanding, because she wasn't actually sure it would help to clarify. But - and maybe it was the memories - this was apparently time to be truthful, with the sun barely bringing light into the loft, and with the city still slumbering. "No," she said. "When you left to go home, not when you were in Italy," she said, and she knew that added time. Time with Robert, months, and she wasn't sure how that would go over. But there was the flipside, wasn't there? The why. "I didn't think you were coming back. I thought that was it. Or worse, I thought we'd get my Bat, and I didn't want him." Telling, but she said it, and she wasn't sorry once the words were out. "My Bat? Would've made the exact same choice you made with the little Watchtower bomb, but he never would've been sorry for it," she explained, and that probably said everything necessary about the Bat she'd grown up alongside.
"You and Iris were together at some hotel shindig. Or aren't we counting that?" Because she did. But he went on to admit that it was hard for her to accept his friendship with Iris, and he followed the words with his own admission of discomfort, and she was very receptive to quid pro quo. "I think it's more dangerous, you and Iris. I had Robert, and we tried, and it ended when he nearly killed me. Independant of you, it ended. You and Iris? You didn't get a real chance to try, and what if you regret that someday? What if the maybe is always there, making every single conversation you have with her more than a conversation?" she asked, candor, and she chuckled a mirthless little chuckle. "Your son says she's mysterious and soft, vulnerable and the antithesis of me, and that makes her desirable. You have to admit, it's a little worrisome." She paused. "But I won't ask you not to talk to her. Friendship matters. I understand that now. I'm not great at trust, but I'll work on that, if you tell me it's safe to."
He said it wouldn't come down to a choice between her and his children, and while she wanted to believe that, she didn't. She knew it would come to a head, as things in Gotham always did, but maybe it was enough that he thought it wouldn't. It wasn't a promise, and part of her was actually grateful. It would be worse if he made a promise and broke it, and trust was a fragile thing for people born in the smoggy city's underbelly. Maybe all that mattered was that he'd come, sweats and a hoodie, and that she hadn't needed to goad him through the door. Maybe that mattered more. That, and the slow slide of arms around her waist that encouraged her to lean into more. She was quiet after he spoke, and she dragged fingers along the forearm that circled her waist. "I might get used to you saying things like that if you're not careful," she warned. She didn't ask if he meant it; she didn't need to. "I don't think I can do casual with you. I don't think I can do try," she admitted.
At first, he was silent. Clearly he'd misunderstood and that meant her relationship with Banner had begun much earlier than he'd previously believed. Not just that, but he hadn't been aware of it until it was already established; he'd always thought he caught it in its early stages. "Oh." There really wasn't anything to say, was there? For all she knew, he was gone for good. And he couldn't go back now, couldn't change anything. What was done was done. "I don't think I'd like your Bat very much," he said with a frown, and then he sighed. "I might not have come back. You had no way of knowing." He'd thought he was going to die. Had things gone the way he expected he wouldn't have come back at all.
He had, admittedly forgotten about the hotel party. "I didn't know it was her, but yes," he conceded. He still thought an encounter when neither of them were really themselves was very different than her and Banner, but he didn't say as much. He didn't agree, either, that he and Iris were more dangerous. Banner was in love with her, and they'd shared a relationship that, while over, wouldn't just disappear. He and Iris, on the other hand, weren't in love with each other. There was nothing there to go back to. But, he tried to see it from her point of view. He tried to understand how the potential of what if could be so frightening. But then she mentioned what Damian thought, and he laughed. He couldn't help it. "You're listening to Damian?" Because oh, no, he wasn't biased at all. "Maybe Iris and I never had a chance to try, but if I'd wanted that chance I could have taken it. We weren't torn apart, left to pine endlessly for each other. I think you think she's more worrisome than she actually is," he told her. "When we talk, it's just that. Talking." He paused. Softened. "It's safe to. Is it safe for me to, with Banner?" Quid pro quo, after all.
Whatever happened with Damian and Helena, he refused to be pressured or threatened into an ultimatum. No, he made no promises, but he didn't think he needed to. "Should I be more careful?" A smile. He liked her honesty, and he thought that meant they were making progress. "Then we won't do casual. We won't try. We'll do the opposite."
She didn't like that oh of his, and she shook her head, enduring the pain of it in favor of the gesture. "No," she said. "Whatever you're thinking that means? No. The entire time I was with him? All I wanted was this," she admitted, and then she smiled the ghost of a smile, something pallid and almost. "Well, without the cranial injuries. And, you know, with more expensive dinners, maybe some jewels, your very comfortable bed." Her grin warmed the longer she went, the more she teased, and it slipped into a scoff when he had admitted that he wouldn't like her Bat very much. "No, he was cruel. You'd never punch me in the face when you're angry, and that already puts you worlds apart. He hated me, and he hated that he wanted me as much as he did." She wondered if he was tiring of this candor thing yet.
He conceded to sleeping with Iris, and she was glad he didn't push the argument about not knowing who it was. She had a hard time believing the little hotel hook-ups didn't mean something in the grand scheme of things. But then she wasn't the best judge. The only person she'd slept with in three years of hotel parties was a fake version of him. And for all that Robert liked to remind her that she was a whore? She was really not into anonymous sex. Too much vulnerability in it now, and she wasn't good at turning things off once the switch had been flipped. But then he laughed, and she had to echo the sound, quieter, but her smile was real this time, warmer. "Oh, shut up," she said of listening to Damian. "Are you going to argue that she isn't all those things he said she was?" she asked, and she tried to keep it casual, but she failed; her mossy eyes were curiosity-hungry, and the need to know was right there on the skin.
He was warm and solid against her back, and she liked that, and it made her feel safe. Safety didn't happen much in their world, and she didn't like being out of commission when threats lived in every alley and on every street. She smiled a little at the reflection-blur when he asked if it was safe for him to trust her friendship with Robert. "It's safe," she promised. A small sentence, no purr or double meaning, and no attempt to pretty it up. As for whether he should more careful about the things he said? She smiled. "That depends. If you think I was impossible to get rid of before..." She let the sentence go warm and unfinished, and then she went still when he said they wouldn't do casual. "And what's the opposite?" she asked, and the question was too quiet, too young, as if she feared he would think the statement through and retract it.
“I’m not thinking it means anything,” he protested, but her words overlapped his and he fell silent in favor of letting her talk. Admittedly, he didn’t mind reassurances, not when he worried that even the slightest misstep would drive her right back to Banner. He smiled, and it became something less of an echo and more real the more the said. “You want me to spoil you, is what you’re saying,” he teased. But talk of her Bat erased any bit of warmth in his voice, and he kept thinking of that memory with Damian, the anger that old man possessed, the brutality. He couldn’t be that man. He didn’t want to be that man. “No, I’d never punch you in the face when I’m angry.” He scowled. He carried enough guilt from that night on the rooftop, after Damian’s death, and that hadn’t even been intentional. He couldn’t imagine purposely attacking her, even in a rage. “When I went back home… I thought it would be better if he came, your Bat.” He shook his head. “I don’t think that anymore.”
He really didn’t think that hotel party meant anything, that it had been significant that it was Iris he’d ended up with. But then, he could understand her point of view, and he knew anything involving the other woman was a sore point right now. He tried, and managed, not to laugh again when she told him to shut up, and her question made him hum thoughtfully as he mulled it over. “I wouldn’t say she’s mysterious,” he said, finally. “Vulnerable, maybe. Nothing like you. But then, no one is like you. That doesn’t make her desirable. If I wanted the opposite of you, I wouldn’t be here.” He shrugged one shoulder.
When she told him her friendship with Robert was safe, he wanted to believe her. He did, and he knew if she was going to trust him then he had to show her the same courtesy and trust her in return. “Alright.” Quiet acceptance, and he smiled when she teased about being impossible to get rid of before. Ah, and then came the part he usually got wrong, because he wasn’t very good with words or explaining himself. “Well,” he began slowly, carefully, “the opposite is… doing. Not trying. And if we’re not casual, then we’re… in a relationship.” That, he hoped, summed up his feelings as well as he could manage. Better than before, at least.
Her gaze narrowed in a way that wasn't entirely serious when he said he didn't think when she and Robert got together meant anything. "You think more than anyone I know, Bruce. You're always thinking something." There was fondness in that narrow-eyed calling out, and she chuckled when he said she wanted him to spoil her. "Of course I do," she said, exaggerated purr, and she really wished her head wasn't pounding like a drum. "The least you could do is take me to a charity affair or two, an art exhibit opening, somewhere with very pretty bracelets that no one will even notice me slipping off their wrists." And her smile said she couldn't wait to get into precisely that kind of trouble once she was up and around. It would be a perfect way to test that this pesky little head injury hadn't done anything, stealing as many diamonds as she could manage from Gotham's elite. It was almost like therapy. But then the warmth left in his voice. "That was the quickest scowl I've seen yet," she told him honestly, and then he had to chuckle. "Oh, my Bat would get everyone in line, that's for sure, but I don't think insults and assault are your thing." She softened slightly. "He was young. Too young, I think. He didn't have any kindness to him." Understatement, perhaps, but she'd always been pretty good at seeing the better parts of the man. "You've always been a better man than him, Bruce."
Normally, she could argue about the significance of hotel parties until they were both green, but she wasn't inclined, and he was being very, very forthcoming. She wasn't stupid enough to lose that with a fight, not when it was the kind of thing that made her want to hide and cling all at the same time. "Is that a good thing, Mr. Wayne? No one being like me?" she asked, a show of banter, and an indication that maybe he was getting through, maybe. "She'd bore you to tears," she added of Iris, her smile more lush, and she turned in his arms when he started stammering about relationships and trying. Which probably wasn't going to help him, but she wasn't very concerned with making things easy for him. Oh, sure, she wished she wasn't black-and-blue, but that wasn't going to change for a few days yet, and she wasn't going to stare out the window for whatever time she had left on her feet. Her arms slid over his shoulders, and that took some effort to keep graceful with the stitches at shoulder and collar. There was a small wince, but she hid it well, and she was a long drape of forearms along his collarbones. "I think I might be very demanding," she warned him.
Well, he couldn't argue against that. He swore he could hear her narrowed gaze when she spoke, even if it wasn’t entirely serious, and he made a noncommittal sound in his throat to avoid having to answer. What he thought really didn’t matter. But then he reconsidered, and he relented just slightly. “It was just earlier than I thought, that’s all,” he explained. His laugh was a quiet thing, almost soft, when she agreed that she wanted to be spoiled, and it had been so long since he’d actually been to a charity ball or art exhibit; maybe he should change that. He should try to keep up some appearances, after all. “Well, if it’s the least I can do,” he teased. “At least I wouldn’t be bored with you there.” That wasn’t even said for her benefit, it was just true. And when it came to her Bat, well, maybe he was biased, but he thought he had reason to be. He didn’t like the thought of some version of him being the way others described him. “No, they’re not,” he said honestly. “I know I could get everyone in line if I did things differently, if I was different. But I’m not.” He was quiet when she said that her Bat was too young, that he lacked kindness; he could almost feel bad for him if he tried. “I wonder what was different,” he mused. “Where he and I deviated.” He sighed, but while he appreciated it, he didn’t comment on her claim that he had always been a better man.
Arguing about hotel parties and their significance was hardly one of his favorite things, and so it was something of a relief that she didn’t push the issue. “It’s a very good thing,” he told her, warmth, and this was easier. “I know,” when he said Iris would bore him to tears, no arguing back this time, no insistence otherwise. Stringing together words was difficult enough when she wasn’t looking at him, but then she turned to face him, arms over his shoulders and she was too close to look away. He didn't pull away, didn't let his arms drop. He smiled instead, and his fingers were very, very careful as he ran them through her hair. "I think I can handle very demanding, Ms. Kyle."
"Earlier doesn't mean anything," she said, slightly surprised that he added any additional information at all. "Bruce, he fell in love with a very broken version of . I was sick, the bomb surgery left me nearly entirely out of commission, and I was sad and so pathetic. How I am now?" She shook her head a little, though her movements were becoming more careful now, too much movement and shards of pain. "The woman he was with? She isn't real. Unfortunately for you, the real me is much, much harder to deal with." But she was fairly confident that he already knew all about that. He laughed, and she just stopped and let herself hear it. Laughter wasn't a big part of their lives, and it seemed a waste to let it go unnoticed. "Take me somewhere nice, and we'll call it even," she promised. "I'll forgive all your little shortcomings in the gallantry and soft bedding department. He followed it up with honesty, and she liked the emerging pattern - truth, banter, truth - and it gave her enough time to recover in-between. "I'm glad you're not different," she said bluntly, because that was absolutely true. As for deviations? She considered. "I don't know. You were always a dick where I was from." She gave him a playfully look, arched brow and mossy eyes twinkling slightly. "You were also quite the player. I could never keep track of everyone in your bed." She thought, maybe, that loving his boring little lawyer had changed things, because he'd never loved anyone in her world. But she kept that to herself.
She rewarded his comment, the one about Iris boring him, with a laugh, loud and pleased enough to make her head throb, but so worth it. But the fingers in her hair were careful, and she knew how much strength there was to him; she could tell it was deliberate gentleness. And her smile went fond, soft. Her hands slid down over all that soft grey he wore, casual, and yet she could still feel the strength beneath. She stopped when her fingers reached his hips, and then she leaned up. "That's a good thing," she said against his lips, and then she slanted her mouth over his for a slow, slow kiss that wasn't careful at all. "Next week," she suggested, not drawing back, syllables against his lips, "before the holiday. Take me somewhere."
Logically, he knew she was right. Earlier didn't mean anything. The relationship had still ended, she was still here, and even though Banner was in love with her he really didn't think she would lie to him about how she felt. If Bruce had something to worry about, she would tell him. He thought about telling her that, broken or not, she was still her, but he didn't. Insecurities would only run them in circles and without trust this couldn't work. "I don't think unfortunately is the right word," he said, words following his stretch of silence. "I want the real you. That's not unfortunate." He smiled when she said she'd forgive his shortcomings if he took her somewhere nice, and he pretended to think about it. "I suppose taking you somewhere nice is a small price to pay, then," he said. Even though it hadn't always felt like it, he liked hearing that she was glad he wasn't different. It was a far, far cry from months ago, even years, when he felt unwanted. When he had felt like a fraud. "I'm glad you're glad," he countered, a hint of teasing, but most of it was serious. Honest. He sighed when she said she didn't know, because that was quite enlightening, but his expression changed when she said that other him was quite the player. Surprised, a little, and then wry. "Was he?" It was a careless question.
Her laughter was unexpected, but it was real, it was loud, and he listened. He listened, and he watched with his head tilted to the side. Her hands slid down, down, and his hand pressed against the small of her back with just a little more pressure. But the fingers in her hair, those stayed gentle, and he liked the way her smile went fond. He started to say something about it being a good thing, more breath than words, but when she slanted her mouth over his he forgot what he'd intended to say. The kiss started slow and he kept it that way, and he let it linger even as he spoke. "Next week," he repeated. "I'll take you somewhere." Pause. Smile. "Somewhere nice."
Oh, she was filled with little insecurities, and many of them involved him, and if this went anywhere he'd been introduced to them one, by one, by one, but right then she wasn't thinking about them. She was thinking about the way he said unfortunately wasn't the right word, and that made her feel warm in a way that was nice and unfamiliar, and it wasn't trust, not exactly, but she believed him a little. The real you, he said, and she wondered if he knew who that was. "Eddie asked me once if Robert had seen my claws. The implication was that he hadn't, and that he was in love with something that wasn't really me." she grinned at him. Tired, exhausted, aching, but still warm. "Have you seen my claws, Mr. Wayne?" Because if anyone knew all about her bad behavior? It was him. She slid her hand back up, along his hood while he pretended to consider taking her somewhere nice, and she ducked her head and grinned when he said he was glad that she was glad he wasn't different. His sigh made her relent about telling him the truth, and she nodded about her Bat's lothario ways. "I think you loved someone when you were young enough for it to matter. I think he never did. I think that's the deviation. Not the little birds and bats, not the city, that. And don't you dare call me a romantic." But she was smiling, and maybe it wasn't so bad, being a romantic.
Normally, she would've pushed that kiss into something hotter, but she was still nothing but ache, and she was fairly sure he didn't want to see the rest of the bootmark under her shirt. So she drew back, lips along his chin, and a warm smile. "I'm holding you to that," she said of him taking her somewhere, though her gaze said she really wasn't putting too much stock in the promise. This was Gotham, and she knew she wasn't at the top of the priority list; that was something for her to work through. Him leaving the loft meant indeterminate days without talking to each other, and she was a little too obsessive to take to that with any kind of aplomb.
But neither of them had slept the night before, and she figured she might be able to keep him just a little while longer. "Lie down with me?" she asked. "Surely Mr. Wayne has time for a tiny bit of rest?"
Bruce liked to think he knew the real her, or at least enough to have more of an understanding than most people did. The mention of Eddie and his question made him smile, though he didn't remark upon whether or not Banner had seen her claws. Even though the other man wasn't going away, he didn't want to talk about him more than necessary. "I think I have, Ms. Kyle," he teased, and there was something like fondness in his expression when she ducked her head and grinned. But her opinion on what the deviation between her Bat and him surprised him, admittedly, and he wondered if that was true. "That's an interesting theory." He smiled. "I wouldn't think of calling you a romantic. Don't worry." Once, he wouldn't have thought she was, not at all. But time had peeled back the layers and he knew her better than he had before.
He knew she was in pain, and so he didn't push. If she could barely shake her head without wincing, she shouldn't be moving. And maybe it was hard, to take time for themselves in a city like Gotham, but she said she'd hold him to it and he wanted her to. "I expect nothing less," he told her, and when she asked him to lie down with her he only hesitated for a second. He didn't actually want to leave, and she needed rest. "Alright, Ms. Kyle. I can spare some time for a tiny bit of rest." And if he ended up falling asleep too, well, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.