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
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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.
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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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Where do you think you're g-
[ That isn't why all the breath feels like it's been kicked from his lungs.
Riku is taller than Bruce but not by much, Vanitas is shorter than the both of them. The white shirt he wears is familiar and where it ends rests nearly level with Riku's eyes. He looks, his skin feels like it's grown tighter in a slow wave crawling from the base of his spine to his scalp. Of course he looks. Vanitas has an impressive and distressing collection of scars hidden in sleeves and protective clothing. The blankets are smothering and he's been sweating in the twin layers of shirt and jumper, yet his arms have pebbled over with goosebumps.
Vanitas bends a little to get his tablet and Riku, mortified, turns his face away, palming it in silence.
Bruce is speaking, sensibly, helpfully, which is more than Riku can say about himself. At once he feels like any attempt to tell him to come back is instantly suspect, but right on the edge of his awareness Vanitas is shaking in the cool air. His palm rasps over his mouth, then back up to rake his hair from his face. ]
Just get back to bed. It's already warm.
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His trust in Bruce, and that's truly what it is as this point, has been hard earned. Comparing Vanitas to something feral isn't that far off the mark, given the way he'd been forged.
He thinks they're exaggerating. Vanitas hadn't been hurt, why would he be suffering the consequences? But now that he's up, and Bruce is explaining evenly from where he still sits, Vanitas is realizing his mistake. The involuntary shudder has turned into a consistent, low grade shiver. Its annoying.
That doctor woman has left him a ridiculously huge message, and Vanitas swipes the notification away with blatant disregard. If she wants to go out in the blizzard, more power to her.
His eyes flick up to settle on the boys on the bed. Bruce's spine propped up and watching him over the silver scatter of Riku, who is rubbing his face like he's tired and not looking at him. The image is tempting. It makes something inside him, maybe his heart, squeeze with renewed longing. From under the bed, one of the Unversed creep out toward Vanitas' bare ankles.
Getting back under the covers with them is what he wants to do. From what they're saying, maybe they want him there too. It makes him feel complicated, and he drops his tablet back on the end table. ]
I have to pee.
[ He says unceremoniously, turning on heel and padding barefoot out of the room, both hands held in fists at his sides. ]
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And then there is Vanitas- quietly digesting the information he's been given, using it to fill in the blanks and explain his experiences. He looks at his tablet and then immediately casts it aside. His hands fist at his sides and if Bruce saw nothing else he would recognize what he's seeing in an instant. How often has he been at war with his own desires? How many times has he looked at something he wanted and been unable to give himself permission.
Maybe it's too soon. Vanitas says I have to pee and stalks out of the room without a backwards glance. It leaves Bruce exactly where he is, and it leaves Riku looking- somewhat mortified, with his hair fanned out over the pillow. His chin dips.] If you want to make a run for it now, he wouldn't be around as a witness.
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When Bruce addresses it, Riku's mouth drops open. This is one of those rare instances when Riku balks, and does so without the composure to try to suppress his reaction. ]
What? I'm not running. It's my bed.
[ Which Bruce is still occupying, a detail he continues to notice, like a burr stuck to his clothing. His repose looks natural, comfortable, composed. He frequently looks that way, and Riku's now seen it long enough to wonder if it's not as natural as it seems, but a thing long trained into him. A thing he practices, the same way Riku stuffs his feelings behind the invisible walls he puts up in his heart.
He's been staring. Riku has an elbow sunk into the mattress and the heel of that palm is against his forehead, fingers holding back his silver fringe. He exhales, eyebrows knitted together. Like he's about to ask a question, if he could only make himself say the words.
Is he looking to make a break for it too? Should he ask him to stay? Is that alright? He's someone who thinks a lot more than he speaks, so the questions and self-doubt start to pile up like sand rushing down the throat of an hourglass. Isn't it weird? It's one thing to mess around, but he remembers when he carried Bruce into this very building like he was a sack of sand on his shoulder, set him down and felt, for a long minute, like his hand had glued in place. Unwilling to move. Even now, he pushed that quilt down into the gaps between himself and the two of them on either side and he finds himself resenting his own decision.
His thoughts threaten to spin him into brooding silence, until one cuts through, calmly: I almost didn't make it. ]
...
[ The crease between his eyebrows starts to smooth out. That's right. He's died to get here, and the odds are not in his favor for coming back - Vanitas, for all of his, has been lucky. He wouldn't have lived to regret any of it, from never trying that paopu thing to what he left unsaid when Sora went away, to... never telling the people he cares about how he feels, the ways he isolates himself. ]
You don't have to do this. I don't need a babysitter. [ Riku reaches across the bedding, touching the corner of Bruce's notes, looking at the drawings. ] ...But I guess I'm glad you did.
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[Bruce is not incapable of cruelty, infact, it's always been the people closest to him that have paid the highest price- they've been, historically, the first casualties when he implodes. But it isn't his nature to reach for that first. He likes his privacy and he has a tendency to keep others at a distance, but instead of punishing people with aggression or callousness, the space grows largely because Bruce volunteers so little in turn. Because absence encourages both parties to withdraw.
All of this is to say that Bruce says what he does now with kindness. He doesn't coddle the people around him and perhaps that is largely owed to growing up in Gotham- when would anyone have time? What could that kind of protection ever mean? Instead it's his tendency to offer information and avenues of pursuit. In this moment it's because Riku looks embarrassed. Bruce doesn't understand the root of it yet, can only conjecture- but the obstacle that Vanitas might present is gone and if Riku wanted to be alone, there are a wealth of excuses he could offer.]
If you're overheating you can shed one of the layers, but I'll warn you that you're on warm liquids and bedrest for the next few days.
[One finger cuts through the pages, opening to a place that reveals two long columns of numbers: Riku's pulse and respiration. He makes no move to get up.]
I need to keep an eye on your heart rate.
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Riku has been pushing himself since he started training for the sake of his goal, the promise to himself that he'd become strong enough to protect what matters - protect the people most important to him. He knows the limits of his own body, can read the signs when he's overdone it, he's sore in a way that demands more sleep and promises clumsiness and a lack of coordination.
The last thing he wants is to concern them any more than they've worried already.
Even more personally significant is the presence and absence of the two whose heat he's leeched for his life. He doesn't want to keep taking, too guarded to give, to put down the walls he keeps erecting up around his own wounded heart, dreading the hurt that comes with losing again.
He watches Bruce, who keeps around himself a certain distance by giving little but only when it's personal, he gives so much of himself in the defense of others, reckless once he's decided to take action.
Wandering out into a blowing blizzard to bring back a bike.
(When he knows it wasn't what he was out there seeking.)
I want you to get better.
Notes on paper. Pulse-taking and foregoing sleep.
Sitting in the church, waiting for a man who wouldn't come.
A haunted stare at three place settings at a dinner table.
Riku puts his hand over the open page. ]
Who did you lose, Bruce?
[ Riku's downcast gaze, after a blink, fixes on Bruce. ]
Before Gordon?
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There's no hardening of his expression, his mouth doesn't become a firm line.
Bruce is very, very still.
Those words have a kind of weightlessness to them, the moment is suspended, every tiny detail frozen in place. The rise and fall of Bruce's chest is nearly invisible, even without the dark fabric of a shirt to protect him. Even with the absence of distance. He doesn't know where that question is supposed to begin or where it will end. People die every day, especially in Gotham. No one is safe. No one is invincible. And then, as if he seems to have just remembered that he has a body at all, that he lives inside of one and is bound by its limitations- his face turns away. It's too late to be considered an attempt to hide, there's no metaphorical closing of a door. His heart beats inside his stomach, a tight staccato.
It feels like danger.
It feels like he's under threat.]
My father was a doctor. [He says; its very even. Deliberately paced, deliberately weighed.] His medical books were always in the study.
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You're not a natural with people. I've seen a natural.
[ Without any other distractions, the stillness and silence are not... unusual for Bruce, nothing on the outside is terribly out of place. It's something else. A sense of unease in his heart. Something in the atmosphere darkens. He can smell it, a nameless, formless thing he only knows is Darkness.
He shouldn't press because it's none of his business. But if Bruce hadn't pursued him because it was none of his business, Riku would have surely died that night, and if someone foolishly sought to bring him back, he likely would have smashed his own lantern the moment he was able. This is not so dramatic a situation. There is no apparent danger.
There's a delicacy, nevertheless. ]
The few you let in you watch out for. Like a hawk. The lengths you go to? Usually, people don't.
[ His hand still rests on his notes, his fingertips are too weather beaten to be sensitive enough to feel the places where pressure on the point of a writing instrument have made indents in the pages. His fingers move, lifting off the paper, advancing a little in a subtle reach. It's easy to overlook. ]
Seems like you've lost someone very important to you.
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And though their loss has defined him in ways that are impossible to explain, they are not the only deaths he mourns. They were not the only murders he was witness to. It's the first time he's spoken about them at all since arriving in Beacon and even here, now- with no one but Riku to listen and nothing but sheets and steady snowfall- Bruce still handles them carefully. As if the subject alone were made of spun glass.
Maybe the trouble comes in the way it's framed.
Bruce is not the only child in Gotham to lose a parent, to end up orphaned, to seethe with rage for justice that would never come. He'd had the benefit of a home and a legacy in their absence. He'd had a huge manor and more money than he could ever need- he still had a safety net his father's name provided. He still had Alfred. Something moves out of sight within him, rows of shutters drawn closed. The book in his lap withdraws from Riku's hand, then closes. He doesn't consider himself exceptionable because of his pain, and the sentiment feels too near to the way Ra's al Ghul and Jeremiah Valeska lifted him up. They wanted read into him.
But at every turn Bruce had met more and more people that had been willing to help. That had no reason to. That had plenty to lose and nothing to gain.]
I think people can surprise you. If you let them.
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When he comes back into the makeshift bedroom its to this snapshot: Riku facing away, turned in to Bruce with one hand lifted in an incomplete gesture that Vanitas recognizes. The soft down turn of Bruce's eyes, looking back at him.
A surge if powerful jealousy goes through him, and if he'd been uncertain about his next move before, spite drives him forward. ]
Move over.
[ He barks, though they've hardly moved at all, and he marches directly to the bedside to all but dive back under the blankets. The radical change from cold to warm makes his skin prickle, and his over exuberance means he takes away the dividing barrier Riku had erected before. His cold feet find the other boy's calves as a result as Vanitas yanks the covers up to his throat. ]
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With Vanitas taking a dive into the bed to escape the cold, that's plenty distracting. Not only does his arrival bring cool air snaking into the shell of warmth he was in, but Vanitas's skin is chilly. His feet? Feel like ice. He lets out a throaty protest, immediately feeling goosebumps pebble up his legs and arms. It's a deliberate choice to push past his faux pas when Riku drops the full weight of one arm over the other boy's shoulders and upper back.
Someone else, and he might have seized Vanitas in a head lock, but he's mindful of how he was "raised", so other than to fold his arm over one shoulder, he doesn't try to grapple him. He does pull the pillow off the mattress and shove it at his head, however, in lieu of grinding his fist into his hair. It's boyish, companionable rough-housing, though he feels like Vanitas's feet have painted a cold stripe down his calves. ]
Revenge, is it? Like that's fair, you just had to walk down the hall.
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But Riku grabs him and the breath gusts out of Vanitas in subtle surprise. Immediately, he starts to tense— only to have the pillow dunked over his head. Where Vanitas might have reflexively started to fight back, he's reminded of something else— of the snow, of the beanie that was stolen, of the way he threw his arm around Vanitas' shoulder.
It's the most benign thing he could do, to wedge his hand up underneath Riku's arm and duck, squirming out and snatching the pillow to smack it back in Riku's face. ]
You're the moron that went out into it!
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But what's the harm, really? There are so few reasons to mess around anymore. Stealing a moment to act his age is maybe not owed to him, but he wants it anyway. Vanitas squirms out from under it and retaliates; Riku's bangs float back off his brow on the puff of breeze as his face catches the pillow. ]
Oh, that does it.
[ It isn't just an arm this time, it's an arm and a leg hooking around Vanitas's shoulders and still-chilly calves. Given even an inch and he'll take the whole mile, seeking to roll right over for the superior advantage of not being the one pinned. In the flare up of competitiveness, seems he's forgotten his earlier mortification, which is for the best, honestly. ]
Go ahead, try that again, I dare you!
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He twists at the last moment, turning like he's going to get off the bed— but Riku has him in a way that means he might actually have go hurt him to get away.
Vanitas, with a start, realizes that isn't something he wants to do. His body physically startles, and he disguises it by whapping at Riku over his shoulder repeatedly with the pillow, trying to smack him in the face with it. Riku has him half crushed under his broader torso, and Vanitas kicks him with the heel of one foot— or tries to. The whole process is pulling the blankets all over. ]
What are you going to do? Huh?!
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It wouldn't be the first time, and these two have a history where even now there are gaps in the explanation. But where the first punch might land or where the nightstand might be upended- instead a pillow gets thrown and blankets are tossed up all around him. Bruce's eyes widen in the moment before his brows come together. Sleepovers had never taken place inside Wayne Manor in his youth, and while he'd been a relatively well received child at schools and public functions, he'd never really had friends. Certainly not ones his own age.
He has no frame of reference for the playful wrestling that starts up beside him. But there's no need for him to intervene either. Bruce watches one leg go up. Watches a pillow get launched, someone kicks out and his calf is collateral damage. Their banter escalates and before he knows it, Bruce's expression has softened. He laughs, a quiet thing.]
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[ He uses one of his forearms as a shield between them, bearing down against Vanitas's hands, though the struggle hitches for a moment when the playful strain proves a little too much for the condition of his body. In the brief pause as Riku tries to ease up on the bow of his spine with a hiss, he hears it.
Riku turns to stare through the disheveled cascade of his silver hair at Bruce, his mouth caught somewhere between a thin grimace and a lopsided smile.
He's laughing.
After a moment, Riku hazards a glance at Vanitas, some unspoken comment of muted surprise. He doesn't think he's ever heard Bruce actually laugh. The rarity makes it powerful, unique. ]
Hey, what's so funny?
[ As if there isn't plenty to laugh about here. ]
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Vanitas and Riku are a tangle of naked limbs. The blankets are half tented around them but are pooling fast on the floor, where they'd been kicked off of the mattress. They're grappling with one another perhaps without knowing that that's what they're doing- without knowing why.
Bruce watches them as their movements slow, as the scuffle loses momentum, and he's still watching as the laughter winds out of him, runs itself out. Riku's eyes are very, very green beneath the curtain of his hair- and without explanation Bruce reaches out, and gently moves a stray strand away. Tucks it carefully behind one ear.]
Bedrest, remember?
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He's— laughing. And not the way Vanitas laughs, or even the way Riku can— but a contained, honest thing, soft around the edges. Confused, Vanitas' eyes dart to Riku, where their gazes meet briefly, before going back.
And then Bruce reaches out, pressing his fingers through the tangle of Riku's hair gone wild from sleep, from the tussle. From this angle, Vanitas can't see Riku's expression. Maybe he doesn't really have to. He might not have the personal experience, but Vanitas has been to other worlds. He's seen princes and princesses. He knows what he's looking at, even if he doesn't have the vocabulary to pare it down to what it means in it's truest sense.
Everything inside him goes still— a stretched out, static silence, that grows until he can't really think around it. Until he can't really even feel his own hands, or his own body. It translates in his expression: neutral and unreadable. ]
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