nysalogs | april catch-all.

[ 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. ]

[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.]

[ 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.

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

( 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. )

[ 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. ]

[ 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.

[ 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. ]

[ Clark doesn't say anything else. He just smiles at the little shrug and walks forward, reaching out for Bruce's hand even if he won't take it. He'll leave Bruce to take it. He's looking around at the Manor, the lands around it, taking in the wind and the chill and the feel of it all.

After all, something in this is for him. He knows that. He knows this is Bruce being sweet and he's going to enjoy it for what it is. ]

[ He doesn't take it. But he stays close, in that careless, absent way people are when they don't mind someone near them. The wind whistles through the dying grass around the Manor, trees turning riots of colour closer to the lakehouse. There's laughter in the distance, two distinct voices, two boys. But they're out of sight — one is always with him, the other is a wraith. A third joins them, a girl. ]

[ They were never together like this in life. But it's a good story — he tells it. ]

[ Clark nods, an acceptance, before walking beside him, watching the story play out. Or rather, listening. He watches the leaves and the trees, the manor, but mostly he watches Bruce. ]

[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?

[ Mostly, Bruce watches him, out of the corner of his eye. He's relaxed, curious, the questions might follow. Clark's a reporter — Bruce's relationship with the fourth estate is complicated at best. ]

[ For the moment he volunteers nothing. This is enough of a blazing display. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

I wasn't sleeping.

[ Bland, unconcerned — sleep is for the weak, something something. Bruce retreats, stands, his pride is like hers, comfort is restricted to the select members of a very exclusive club. And even then, it's fifty-fifty, depending on his moods. ]

[ They have a good equilibrium. He doesn't like change much. ]

Tea for you?

Good god, Alan . . .

[She sits up, hoisting the bedsheets up. She draws her knees up as well, leaning forward to rest atop them, and stares up at him. After a moment, she reaches, intending only to pull him back on the bed.]

You were just watching me sleep?

Don't be ridiculous. [ a beat, just long enough, ] I'd be standing in the corner if I was going to do that.

[ He doesn't offer strong resistance, but does hesitate. ]

Something to eat or drink... helps.

[She wrinkles her nose at him, but the joke disarms her.]

. . . tea, then. But I'd be grateful for company along with it.

[ Don't you give him that look, Jim's sensible enough to seek appropriate medical attention when necessary, unlike present company.

Hmmph. Jim steps away, nodding over to - a chair, or his spartan bed, you pick. ] Sit.

[ Out of a cupboard over the steampunk fridge comes a thin pack, a little worn; it's easy to conceal beneath his clothes on his back of his chest like this, which he's done with some regularity. He flops it onto the table and then moves to the sink to wash his hands. ]

I didn't know you liked to keep losing at cards that much.

[ He raises his eyebrows just enough to be cheeky, but disappears into the kitchen to put on the kettle. ]

[Oh, very clever, and she's enough energy to sneer at him. That barely lasts, though. The moment he leaves, she slumps back, one hand covering her eyes. She's still shivering, and the room seems both too small and too big, lonely in its emptiness. She's a little desperate for him to return, but she won't be needy. She's already been too emotional in reaching for him; she won't humiliate herself further.

Instead she gets up, throwing open a window and reaching for a bathrobe. By the time he returns, she's turned on a few lamps, because she knows she won't get back to sleep for ages. And apparently he hasn't been sleeping at all, but just watching her, so he ought to have no objections.]

[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.]

[ 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. ]

april catch-all.

DIANA;

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JIM KIRK;

CLARK | backdated to feb 29th.

ANA;

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Forest

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