981 (![]() ![]() @ 2008-01-31 21:14:00 |
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Entry tags: | 981, chippedspike |
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Lane was pretty sure he'd gone to sleep in one of the hotel rooms, only to wake in his original hotel room in Cardiff, memories intact.
One question answered.
And with at least some of his other questions put to rest, he finished his current consultation job and packed, stopping by the tower at Roald Dahl Plass to stare longingly up at its mirrored surface.
Perhaps having his memories spared was an aberration – he knew he couldn't rely on anyone else from this time line having once been a visitor to Hotel California. But there was still enough fear left in him regarding the unknown that he turned away from the tower and pulled his coat tight around him, counting his steps as he crossed back across the Plass to his rental.
218.
Three days later he found himself back on a rooftop in Gotham. It wasn't much of a decision; just the only place he could think of that still had some piece of him to come back to.
"Find what you were after?" The Batman asked, a skyline full of night-lit buildings behind him. Lane shook his head and looked past him to the city beyond.
"They don't lock people away. Only if they're a threat."
"You're not an alien. I told you that before-you fell through time from another Earth. You’ve adjusted. Now move on."
"I'm working on it."
"Work faster."
"Interpersonal relationships – Google it sometime."
"I have better things to do with my time. And so do you."
"I'll think about it," Lane said, and stepped back a few steps, shoes scraping on the rooftop gravel. "I don't think I'm back for good."
"However long," The Batman said, and palmed a grapple. "The Shadow has a place-and so do you. But they might not be the same."
Lane nodded and counted his steps to the stairwell door.
15.
At four months, two weeks and twelve hours back in Real Time, Lane figured he was well into a regular routine. He didn't think about Hotel California as much as he used to, or was getting better at not thinking about it, at least.
So when he pushed his way through the heavy doors of his apartment building, expecting to exit to a cold night, and instead walked into a very familiar hotel lobby-it was the sort of shock to the system that rushed through him like a cold wave.
1.
He ended up sitting on a nearby lobby couch, leaning over with his head in his hands as he tried to get his head into a place where he could even deal. Was he back because he'd dared wish he could come back? He'd nearly convinced himself it was all some elaborate dream, reaching for anything that could explain it.
At least he was dressed this time, if you also counted the armored suit under his street clothes.
He heard someone approach and stand in front of him, felt the pull of their presence, but didn't look up yet. He didn't want to know right now-he was still getting his mind around being back here.