Bruce Wainright has (onerule) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-12-05 14:12:00 |
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Entry tags: | !dc comics, *log, bruce wayne, selina kyle |
gotham: bruce & selina quicklog
Who: Bruce and Selina.
What: A visit.
Where: Wayne Manor.
When: Fuzzy timelines, after this.
Warnings/Rating: Who knows. ETA: Just some sads. And Bruce gets a puppy.
Bruce ate breakfast. He ate lunch. He showered, got dressed, went through the motions of normalcy and subsequently lost himself in it. Alfred had promised that Damian's body would be burned, and he trusted him implicitly. He didn't worry about that. Services and arrangements, he didn't worry about those either, someone else could do it because he certainly wasn't in any state to be handling that kind of responsibility. He hadn't been back to the Cave since bringing the body there, he hadn't seen Damian since. He didn't want to. He hadn't left the Manor, either, though he kept up with the news, stomach roiling with disgust as he listened, watched, read. In his Gotham, the mobs had never been like this. He could dismantle them. He had. But here, the Families had their blood and now they spread false peace, dirty money thrown around enough to calm the chaos.
But he couldn't forget. The price had been too steep. Routine was numbness, it was blank, blank nothing, but in the moments when he was alone, idle, all the things he tried to erase came creeping back in.
It was late. Evening. He was alone, and it was one of those times. Bruce spent an hour locked in the bathroom, shower turned on full blast and the water as hot as he could stand. But even though his skin was left red and raw, bruises mottled against the color, it wasn't enough to wash away the truth. Harsh reality. Damian was still dead, again. New graves had been dug, new spaces in families and lives that hadn't been there before. Little girls and boys like he'd once been cried for their fathers, and he grieved for his son, for a boy who'd never had the chance to redeem himself. A boy who died thinking his family was against him, a boy so consumed by hatred that he'd lost sight of himself. Did he know, wherever he was, that his family cared? Maybe not. There was no reason to believe death gave such realizations, and if he'd gone back home, to his Gotham... Bruce hoped he never came back. Not again. Twice was cruel enough.
He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what came next. He didn't know how to pull the family together, didn't know how to make Batman mean something again. He didn't know how to reconcile his love for Damian with what he'd done, his grief over his death with the grief of those affected by his actions.
Black layered atop black, he sat by the window and stared outside.