april catch-all.

[beknight]

Who: bruce wayne (beknight) & various others.
What: shenanigans for april
When: throughout april
Where: everywhere
Warning(s): none yet, will add if needed.

Comments

DIANA;

[beknight]

[ He's on the couch — having immediately moved from the bed the moment he was mobile. Cushions and items have been arranged with an eye for his care, three square meals a day, no matter how slowly he eats, a pile of his books and the record player he lent Diana, which is likely taking up permanent residence in her apartment. Checking dressings, counting the time observing the healing. He'd prefer to be in some isolated area, some deep, dark hole he can crawl into then crawl out of once his wounds are licked — it buzzes around in his mind. ]

[ He's not good company. Still, Diana never expects a conversation. Just stays there, every day, without frustration. He wants to hiss and spit at something — can't. The silos fall quiet the moment he knows Tim's gone then — he just slumps quietly in his corner, the aftermath of some silent devastation. ]

[ In the evening, when she sits, he reaches for her wrist. ]

[wondie]

( turns out, it is easy to not force conversation when she is not sure yet what to say. there's a mire in her head — promises made to make their path together, begging him to not go where she could not follow yet in the end she was the one that had strayed too far. there's a lot caged in her chest, along with the cold twinge that digs a little deeper each time she sees reminder of his injuries. she knows that twist all too well, a fear of mortality that is quite far from unknown.

she hates the reminder, that no matter how he tries (how either of them try), there is a path he will walk that she cannot reach.

instead, she can offer what she had so horribly failed in when he'd needed it most. to be there, even in useless silence until he is ready. sometimes she reads, sometimes she sifts through paperwork, sometimes her thoughts are just as distant as his even if her body is in arm's reach. today she's half entertaining a book when he reaches for her, and the heartbeat under her fingertips is comforting even though she's not supposed to be the one that needs comfort. ) Hmm? ( it's not quite a question, the murmur, yet she can tell there's something he wants to say. )

[beknight]

[ A hundred things he could tell her, all the first things that come to mind absolve her of blame. It's always been the truth, that he's the mortal, vulnerable one. That even with her strength on his side death is still a certainty. He can't circumvent death of the body. But since the day they became partners the plan hatched in his mind: how to last beyond death. How to keep a promise to stay beside her even as his mortality stood against him. Bruce never believes anything is impossible, and nothing is, for Bruce Wayne. It's only ever a matter of time. ]

Tim's in stasis, [ he says, soft and wounded. ] I'm sorry there wasn't more time.

[originallutece]

[He comes by, and she doubts very much that he doesn't notice her injuries, but thank god, he doesn't fuss. They end up playing cards, sitting in her bed and playing hand after hand. He's surprisingly good at it, beating her more often than not (to her secret displeasure). They play for matches, and for the first time since she was rescued she finds herself thinking of something other than that hideous jail cell.

He stays the night. Not in the way he used to (though frankly, Rosalind doubts she'd be up for that kind of thing), but simply lying next to her, curled beneath his own blanket. There's something wonderfully soothing about having him there, and Rosalind basks in it.

After all: she'd spent nearly twenty years sharing a bed with a man. It's lonely sometimes, rolling over and not seeing anyone there. She closes her eyes and listens to his steady breathing, in-and-out, slow, a rhythm that lulls her to sleep.

She dreams. And though she wishes her mind would linger on nothing more than her day's distractions, what Rosalind dreams of is dying.

It's harder when you've already died, see, because you know how bad it is. You know exactly how painful it is; how horror and grief consumes you as you realize there's no getting out it. She remembers the agony, blinding white, her every cell split apart in an instant. She remembers the growing dread, the terror; the hideous knowledge that even if she bolted, her fate was sealed.

It was agony.

Take all that pain, and juxtapose the past few weeks. The riots, the kidnapping. She finds herself in a school, tied up and gagged, as the smell of roasting bodies fills her nose and a man with a wicked grin grabs her and slides his knife against her skin, sadistic in his sensuality. She dreams of begging, pleading; she dreams of a monstrous, inhuman scream as claws sink into her back. She dreams of a mob, leering and groping, and the heat of a fire, licking at her skin and burning her to a crisp.

She doesn't scream or writhe, no. Rosalind's teeth are grit, and she whimpers softly, her body gone stiff as a board in her sleep. She trembles, shakes, but doesn't reach out, because even unconsciously she's too afraid she won't find anyone if she does.]

[beknight]

[ He doesn't fuss. They have nurses for that, he just checks her over summarily and quietens down to provide the distraction. Sex would be on the table, most days, nothing quite like being outside one's own head for a while. But they don't slide that way, fatigue, genuine companionship — Bruce isn't going to put a name to either. ]

[ He stays up, not sleeping. His mind is too clear for that, and he's waited out hours for less noble causes than sitting vigil. ]

[ — and there is a horrific intimacy in observing someone's nightmares. Bruce doesn't wait, he reaches out, touches her hand, her shoulder. Low, clear, ]

Rosalind.

[originallutece]

[Her eyes fly open; with a sharp gasp she jerks away from his hand, scrambling back on the bed, tangling in the sheets as she tries to get away from--

--who? Not Alan, but she's not really seeing Alan. Just a figure, dark and threatening, his voice low and his intentions surely sinister. But there's no grin, no leer, no fingers around her throat or rough grip on her forearms, and slowly she realizes that there's nothing to fear at all.

She slumps down, exhaling harshly. Her body is still tense, but that will melt soon.]

I, ah--

[She shoves a hand through her hair, shaking her head, trying to focus.]

My apologies. I-- did I wake you?

JIM KIRK;

[beknight]

[ He justifies it only because he's not bringing hounds to the man's door — the only kindness he can afford. It's this or limp halfway across town, his spaces in Wyver have dwindled to the minimal, and if Ana finds him like this it will be a Conversation, ("Hi, I got fucked up by a bear." "There aren't any bears in Wyver." Yikes.) There is a long, ugly gash across the thigh, from a set of vicious claws. Shallow, but bleeding — other cuts and slashes in the clothes, on the skin. He's got spares in his bag, but hasn't changed out of the blood-soaked ones. The cut on his forehead has been hurriedly but precisely taped up to keep his vision clear and the rest — are courtesy Jim's first aid kit. ]

[ Well he's about to find out what Jim Kirk keeps in his first aid kit. He lets himself in silently, gets to work as quietly as possible, sparing only a glance for when the occupant comes up and opens his mouth presumably to say what the hell. ]

[ Blandly, ]

Nice place.

[willrevile]

[ They're both lucky, that Jim's as quick as he is - because after the kidnapping spree, he doesn't move for his phaser (always on stun), but for a fucking knife. But he recognizes the broad shoulders and surprisingly graceful movements of his intruder, and his spring to action stalls before it really gets going. ]

No it isn't.

[ It's a nothing place, barely qualifying as an apartment and looking almost as if it has no inhabitant. There's a cramped kitchenette and an empty space in which a table and a bed are crammed; nothing in the way of personal affects or touches, plain and empty except for whatever's in the fridge and a box of pieces he was tinkering with on the table, put away for now.

Jim gets up, turns a light on (a shitty, single overhead magic gas lamp contraption, thanks Wyver), and looks Alan over. Whether he likes it or not. ]

[beknight]

[ He moves away from the light — it illuminates about half the figure, showing only the gash, yet to be tended to. There's a sad line here, about how limned by the dark in an empty fucking room is the only way Bruce Wayne knows honesty. ]

No, it isn't.

[ After a moment, when his eyes have had time to take in every detail. His own room is equally unimpressive, every possession of real value squirrelled away in a secure location, outside the city. It should track as unusual — a person of Jim's outward demeanour having this in quarters he's spent weeks in, but this isn't the first time Bruce has seen a seemingly open window that leads into a blizzard. He put a lot of effort back in the day looking as shallow as a puddle. Make the outline convincing enough, and people will assume what they want, never seeing the deep, cold places that exist otherwise. ]

[ No comment. Just a flick of recognition. ]

CLARK | backdated to feb 29th.

[beknight]

[ February 29th. Serviceable, he supposes, since the real date and the real calendar are lost. The gift itself takes somewhat longer to think of, less time-consuming than the book, but equally valuable. Clark likes quality time, likes understanding, and it comes up against the strong undercurrent Bruce has of wanting to push people away. ]

[ He pings Clark with the GPS, and waits for him outside the training room. ]

[apricitous]

[ There's nothing back on the communicator. Instead, a few minutes later...]

One day, the coordinates will come with a message. I'm looking forward to that.

[ He walks up, dressed in his usual attire, clearly unaware that there'd be any reason he'd be getting something special. The tone is teasing, though, pleased to see Bruce and pleased to get the chance to see him. ]

[beknight]

[ It's a little much to wish for. Bruce shrugs minutely — casually dressed himself, coat collar turned up against the wind. What wind? It's inside, the training room having taken the atmosphere of the sprawling Wayne estate on a brisk autumn day, when the leaves are just beginning to change colour. It's a clear sky, windy enough. The Gotham skyline in the distance, and through the trees, the outline of the burnt out husk of Wayne Manor, its sprawling guts replicated down to the most minute detail. Everything in this room was deliberately made. ]

[ The door fades behind them, and Bruce just starts walking. ]

ANA;

[beknight]

[ Team Shooting And Hitting Things Makes Me Feel Better, assemble. ]

[ — it's not such a stretch to want to see her after that ordeal. Only failure hollows them out, maybe they'll push at each other and maybe not. It doesn't make his concern flare less. ]

[ So he sends her a ping, tells her it's past time she saw Gotham, and waits near the teleport pads for her. ]

Forest

[ukase]

[Rumlow had been curious how the hostages that he had pulled out had pulled themselves together after the torture event and being exposed to that crazy noxious gas. Normally, he would just leave messages, but Bruce was the kind of guy he personally wanted to check up on. Guys like that suffered in silence away from prying eyes.

He should know; that's how he tended to act. It might have been a hunch, he had thought he had taken the guy's measure when they had first met while he was subjecting himself to a boat-load of pain for some enlightenment.

So, he wandered around looking for the guy, thinking of all the places he might go and starting there. The forest had been a hunch but also a good way to just get out of the city for himself. It wasn't like he expected any of these places to turn up anything, but he could try, say he made the effort and then tell I-am-the-night to screw off in a text message.]

[beknight]

[ Guys like this suffer in silence away from prying eyes. He'd tolerated staying with Steve and Diana as long as he wasn't mobile, but the moment he was he packed and bid them a quick goodbye. There's a cave out here in the woods he can spend some time reflecting. Indulging base instincts. Returning to a world where that's required of him is to survive, survive, survive. ]

[ The forest is a good hunch. A few deer cut through the path, fleeing from something, and a moment later Bruce emerges from the undergrowth. He nods briskly at the man, then continues steadily on his path, hunting. Join him if you like bud, he'll share the meat. ]

[ukase]

[Hunting. Rumlow had participated in his fair share of survival exercises and even gone on plenty of hunting trips. It was easy to simply fall in line behind Bruce and ease his way in the man's wake. It seemed to him that a deer was a bit of a large kill for one - even two - guys. He personally was an excellent shot when it came to rabbits.

However, he was here to check on up Bruce, make certain the guy was getting on since the big incident. He didn't say anything - wouldn't want to spoil the hunting - and he was content to observe how Bruce ran a hunting exposition like this anyway Two guys killing something to eat; that was life at its most simple and at times most pleasant.]

memory share.

[beknight]

EGGSY.

[beknight]

[ They're hanging in the sky. Where, when — Bruce has learnt by now to simply walk through it and let it fade around them. The only real question is who, and what happens after this. They're skydiving. ]

[ He hears Eggsy's voice, and thinks, well, he hopes it's good. The boy's resilient, and he's sharp, cheerful enough, but nobody connects with Bruce unless there's something. Something there lost, missing, broken. ]

[ He feels the group fall. ]

[tailorable]

[ With the fall comes a feeling of breathless exhilaration. Even in the memory, the flood of adrenaline can't be dulled. Whoops and cheers scatter across the radio soundscape, tinny to the ears. The group splinters, showing off flips and playing in the sky. Only one, small figure appears late to the fall below them.

Eggsy sees Alan, distinct from the others, and understands immediately that they've been pulled inward yet again to root around in his head — but this memory is a fine one, compromising his cover but not his sense of self. Lucky. He hears his own voice, a reassurance echoed over the comms: Good girl! Glad you could make it. ]

Oi, it's your favourite! [ him, natch. ] Remember not to worry, yeah? [ He shouts audibly, voice lacking the metallic quality of the others, even though the roar of the wind and the memory ought to drown him out. Magic is a curious thing. ]

DAENERYS.

[beknight]

[ It's a grand old house, every corner of the room dripping elegance. The kind that has been chosen and layered over, by generations. It should be a warm place, with cosy looking armchairs, a fireplace, and an ornate window. Light should pour in from every corner. ]

[ But it feels a little cold, a little quiet. Like the man in the middle of the room, looking up at a painting of two people, is really a ghost. ]

[ But someone laughs, to the side. Bruce's head turns, his mouth pulling in a secret smile, listening to that voice as its owner runs up and down the halls. ]

[willrevile]

[ Jim has a splitting headache. You're the psychic equivalent of a brick, the Betazoid running Starfleet Academy's intake psi-level exams had told him. Not unkindly. So this kind of psychic rollercoaster nonsense shouldn't bother him, right? Or is it him being so unaccustomed, having the experiences pulled and pushed at so unnaturally?

(Maybe it's the impression of a memory not his own, one he can't recall or get his hands around, of a Vulcan clutching his head in pain.)

But it's over. He thinks. He stumbled out of the last one and into the expanse of the wilds, nearing the camp again, and nothing leaps out at him. Jim's been bent over, hands on his knees, just breathing, and he finally straightens out again. Pushes a hand through his hair, takes stock of where he is.

A familiar figure is a head of him, outlined in the faint glow of distant firelight. He walks towards him - ]

Hey, Alan.

[ - and then he's walking through a hallway. Bright white, carefully accented blues and greys, uniform clean and hair orderly. Humans and aliens stream by him, politely nodding at their superior, in their red-blue-gold uniforms. Different this year, because Starfleet's uniforms are always evolving, the Federation embracing the art of design as much as any STEM category. ]

Captain. [ Spock at his elbow, appearing from the fucking aether without warning as usual. ] The anomaly we are observing is emitting a rare kind of radiation, and as we have the next to weeks to make our appointment on Verona Six, I request we delay here.

Alright -

Admiral Nzeogwu has left another message, Commander Scott's list of demands exceeds even the most generous allotments of the engineering division's cargo space -

Demands? Is that what we're calling resupply requests? I did ask him to check something with the way the bridge is overclocked.

[ Before Spock's eye can actually twitch, a whistle sounds, followed by a voice: Bridge to Captain Kirk. Jim and his first officer keep walking into a turbolift, where Jim hits a button on the back panel. ] Go ahead, Sulu.

Sir, the anomaly is doing something ... weird.

[ Jim and Spock and Jim and Alan, across from each other in the turbolift. Jim - Jim Jim, the one present, not the one experiencing a memory, is pinching the bridge of his nose. ] Oh my god.

[ He really does have a headache. ]

STEVE T.

[beknight]

[ The rooftops of Gotham City stretch out in front of them. Bruce has been perched on this gargoyle a while, as still as the stone out of which it was made from. He looks down, then across, listening. There's a window broken, across, he seems to be watching someone moving around in it. Waiting. ]

[ The present Bruce, dressed in a coat, sighs quietly and looks across at Steve, the first time he acknowledges someone present in his memory. In this memory. ]

This is Gotham.

DUTCH.

[beknight]

[ ooc: from here ]

[ He is capable. What he does not tell her is that reaching out for her is one of his instincts now, to draw her into the safest place he can find in the dark. He was always a shield, though he believed only in swords until he was reminded, truly, what he was. That knowledge has found purchase in his foundation. ]

[ They walk away, and the screams fade. The sound becomes laughter — one he knows, one he's missed without putting a name to it. Instead of a little girl with a knife there's a little boy, picking through the weapons rack. He's dressed lightly, for a long workout, and can't resist showing off a little with what he picks. His expression, when he glances up at a younger Bruce — uniformed, watching like a silent guardian — is hopeful. ]

Pick one, [ says the man in the memory, the one learning to be a father. Bruce echoes the words in his mind. ]

CLARK.

[beknight]

[ ooc: from here ]

[ It's a clear word for a clear relationship. But Bruce wasn't thinking about a son when he signed the papers for Dick, not even after Dick became Robin — he never could put a name to it. Friend, partner, something like son, something like brother? He pushed Dick away, even knowing there was no true life without him. All he'd ever wanted was to keep him safe. ]

[ Bruce just watches curiously as the younger him turns to ask if Dick's done with his homework, before he seems to register he's been asked a question, ]

That's Dick.

AVA.

[beknight]

[ ooc: continued from here. ]

[ She found her friend. Bruce can't say if that's a relief or not, knowing as he first did that it's more like seeing a hostage held over you. Albeit one you can do nothing about — just wait, watch, wait, keep watching (hoping). Even after all these months, he hasn't found Jason. There's a dark, terrible knowledge in knowing what one is capable of, when given the right motivation. ]

[ The memories are warm. They've played out before in his life — this is not the moment he decides to keep an eye on Sana, for Ava. But it's one where he understands he could ask it of himself. ]

[ He gives her a sideways glance, a brief sharp smile, with no malice, ]

So was I.

[ Not a full explanation. But something (a connection) an explanation of habit, skillset, priorities. The world around them starts to dissolve, dark streets becoming the dark walls of the Cave. ]