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. ]

[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.]

DIANA;

no subject

JIM KIRK;

CLARK | backdated to feb 29th.

ANA;

Forest

memory share.