bruce "i'm kin with bats" wayne (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pearlstrings) wrote2009-08-30 10:52 pm
pearlstrings) wrote2009-08-30 10:52 pm
inbox
bruce wayne @ᴡᴀʏɴᴇ @ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ |
His official user id for the network is Bruce and if you meet in person, in the unlikely event he gave you his contact details, this is the ID he would give you.
That said, his conversations on the network have largely been under the id of Wayne, as a way to keep his two identities separated.
This is the username he uses most often and he will answer replies to that handle- there just seems to be no physical person on the registry to link it to.
7th of January - so an islander walked in a blizzard
[ Flurries had only just started to whirl down through the dark sky. With a sack of canned goods from the General Store and astride his electric bike, he was sure he'd be back at the Museum well before the weather took any turn for the worse. Fifteen minutes into the ride, visibility dropped; the lantern-lit headlight that Quentin and Riku had fashioned was more a hindrance than a help, illuminating only the fat flakes of snow blowing into his face.
He abandoned the bike, tucking his nose into his blue scarf, pulling his gray hoodie up over his silver hair. Picking a direction, he walked, shielding his stinging eyes from the steadily strengthening wind. Trees groaned and swayed. In time his steps dragged through the gathering snow, it crept into his cuffs, into his collar.
Riku tripped on something, and before he knew it, had half-collapsed against a hard and snow-covered shape propped up against a tree. In his confusion, he swept some of the snow off its unforgiving frame with one gloved hand, and saw a gleam of old chrome.
It was his bike. He was walking in circles, dazed by the swirling snow, the gnawing cold. For minutes, he tucked himself around his burning lantern, shielding his face from the blowing wind that made his lungs ache. Riku tried to think.
Even the temperate waters around Destiny Islands could be lethal, every child knew you needed to stop swimming when your lips started to go purple, your body getting too cool. Out here, he would fall to the drowning sickness like anyone back home - by sinking into exhaustion, and then sinking past sleep into death. He couldn't stay here, but where could he go?
The wrong direction could send him marching into empty forest until his strength gave out.
Compared with how some of the others had died, it would be peaceful. Merciful. ]
I'm not giving up...
[ That was more a thought than words, the rest was too chopped up in his chattering teeth, broken by shiver in his breath. It was so cold.
I won't give up, not until I see them again..!
He had wandered somewhere else, exhausted and lonely in the dark, years and years ago. Back then, he had said Sora and Kairi. The cold freezes his grief in the corners of his stinging eyes. Almost a week ago, he spent up so much of his grief, clinging to a friend behind the museum; the grief is less sharp and deeply wounding, for the first time in a long while. Maybe he's growing numb as he freezes. Maybe...
Like a window glowing warm and golden in a blizzard, Riku feels something bloom in his breast, a warmth that's nostalgic, familiar, unfurling like a banner into the whipping wind.
Deliriously cold, Riku huddles around his lantern and staggers blindly into the blizzard, following the call. Following the pull that's hooked itself in his heart.
He doesn't remember his boots thumping up the steps, the dull pain in his shoulder when he stumbles against the large door and sags to the ground, by the time he reaches the museum threshold, the freezing cold has stolen away his consciousness and frozen solid the cans in his sack. ]
so an idiot walked home in a blizzard
He has enough layers accumulated to be able to wrap himself up. Gotham doesn't get weather that's horrific, but it's no stranger to cold and sleet and ice. He wraps his face and pulls his mask down underneath it. He covers his hands and loops extra wrappings around his back. He tells Vanitas to stay here, to stay near the door in case Riku makes it back first and he goes out into the snow to start looking.
Only a few minutes in and he knows he was right to be concerned. Conditions are bleak, everywhere that isn't black with perpetual night is streaked with huge wet flakes. Snow comes up to his calves. He squints through the storm and keeps his lantern sheltered against his chest, looking for an answering beacon, but the minutes pass and there's nothing. If he's honest, here alone, in the black, he's afraid he'll find nothing but shards again- a bent frame, fractured glass. It keeps him walking. He shouts Riku's name against the wind but isn't sure if it can be heard. The path fills up behind him, erasing his steps, and it's only the rope he winds along with him that promises to lead the way out again. He makes his way in the direction of the junk yard and there continues to be nothing. Nothing and nothing- until a strange shape is spotted, bent low against the ground.
Bruce rushes to it. It's a bike. Cold to the touch, the engine stopped long ago. His head lifts and he searches the area for signs of a crash- and finding none, resigned to the fist around his throat, Bruce props the bike up and begins pushing it through the snow- following the rope back and unwinding it along the way, bringing it with him as he heads back for the museum.]
1 brain cell remained at home
He's not worried, not until Bruce starts to look anxious. And then it isn't empathetic concern that slides into Vanitas' expression, its something closer to anger, like he's upset with Riku for causing this situation to begin with. For making Bruce look like that, for making his own insides clench with an uncertainty he's only vaguely able to articulate.
Bruce leaves to look. He steps out into the blizzard and Vanitas stands, alone, in the grand empty entrance. There are snowflakes on the floor that whisked in when the other boy left. The cold is pervasive, even through Vanitas' sweater and scarf and hat and gloves. Outside the windows, without the moon, it's only black and howling wind.
He stays there, unmoving, like he was told, standing as a single dark point in an equally dark space. He isn't sure for how long.
Then the door slams open and Vanitas says: ]
Bruce— [ before he realizes: ] Riku—
[ And descends on him quickly, grabbing him without heed around his shoulders, prepared to verbally scolds him for such stupidity— only he doesn't look right. He's so white he's almost transparent, his lips bleached nearly blue, eyelashes clumped with ice and stuck together.
Vanitas has been trained for plenty, but not for this. Panic rears up inside him, explosive, and Unversed that already live in the museum creep out from the corners drawn to the emotion. ]
Riku. Riku!
[ He feels too cold, even through his gloves when he shakes him. Vanitas, eyes wide, has no idea what to do. And Bruce, who would know, is somewhere out in that mess.
His breath punches out of him, and Vanitas, helpless, pulls his scarf off to wrap it around Riku's face and neck. It's what Ignis said to do, to keep away the cold and to stop from getting sick, and Vanitas doesn't have any other knowledge to draw on. ]
SMDH
His jeans are stiff and caked with snow from the knees down, the soles of his boots have shed fragments of compacted, dirt-dingy white in the shape of their treads. The gray hoodie pulled up over his hair sheds some of its frigid film when Vanitas shakes him, the black leather bomber jacket had kept off the wind on a core that had only grown damp with sweat during the struggle through the blizzard.
His gloves, magically enhanced to provide a little warmth, and the blue scarf loosely tangled around his throat was... an effort, just not a very effective one.
What breaths he takes are slow and shallow, like a whisper, but moments after Vanitas has wrapped his scarf around his face and neck, his pale lashes stir. He doesn't wake. His lantern, nestled between one unmoving arm and the floor, throws wild patterns of warm light, its weak flame aflutter as the wind gusts through the open door.
He can smell him. It's something Riku recognizes inside this liminal space where the cold no longer feels like it's lancing through his lungs as he breathes, no longer makes him ache for all the shivering he isn't doing anymore. There was something he needed to do, he doesn't remember; it's strange how something familiar can be... comforting. ]
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Freezing under pressure was beaten out of him long ago, but nothing Xehanort taught him prepared him for this. He wasn't a real person, why would he ever have to worry about this? And beyond that, why would saving someone else ever be relevant when all he was meant to do was destroy?
An Unversed creeps in next to him, and its nearness jolts him into action.
He reaches forward, manipulating Riku so he can shove that stupid backpack off his limp arms. It hits the ground with a loud, heavy thud, and Vanitas doesn't look twice at it. Instead, he pulls Riku's lantern from his grasp and tugs him forward until he tips against Vanitas in a mockery of how he found him outside a week before.
The cold cuts through him, icy meltwater sliding into his collar and making him break out in gooseflesh. Vanitas shivers and with some maneuvering, picks Riku up with almost impossible strength for all his dead weight. ]
Bring that!
[ He snaps at the Unversed, and it picks up Riku' frigid lantern, trotting quickly after Vanitas as he moves through the museum, out to find Riku's bed, to lay him down clothes and all on top of the mattress, twitching the blanket over his icy figure.
And from there, is at a loss.
His hands fold into fists. ]
Bruce...
[ But he isn't here, so—
Vanitas pulls out his tablet. ]
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The museum is a dark shape in the woods, a cutout of negative space where all of the trees have been streaked white with frost. Bruce's legs and arms are stung, his face and hands probably the worst of all for the lack of feeling in them- but as long as he keeps his core warm he knows he'll manage. The bike comes to rest against the shelter of the building and as Bruce climbs the steps he doesn't reach for the knob- he chooses to shoulder his way in instead. He wears the snow like a blanket, peels of while cake the back of his neck and cover the mask over his head- they're accents in the creases of his scarf, of his shoulders and elbows and knees. From the knee down he's more white than black.
He stomps in the entrance, shouldering the door closed as snow sloughs off of him in great lumps at a time. He reaches clumsily for the fabric over his head and begins pulling it, dragging frozen, soaked cloth over his equally frozen, soaked face. Bruce's hair sticks up unevenly, he's ghostly pale.]
Vanitas!
[There isn't anyone in the foyer. It's very quiet. Anxiety tightens his gut and Bruce tugs hard and fast at the gloves around his wrists, leaving red rings in his wake.]
Vanitas!
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Vanitas has cast his tablet aside by this time, and is doing his level best to get Riku out of all of his sopping wet clothes. He's had to take his gloves off, for dexterity, and all the snow and cold have pinched Vanitas' hands pink with ice. He's shucked Riku's boots and socks, has pulled off his jacket and his sweater. The person on the network said to get rid of all of his clothes and trade them with his own. He doesn't have any other direction to follow, and while he knows that letting Riku's lantern gutter is an option—
He finds he doesn't want to follow that path.
Bruce shouts and the Hook-bats in the ceiling, the ones tangled up with the smaller, strange shape of Bruce's Unversed take wing from the shadows of the tall entrance ceiling. The hush of wings has Vanitas jerk up straight, holding Riku's pants in both hands. He turns and inhales, booming: ]
UP HERE!
[ And the swarm of Unversed in the lobby veer as one, responding to his voice like a command, to lead Bruce up the stairs to Riku's room.
When he arrives, Vanitas has stripped Riku down to just his underthings, which makes him look shockingly pale against the blue comforter, and is in the process of pulling off his own thick jumper and shirt beneath. ]
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Bruce doesn't stop to think. He starts running.
He takes the stairs two at a time despite the stinging and numbness, pushing his body to function around the chaotic signals his nerves keep sending. Chunks of snow are left behind in his wake, on the stairs, in the hall. Riku is spread out atop his own bed and blankets, largely stripped down for the haphazard pile that's been left on the floor- and ghostly white. Bruce stops in the doorway, looks- and then spins on his heel to run back downstairs. The execution is sloppy and his elbow bangs against the frame in the process, his footfalls are hard and thus telegraphed to the museum the entire way- but he's on his way to the kitchen, filling pots with water to get them onto the burners, to start warming them. There are extra cloths and two hot water bottles he'd collected. It's not enough, but it's a start.
When he comes back up the stairs a second time its to start peeling off his own wet, snow covered layers. They're anathema at a time like this, and he keeps just enough distance from the bed as he shucks his boots off.]
I'll go get the other blankets. Get underneath with him as soon as you can.
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There's no explanation— Bruce doesn't say anything at all. He only spins on his heel and slams back down the stairs, his exist as much a whirlwind as the rain-like hush of hundreds of tiny wings beating the air and against each other. They compound the chaos, make the emotion running high into a physical thing.
Vanitas goes back to what he'd been doing before Bruce blew in without being told to continue. It made the most sense, instead of following him downstairs to whatever he was doing.
Without his own clothes on, the vaulted ceiling and that draught Peter was talking about come sharply into focus. Vanitas shivers uncontrollably, a thin tremble under his skin as he yanks off his trousers and pulls off his socks and boots. It isn't until he's climbed onto the cot with the thick black cableknit, maneuvering Riku around to try and get the sweater on him that he realizes a flaw in the plan of switching clothing. There's no way his slacks are going to fit on Riku.
Blessedly, Bruce reappears in this moment, while Vanitas has Riku's damp head in his bare lap, the lightbearer half-dressed in Vanitas' one personal article of clothing, and Vanitas looks desperately at him for direction. ]
They said to use fire.
[ Something about the way the sentence is structured and sits on his tongue makes it almost seem like a question; like it's all he has left to offer to the situation at hand. He has no idea what he's doing, and it's clear in the wide of his eyes, even against the determined set of his jaw. But Bruce says get underneath the blankets so that's what he does, awkwardly shuffling his quivering pale self underneath the comforter with Riku. ]
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When he gets back upstairs Vanitas has peeled his shirt off and forced it over Riku's head. The questions have answers long before he can string them into a sentence. They said to use fire he says. They. Bruce's head fills in the blanks: Riku appeared sometime after Bruce had left, with no frame of reference Vanitas had asked the network, this is how he knows to share clothes and body heat. In another time he might have felt conflicted about rummaging through Riku's drawers, but time is of the essence here. The pants he wears are too fitted (there will be a teasing remark there later, when all is well, about how Riku doesn't own enough for pleasure and leisure- only purpose) to bother with, but he finds two pairs of socks. Finds another long sleeved shirt- then grabs another for good measure. Bruce closes the distance by coming straight to his bedside, handing one of the shirts to Vanitas to wear and bunching the other up to go over Riku's head- a second layer.]
I'm boiling some water right now. [And then, because has always given Vanitas information when he can:] When people become too cold it's called hypothermia. Sometimes limbs can freeze off and be permanently lost, or there can be permanent nerve damage. It can affect the brain and even kill. [He pushes each of Riku's arms through the sleeves one at a time, then guides the hole over his head. It is not a glamorous process.]
You're warmer than I am right now, so stay under the blankets with him.
[He hands Vanitas a pair of fresh socks, then bends down to reach for the foot of the bed- for Riku's bare, frozen ankles. Where one boy is unnaturally still, the other looks like he's vibrating inside of his skin- but there isn't time yet to slow down. Bruce disappears again and returns a few moments later with two more blankets, Vanitas's, and his own. Piling them on top in short, purpose-driven movements. The water will be nearly ready and he'll be set to disappear again, but before he does, while he's still tucking the quilts down, he looks up at Vanitas- folding himself beneath the covers one uncertain, pale limb at a time. The room is very quiet.]
You did good, Vanitas.
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Maybe that was natural: the need to survive, even in a place like this, where death only mattered half the time. ]
Amputation. [ He understands, its what the woman had told him, beyond whatever useless distraction she was attempting to be. If Riku lost a limb, would death bring it back? Could Maridel fix something like that?
There's no way of knowing. Under the blanket, Vanitas can feel the cold coming off Riku's legs against all his own bare skin. Its like he's leeching the warmth out of him, which might he more frightening if the sensation wasn't so curious. He's not sure what to do. Should he be closer? But the thought derails entirely when Bruce looks at him directly and tells him: You did good.
Every thought in his head whites out completely, replaced by Bruce's earnest expression, the even sound of his voice and those three words.
He's heard this before, of course; but never like this. Vanitas can problem solve, he can operate well under pressure because his Master instilled that sort of reflex in him, because he already has an intrinsic ability to find his way out of a tight place. But he's never done it for someone else— that kind of compassion wasn't the sort of thing his Master ever wanted him to cultivate. Doing this for Riku, asking for help when he's never elected to do it before, stepping outside the necessity of his own self-sufficience—
The breath rushes out of him, and the anxiety of uncertainty rushes out of him in one short exhale. He nods sharply and tucks himself up to his neck in the quilts. ]
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He's warm. Too warm, his skin feels a little like a sunburn does when it's still fresh and stinging. He feels heavy. When Riku stirs, nothing responds as quickly as he's used to, weighed down and tangled with himself. Given time, he'll realize it's because he's under three heavy quilts, in Vanitas's thick cable-knit sweater and a shirt pulled over that, because of a few hot water bottles shoved at the junctions of his limbs and his legs and arms are tangled, loosely, with others.
The first thing he sees is lantern light, shining bright in the dark room.
The silhouette that comes into focus is Bruce's, awake, writing something down. He has this crease, it's almost perpetual, it sits right between Bruce's dark eyebrows when he's thinking. That's all the time, Riku corrects himself, blinking sleepily. His presence there explains the long column of warmth along one side, not the rest of it cleaved to his back, a warm lump his right arm is draped over.
He turns his head, the bed-rumpled tangle of silver in his eyes hinders, he flexes his fingers experimentally - that's the hard jut of a hip, the angle's all wrong and he can't feel it, and in the initial, addled disorientation of just waking up, Riku's note of confusion is, eloquently: ]
Uh?
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Bruce's chronometer is downstairs, an inconvenient distance for their purposes- but he's already brought everything he could to this room- to a bed designed for one person and certainly not three. Three, with three quilts, two hot water bottles, and bundles of clothes. His hair had air dried and Bruce himself had warmed from his outdoor search a few hours ago. He's warm enough that he's foregone his shirt entirely and sits with his back against the headboard, sketching in the last pages of a notebook that he's been using to keep a record of vital signs. Riku's pulse and respiration rate have been noted dozens of times, two neat little columns with small font underneath- comments about color and temperature, about responsiveness.
He's been very worried, but with the passage of time it'd become clear that the worst would be behind them and perhaps sensing that slow unraveling, he'd watched as Vanitas's face disappeared in fractions at a time. As it lowered towards the pillow and vanished behind Riku's head, behind his shoulder.
A month ago, Bruce wouldn't have anticipated any of it. And yet here they are.
The lanterns are collected on his side of the bed and any time Bruce finds himself in need of water, or any real assistance, the unversed are there to answer. They carry this and that. They come in and out of the room while a few others nest in the corners of the ceiling- there are, he suspects, more underneath the bed. Bruce reaches over and touches two fingers to Riku's throat. His father had taught him this, when he was very young. Not your thumb, Bruce. Your thumb has it's very own heartbeat and it's easy to confuse for someone else's. The pressure holds, pen meets paper- and then Riku's head moves on the pillow. It isn't the small shift of a dreamer, it's too purposeful. Too curious. Bruce does not rush to look. He thinks he's looked his fill already.
Instead his voice is quiet, pitched low enough that it doesn't encourage Vanitas to stir.]
All of those different worlds, all kinds of enemies and battles.
[His pen continues to move, a steady scratch scratch]
And you're nearly done in by a little snow.
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Bruce is speaking. There's a dream-like quality to the way time feels like cool syrup, slow and surreal; so too is Bruce's presence, the warm tangle of limbs, the breath he can feel at his nape. Riku isn't sure he isn't dreaming, because these things don't happen, he's never in this kind of situation, he's about to approach a sense of shame about the aforementioned-
you're nearly done in by a little snow
The tease roots him, brings clarity. He's awake, under a stifling number of layers and blankets, his skin burns on his extremities like the warmth is just a little too much and he's lucky he didn't lose them. Three fairies to thank for the boots, a magician to thank for the gloves, Riku supposes, his face starting to burn.
That hm that puffs out of Riku is somewhere between a laugh and a waving-off. There's a smirk pulling on the corner of his mouth, a little bit wry, his pale lashes low. ]
Nature's payback.
[ His voice is a rasp.
Riku opens his eyes and finds Bruce's, he leans his head sideways against the pillow, watching. Trying to figure out how to say thank you without sounding like a complete sap. Trying to remember what happened. He doesn't remember seeing the museum, he doesn't even remember reaching the door. Just that sense of warmth and light in his chest, the way he reached for it, staggering through the snow. ]
...Is there water? What's-
[ Riku starts to turn his head, his hand feeling up along the familiar shape tucked against his back - he just makes out a black, jagged corona against the pillow and turns back around with slightly wider eyes.
It's not precisely the look of realizing one's waking up in a lion's den, maybe mix that with "caught red-handed". ]
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Their various states of undress aren't things that would make Vanitas feel humiliation. His tendency to cover up from throat to ankle has nothing to do with his body and everything to do with the sense of vulnerability that comes with the nakedness. A breeze on his bare skin makes him all too aware of every place he could be cut, or stabbed, or bludgeoned.
The soldier said get out of cold clothes and trade, so Vanitas had followed that direction. Bruce, afterward, had to explain the reason behind it— why it felt like Riku was literally leeching the warmth out of him, because that's what he was literally doing. But it didn't mean Vanitas could unspool the tension from every muscle in his body, even pressed up close to Riku's body, his bare shins and knees slowly losing their warmth to Riku's icy figure.
But slowly, that changed. Slowly Riku was less as cold as the snow outside and more ambient, and then eventually warm enough that it tugged on Vanitas' eyes, luring him out of the heightened state of vigilance into something syrupy and quiet. The room became nothing but the even sound of breathing, the punctuation of Bruce's pencil on paper.
Vanitas curls in on himself when he sleeps, and the nearness prevents him from completing the little comma. It puts his face in the back of Riku's neck, his arms crushed into the negligible space between his own chest and the other boy's back, his ankles wedged somewhere between Riku's calves.
The stir of movement is what yanks him abruptly out of sleep. Bruce's voice, and Riku's rasping answer, the unfamiliar slide of skin over his bare hip. Vanitas' golden eyes pop open to see only the up-close pale of silver hair, and he pulls one elbow underneath himself to prop up on one side. With Riku's back to him and his cheek to the pillow, Vanitas can't tell directly what's changed. He could have dreamed whatever conversation he heard. ]
Bruce?
[ The one word encapsulating every question Vanitas isn't asking: What changed? Is he getting better? Has he woken up yet? ]
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The book lowers in his lap as one knee straightens out, as the pencil follows suit. Riku's eyes are barely open at all, as if he's hovering in the liminal space between wake and sleep. Maybe he is. He suspects that it isn't unlike having a fever, when the edges of reality become blurry and indistinct. The glass continues to wait for him but Bruce's voice becomes no louder.]
Vanitas saved your life.
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[ That's out of his mouth before he starts to realize that it's not what he means, not what happened the night after he met the boy holding onto some of his best friend's memories, not how Vanitas had drank up the darkness that Riku hadn't dared breathe, not even to himself. But more recently, when Riku got lost in the snowfall and followed his heart back to...
This place. The museum, the people in it. A place he had heard Bruce call home, a name that stuck.
Then that's not his own hip, which, yes, Riku had been concerned when he didn't actually feel his own hip when he thought he was touching it, that and it was at the wrong angle, and he's starting to put his thoughts back together in time for Vanitas to move and Bruce to explain. Riku doesn't pull his hand away like he's touched a hot brand, he doesn't recoil and that's partially because he's tangled up and weighed down by blankets and the lingering fatigue of his struggle through the blizzard. The rest is because it isn't Vanitas or Bruce he'd be embarrassed by or upset about - much more to do with the word he breathes. ]
Sorry.
[ His palm scrubs over his face once it's free of the layers of quilts, seeing the glint of light on the glass of water through his fingers and the pale veil of his own hair, he gets his knees under him, pushing himself upright to reach for it. Fresh, cooler air rushes into the cocoon of warmth and he instantly feels the bare skin of his legs pebble over. He looks down. ]
Where are my-
[ He looks sideways, where they widen, and cut away from Vanitas, reaching instead for the half-full glass of water. Words of gratitude are going to have to wait until he drains it - and recovers his composure. ]
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Either way, the fact he's speaking means that it's clear he's made it through the worst of it. Their lanterns cluster on the table off the side of the bed, and when Vanitas' eyes cut up to Riku's the shine of it is much brighter than it had been before— no longer guttering alarmingly in the shadows. Riku's fingers slip off his hipbone and a fresh gust of cool air rushes under the quilts. Only now does Vanitas realize that there's a thin sheen of sweat on the back of his neck under his hair, where all the body heat trapped under the blankets collected. ]
You should be.
[ Vanitas almost growls it as he follows suit to sit up, but some of that is because he's just woken up. ]
What a stupid way to die.
[ He scrubs his wrist against his eyes as he sits up more properly. Under the bed the soft sound of Unversed stirring float up before settling again. ]
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His huge eyes come up and he reaches suddenly for the glass in Bruce's hand- a glass he readily surrenders as he swallows the contents in huge, greedy gulps. It brings the corner of his mouth up into just a little bit more than the suggestion of a smile. He suspects that Riku isn't trying to quench his thirst as much as he's trying to avoid talking. But it isn't necessary, for how readily Vanitas fills the space. He sits up with a kind of unselfconsciousness that Bruce envies, and scrubs at his eyes with one wrist- managing somehow to keep scowling. So Bruce reaches for the nightstand once more and returns with a second, smaller glass of water to offer.]
Try to avoid losing too many of the blankets. It's still very drafty in here and the storm hasn't stopped.
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Seen snow before. Never like that.
[ He contemplates the cold and relentless fury of the blizzard, how the winds whipped the heat from him, and sinks onto his stomach. Clawing at the innermost blanket, he drags it up behind him, up over his nape. It means his bedraggled silver veils much of his expression, but the lantern light shows the gleam of his eyes as they sweep back over to Vanitas. He doesn't remember reaching the museum, so he comes to his own conclusion about what they meant. ]
You went out in that?
[ His elbows carve furrows in the mattress, he looks down at his hands, curling and uncurling his fingers, running them over each other and his knuckles. Feeling the cool air scrape wind-raw, frost-nipped skin, taking stock. ]
Don't take this the wrong way. I'm grateful... but you shouldn't... put yourself at risk because I was an idiot, Vanitas.
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[ He scoffs it after he's taken the glass from Bruce and drained half of it, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. ]
Bruce did, for all the good that did.
[ Riku has laid back down by the time Vanitas is able to level this criticism at him, scowling at the silver corona of his hair, his voice dripping with sarcasm and irritation. But even for the vitriol, the anger is rooted in something Vanitas isn't familiar with— fear for another person's safety. Tucked as he is under the blankets, with the quilt wedged down as some feeble barrier between them, Vanitas can't really see his face under the fringe of his silver hair. He's keenly aware of all the places they suddenly aren't touching, and where they had been before Riku woke up. ]
Maybe I should have left you in the lobby to teach you a lesson.
[ He's only half joking, because that's what his Master would have done. He drains the glass and hands it back over to Bruce. ]
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But Bruce is good at secrets, even small ones. He busies himself with setting the glasses back on the side table, one after the other. Besides, for the way his stomach knots, the sensation of being caught red-handed, he doesn't think his actions are entirely without criticism.]
I parked your bike around the side.
[The paper and pen continue to rest in his lap, where one of Bruce's knees is drawn up- a tent beneath the blankets that serves as a kind of desk. He touches the back of his hand to Riku's forehead instead, the skin there is warm and he's damp with sweat- but not feverish.]
How are you feeling? [His hand withdraws.] Would you like to shed one of the layers?
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Months ago, Riku wouldn't have had thoughts and concerns like this, he wouldn't have found a kind of comfort in knowing they're close. He wouldn't be struggling to wrest part of his thoughts from the column of warmth to either side, just on the other end of a flimsy barrier of dark quilting and how strange it had felt to wake the way he did. Strange and-
Nice.
Coincidentally, the image that flashes in Riku's mind when Vanitas says I should have left you and to teach you a lesson is not far from Vanitas's own. The vast desert, the blood on Vanitas's face. Xehanort was a callous and cruel Master, he's been thinking a lot about that since it happened, that dream. Would Xehanort have toiled for so long to mold Vanitas into someone hard and vicious if that was supposed to be Darkness's natural state? If left to grow on his own without Xehanort's influence, without the abuse and loneliness, he's pretty sure what they would have seen is something like...
What exists in the spaces between their traded words. The capacity to care, the hunger to connect. Human. ]
...Thanks. Now knock it off. No more reckless stunts. [ speak for yourself, Riku. ] At least until the storm passes.
[ Bruce's hand feels cooler, likely because Riku has remained more bundled up while he's sitting up against the head of his bed. It parts the curtain of his silver hair and he looks out through the gap, can't see around his palm so he looks down at the paper and pen instead. On its face, Bruce's questions are normal. He doesn't know what to make of the internal, but not unpleasant squirm. The King always said he was pretty bad at letting himself be taken care of, and worse at hiding how little he cares for it.
Then why doesn't he mind more? Perhaps there are some people he doesn't mind taking the lead, sometimes. Don't get used to it. ]
Mm.
[ He hums, noncommittal. ]
Hey. [ he tips his head in Vanitas's direction: ] Had enough? Gonna be okay if I take one of these off?
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Why are you asking me? You're the one that nearly froze to death.
[ Its a little sharper than he'd been a moment before, a reflexive defensive mechanism against the ache. Instead of waiting for Riku to make a choice, he snags the edge of the blankets and twitches them back enough to climb out of the bed.
Immediately the cold slaps him. He's only wearing one of Riku's shirts, and it barely skirts the top of his naked thighs; the combination of all that bare skin and sweat makes him give an involuntary full body shiver.
He bends just slightly to pick his tablet up from the table, flipping through all the messages he'd received when he put it down to put Soldier's advice to work. ]
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These words are meant for Vanitas, to serve as a kind of warning. This is part of the relationship between them- Bruce endeavors to provide knowledge where he can, to outline the expectations, and he allows Vanitas to make whatever choices he'd like without his influence. In the beginning his motivation had been understanding- a desire to confirm his nature. Vanitas has been a very vocal antagonist on the network, and he's never shown himself to be reluctant to engage in a fight. Bruce suspects that some of this recklessness is learned, that there has never been anyone to tip his scale in the opposite direction; but over time he's come to believe it's more than that. Self-preservation isn't just a natural instinct, it's nurtured by the people around someone. It grows from childhood.
Vanitas has learned that he is disposable.
Bruce doesn't shift from his position, propped up against the headboard. There are strange shapes drawn inside his notebook- modifications to a grappling hook. A small, jagged shape with measurements beside it indicating three inches in length. He watches Vanitas's face, then glances in Riku's direction.]
We'll need to keep an eye on him for a few days. But he'll have leeched our body heat. You're very susceptible to shock right now and the blizzard shows no sign of stopping.
[And then, because he suspects exactly how it will land-]
It can make you slow. And clumsy.
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