You didn't have to come all the way back. [ He says, not just to be contraryー again, "you could have stayed in Europe instead of flying back to check in on me".
But Diana smiles, and the space around her bends to smile with her. Caught in the crosshairs of her sincerity, Bruce flicks his gaze to the side, needing the extra breath to digest the eternity of understanding in the way she looks at people. Does it make him feel exposed, or secure? Hard to tell.
Anyway.
Enough being skittish. With Diana secured in the passenger's seat, it's a quick ride back to this world's sleeker, more modern, decidedly more tasteful version of Wayne Manor. Gotham flies past their tinted windows, labyrinthine and obscure and familiar, even despite the chirality of this version's with Bruce's. (Less rain. Less water in general.) ]
Staying the night?
[ Not actually his residence to offer, but he knows Bruce Prime won't mind. Bruce Prime is also out being the Batman tonight, so there's that, too. ]
[Which is the truth, mostly. She could have stayed another day, could have scouted out another few additions for the museum's collection, but none of it was particularly urgent. Besides, she has other responsibilities now that come before her dayjob--checking up on her teammates happens to be one of them. And she's happy to do it.
She doesn't miss how he looks away, and though her smile doesn't falter, she does let it fade away. A practiced move that looks natural. He needs time, and space, and she's willing and able to give him both. Coming to pick her up is a step, she's sure. The question is, towards what? It's for him to decide, really. All she can do is try to help guide him.
The city zips by, and she can see the bright spots that Bruce (both of them, all of them across the multiverse, she imagines) fights so hard for: a teenager helping an old woman with her groceries, a woman taking a box full of kittens with "free" scrawled on the side into her apartment. Shining gems refusing to drown in the darkness that threatens this city every day. They mean so much to him, just as they mean so much to her--they are the goodness that lives in mankind, the goodness worth fighting for.
She glances over to him, noting as her eyes pass the glowing instrument panel that there are some buttons that don't appear standard on this car. Of course it has a few tricks. She shouldn't be surprised.]
If there's room.
[Sometimes Victor stays over, sometimes Barry or Arthur, too. Clark never does, not when he has Lois to go home to. There are enough rooms in the manor, but not all of them are ready yet, with the ongoing rebuilding efforts. She would never dream of usurping someone else's bed. Besides, there are plenty of hotels in the city she could get a room at--she's fairly certain Bruce even owns some of them, nearly guaranteeing her a room. But if she's honest with herself, she'd rather stay in the manor, close to them all. That's a recent change, one that had surprised her--she's always valued her privacy. But it doesn't bother her so much, with them.
Also, the mansion is huge, so it's fairly easy to disappear for a while if she has to.]
[ She could've spent another day in beautiful, sunny Europe getting laid, and yet. Bruce will never let Diana give him shit for self-sacrifice if she's going to keep doing this to herself, whatever this is.
They stop at a red light. A mother holds her elementary-school son's hand, and laughs at how he hops from white stripe to white stripe as they cross the street. Bruce leans back in the driver's seat, expression obscured by the strong backlight of Gotham's nightlife, unreadable. ]
There's room.
[ With conviction, punctuated by a flit of his focus to the passenger's seat. He can't tell if Diana is trying to be playful with the non-question, if she is truly Not Aware that there's always going to be a space for her, and if she isn't, how anyone could have failed to give her that memo.
Engines flare back to life, the light turns green, and they rumble on. Bruce does not engage the hyperdrive, or whatever that conspicuously suspicious big button on the dashboard is (don't tell Bruce Prime, but sometimes Bruce Two thinks that his use of his wealth is, hm, a bit Extra). ]
I'd tell you not to make checking in on me a habit, but I won't flatter myself.
[He leans back into the shadows, finding a home in them. She doesn't take it personally. Instead, her eyes return to the road ahead, tracking from one person, one sign, one building to the next. Taking in everything despite their speed. She doesn't know this city as well as either of them, but it doesn't stop her from trying to.]
Then I'm staying.
[A simple answer that closes the topic. She doesn't say for how long, trusting herself to know when it's time to go. Nobody would ever ask her to go, and she loves them for it, but knows the company grates after a while. Again, she doesn't take it personally. She's too old for that.
Diana doesn't try to hide her surprise at his comment, brows rising and lips parting slightly. Less who do you think you are? and more, I can't believe you've said this aloud. Of course she's checking up on him; she checks up on all of them. Even Clark, whose fiancée's and mother's eyes never stray too far from him nowadays. She checks up on Barry, who burns through his clothes faster than she can replace them; she checks on Arthur, a fledgling king who doesn't know the meaning of diplomacy; even Victor, who is on such a different level from the rest of them that sometimes she doesn't know what she's checking for, other than making sure he remembers that he is human.
Of course she checks on Bruce, the both of them now, holed up in that mansion with their gadgets and nocturnal sleep cycles. At least the older one is still maintaining appearances, attending the occasional gala or fundraiser, buying a restaurant now and then. But this Bruce--still young and raw--has none of that. And she isn't about to just ignore it.
Surprise gives way to--something else. Her brows draw together, the corners of her lips turn down. She reaches for that cool calm she's spent a hundred years crafting, perfecting, wielding to keep herself from feeling exactly this way.
Disappointed. Not in him, but that he doesn't want her help. And she can do nothing if he doesn't invite her in.
Her expression smooths, her eyes remain on the road. Her tone is placid, conversational, silk sliding over steel.]
And yet you've told me anyway.
[It won't stop her, of course it won't. But she's acknowledging it anyway.]
[ Fingers tighten imperceptibly around the grip of his steering wheel, knuckles white around their ridges. Something in him reacts poorly to Diana's diplomacy, to the graceful way she fends off his serrated response; he understands that it's because he recognizes it as a concession, as the stiff-shouldered resignation that Alfred always braces himself with whenever Bruce pushes back, when the sharpness of Bruce's anger makes Alfred's empathy bleed.
He stalls in front of another red light. Back then, in his world, cloistered in what might've been his guardian's hospital-room-turned-sepulcher, he'd said that he doesn't give a fuck what happens to himself, and that's still true. Hurting himself, fineー occupational hazards.
Hurting someone else, though. Terrifying. Not with fists or clever little gadgets, no, but with the hollow of his emotions; maybe that's why Bruce Prime is the way he is now, open-armed faith and all. Still awkward and distant, but Working On It.
Horns honk behind him. Right. Driving. ]
Force of habit. [ "I consistently feel the need to remind people that I'm bad company, and I know it's offputting." There's a sorry in there, as he starts moving again.
Not in the direction of Wayne Manor, though. Slight detour; Diana might notice the sudden left turn in the direction of Gotham's waterfront. No explanation, and no attempt at smalltalk until he rolls the car to a halt where the edge of Gotham meets the sprawling body of water surrounding it, bright lights in the distance from all the bridges that segment and connect the city to the continent, to its other compartments.
He gets out. Moves to the passenger seat, where he pops that door open, too. ] Things worth seeing, [ he finally ventures, ] before you tell me about yours.
[He doesn't take the light's cue, and she slides her gaze his way. On the outside, nothing seems to have changed; but she doesn't think she's imagining the new line of tension that seems to vibrate through his whole being, ready to snap. The honking breaks through her quiet observation, and whatever thoughts are spinning through his head.
Force of habit. She reads the apology in his words, buried not-so-deep. And it slowly melts that icy barrier she's put up, letting her relax in her seat. She's content to sit back into the expensive cushion of the passenger's side, silently watching the streets go by until they turn down one that doesn't match up with the route in her head. Her posture doesn't change, but she's instantly more alert, wondering where he's taking her, and why. She doesn't have to wait long, and her eyes track him as he moves around the car to open her door. Alfred should be proud.
Diana waits for him to speak, and once he does, that chill around her heart dissipates completely. She stands beside him, eyes drifting across the rippling water, sensing no immediate danger from its depths. When her dark eyes finally return to him, they're full of warmth, and most of all, the desire to understand.]
Show me.
[Agreement, to see whatever it is he wants to show her. She trusts that it will be something that helps her know him just a little bit better.]
[ Not-so-secret: he hates being Bruce Wayne. Gotham is just as much of a cape and cowl as his alias, his mask; there's a comfort in settling into familiar vices and dark corners. Distantly, Bruce recalls the platitude about things that only a parent can love, and maybe that's the way he feels about the city he's decided to pour his identity into.
(Psychiatrists will call it projection, probably.)
This Gotham isn't his, but it feels the same. Same drug, different strain. It makes Bruce less awkward in its shadows, stacks his spine a little straighter when he leads Diana from car to waterside, scuffed shoes walking a confident trajectory along cracked concrete. He doesn't offer to take her hand, but the sentiment nestles in how he looks over his shoulder, dark eyes mindful of where Diana is stepping.
Neurotic. Careful. Slightly sentimental. He leads Diana to a picturesque shot right out of "Manhattan" (a movie that may or may not exist with a different title in this universe): a lone park bench looking into the river surrounding Gotham, glittering lights from adjacent bridges casting firework-fragments of red and gold against dark waters. Outlines of the fluorescent skyline stretch to their right and left, inexorable. It's all artificial, imposing, and most of allー
ーoverwhelmingly triumphant. A beacon of a city, prevailing against its odds.
After a slow inhale and exhale to orient himself in this space, Bruce gestures for Diana to sit. She's the best of them, and deserves the best seat in the proverbial house. ]
Gotham feels bigger when you're in it. [ He offers, quietly. Such a small sliver of a bigger world, and it humbles him to think how hard it's been to protect it. ]
[The way he carries himself through the gloom brings a splinter of envy to her chest. Taking to the shadows has never truly suited her; Amazons are born to shine, to love, to lead by example. But walking through this world alone, separated from her people, had made hiding a necessity. There's always been a wound on her soul for it, one that has only recently started to heal after the birth of the League. Even still in its fledgling stages, being a part of something makes her feel like she can breathe easy again.
She knows it isn't the same for all of them, not yet. But she truly hopes it will be.
Diana follows where he leads, heart warming at the way he looks back, holds consideration for her. It's small, but so meaningful in her eyes. A step in the right direction. She sees the skyline come into view, solidifying out of the slight mist over the water, but it doesn't truly come into focus until she settles on the bench. And then she looks, really looks at this city, trying to see it through Bruce's eyes--this Bruce, who is both a stranger to and a son of this city. Her hands rest in her lap as she drinks it in without blinking, gaze roving from one end of the bank to the other.
And it takes her breath away, for the first time.
Even this far away, she can feel the pulse of the city, faint but still strong. Still going, despite it all. In spite of it all, more like. She exhales slowly, tilting her head back to look up at him.]
Because you love it. [Of course he does. And it's a love that has transcended realities, a thought that fills her with wonder, and hope.]
[ "Love" sounds warm, carried on Diana's voice. That one syllable possesses a brand of clarity that he doesn't have, not yet.
It must be agonizing for her, to feel so much for so many things, so deeply. To convert that agony into affection takes a strength of character that he's still only attempting to understand; it compels him to open his mouth, when he'd normally choose to answer in silence. ]
It's what's been left to me.
[ By people who were beloved to him made sacrosanct by death, who are perfect even in their newly-discovered imperfections. Gotham is a mark of their love, and Bruce can't bear to see it destroyedー it's the only thing he has of them left.
(A scared, angry young man with clawed hands, gripping at the vestiges of his stability with bleeding nails. One day, he'll learn to love the League like this; strangely, and wholly.)
He doesn't sit. Kind of just. Hovers around like a wraith by Diana's side, marveling at her a little. She's anomalous and divine, and yeah, she's beautiful. What of it. ]
Like your homeland.
[ Admitting to some snooping, about her and the outlines of what anyone knows about Themyscira, which is very little. ]
[His response lands like a blow, and she curls her fingers into her jeans to keep from standing, from wrapping him in her arms. She doesn't know if they're there yet, and doesn't want to break the tenuous line of their conversation. This is a tightrope, and she feels that one misstep, one misspoken word, will send her tumbling back to square one. Instead, she settles for extending her hand to briefly touch the back of his, a small gesture to let him know that she's heard him, she sees him and this city for what it means to him.
The way he stands, watching both her and the city across the water in turn, doesn't bother her. He's a man caught in-between, and hasn't yet found where he fits into this particular world. And that's alright. He can take as much time as he needs. She's got him--they've got him.
Diana's hand settles back in her lap, and a little smile finds her lips.]
I'll tell you about it, if you'd like.
[Barry is the only one who's ever asked her outright about Themyscira; Clark and Victor are too polite, Arthur knows enough from his own people's histories to satisfy any curiosity he might have, and the Bruce of this world is... well, he's Bruce. He'd only pry if he felt like he had to. Thus far, he hasn't. And she's never offered up any information because some selfish part of her has always wanted to keep her memories of her beloved homeland safe, a secret just for her. But by bringing her here, he's shared a small, sacred part of his heart with her, and it feels right that she do the same.]
a penthouse hotel suite is not that difficult for someone like the batman to gain access to when the bulk of security is focused on the usual means of entry — key-card access elevator, a security detail in the private foyer at the top of it, the best kind of reinforcement that money can buy — and not, say, the admittedly still locked balcony doors that overlook the city. an ashtray, and a few long burned out cigarette butts sit on the table out there, all other evidence of occupation tidied away inside.
through those doors, the suite is quiet, and for the most part, just as tidy. dishes have been rinsed out and set aside for house-keeping in the suite's kitchen, where putin's food and water bowls are as well, gwen's belongings are put away rather than strewn haphazardly around her temporary spaces. music is still playing, quiet, from the lounge; paperwork related to the wynne-york gotham projects covers the dining table, as well as some sheet music, and photographs of various venues that she's begun drawing on in sharpie to get an idea of what they will be.
no gwen, in the bed. putin onaritz is sleeping there, over the top of the otherwise undisturbed bedding, sprawled out large enough that she might have trouble figuring out where to put herself as well even in a california king. his collar and harness are both hanging on the back of the door with her coats (one bruce has seen; three he hasn't). he shows no signs of having been disturbed at all, no distress, though he's too good a guard dog not to begin to stir at the slow, silent interruption of a stranger in the space.
the suite's vault is also located in the bedroom, closed and locked but the curtain that would hide it pulled open.
the door between the bedroom and the en suite is open, wide enough for putin to have easily moved between the two, and a flickering light remains within. there, the last of a dozen burning down tea-light candles is preparing to give up the ghost, casting its dying light into the mirror and reflecting strangely around the room. here, things are less impersonally neat; gwen's robe draped over a plush seat at the vanity, a small cosmetics bag spilled out onto the marble bench and her perfume bottle there, too. que sais-je, again. an unopened bottle of valentina by valentino beside it. the jewelry she removed, a diamond bracelet that matches the earrings next to it, much more delicate than the art deco engagement ring in its open ring-box. a pendant, a single diamond on a long chain attached to a thin choker.
the room has the heavy smell of burned down wax, not unpleasant, and something crisper from the water.
in the water,
the bathtub is enormous. enough to fit five people of bruce's size, nevermind one of only gwen's; it is deep, sunken into the floor with steps down into it, a mosaic of tiles at the bottom depicting a,
it's difficult to say. at the bottom of the bathtub, peacefully on her side, gwen breaks up the image with her body; her hair floats a shadow of curls around her head. the tattoo on her thigh is more clearly visible, a black ribbon tied in a knot with its two strands hanging down the side. through the still water, she might only be sleeping. it has a calm, steady, unbroken surface,
[ Still water, soft music. The interior of the penthouse suite is a revelation in tasteful extravagance, vertigo-inducing view and all: an incoming early summer thunderstorm clouds the Gotham skyline, splitting the light-polluted night into two weighted tiers, precarious on the edge of its potential weeping.
Bruce is a broken-off piece of that distant rain, sweeping over carpet and marble with the grace of a natural disaster, if more focused than one. He doesn't look twice at the jewelry or the accoutrements that comprise the entirety of the space, even if he notes the choices with the distant curiosity of a man who likes to play I Spy; he takes his chances with the open-doored bedroom and the sleeping behemoth that would, he knows, beeline for his jugular if given the chance, given the silence of the suite everywhere else.
Inhabited, but unoccupied. First impressions don't bode well.
It is an eventuality, then, that the Bat finds Gwenaëlle Wynne-York submerged in the pit of her pool-turned-bathtub, hair like vines winding over mosaics, a revelation in beauty and morbidity. Limbs curled in repose, toes relaxed in cold (he assumes, without having the insane inclination to touch to make sure) water like a butterfly cast in amber. The serenity of the tub's surface never breaks; Bruce watches for minutes that stretch like eons for pockets of air to drift from the corner of Gwen's shapely mouth, and understands, distantly, that they won't.
Alright, he thinks, because he is a man who knows that irrationality of the world waits for no one to adjust to it. Alright, he thinks, because he knows that things aren't alright.
Dead, then, he thinks, because so many people are.
He does not move to pull the body out of its tomb, nor does he start thinking of the declension of events that led to a young woman's untimely demise, not yet; the first thing he does is walk back out to the balcony, lean the small of his back against the balcony landing, and call Jim Gordon on a burner phone.
Penthouse suite, he murmurs. Gives an address to the groggy-sounding detective on the other side, who Bruce can hear between shifting sheets, sleep-slow breath breaking the ambient noise of an otherwise peaceful night. Who is this?, Jim Gordon asks, and Bruce terminates the call. Breaks the cell phone in half, pocketing both pieces in his utility pouch to dispose of later.
The Bat doesn't do well with tragedies. Jim Gordon is Gotham PD's finest, whose work is unimpeachable by virtue of his empathy; Bruce, heels teetering along the edge of round-carved railings, looks over his shoulder into the warm light of the hotel room, and is hit with the olfactory memory of Que Sais-je.
He jumps. A siren wails nearby. Suspended between heaven and hell, Bruce thinks about water (it's always water now, rain and harbors and bathtubs), and opens up his investigation into the Wynne-Yorks, their enemies and their detractors. ]
or, rather, the commotion that fully wakes putinka, harried out of the last of his dregs of sleep by the sound of an argument in the penthouse foyer — gotham's finest, the wynne-york's personal security, the former winning but not quickly — and roused into vocal outrage that pulls gwen surging to the surface, sweeping her hair back from her face, bewildered. the voices filter in, then, and by the time the door has burst open (at least it hasn't been burst through) she's pulled on a robe and is knotting it closed as she emerges, demanding in the most strident tones she has at her disposal,
alright, maybe not the most strident tones she has at her disposal,
what the fuck they think they're playing at.
her appearance renders the exercise— somewhat farcial. gotham pd is not one hundred percent sure what they were looking for, only that it had been considered urgent and even moreso after being informed at the front desk to whom the suite belonged; gordon, delivered an urgent warning about a foreign socialite whose philanthropic efforts locally have made waves? no one had said body, yet, but they hadn't really needed to up until the point at which she wanted an explanation.
she lets them search the place, looking for signs of intrusion, of surveillance; she asks pointed questions about why they're there and who gave them the address and if anyone in this godforsaken city has heard of knocking.
(they did knock. putinka was already barking, by that point.)
apologies are rendered to her, but hand-in-hand with the apologetic news that it would probably be best if she came down to the station in the morning, just for a conversation, she's not in any trouble, of course — someone either had reason for concern, or wanted people to think there was, and that in itself can't just be ignored. gwen, who would certainly like the police to stay out of her business, would love to pretend to ignore it,
she agrees, before closing the door behind them and letting her security detail do their own sweep before leaving her alone. )
Okay, ( she says, quietly, sinking her fingers into putinka's thick fur, ) okay. How about I stay in here with you, tonight.
( no formal report was ever filed with the metropolitan police, but rumours of something happening to her in london have dogged gwen for years, now; missing for less than 24 hours but still, long enough to be remarkable, especially when she'd been a recluse for months afterwards. the mid-point of 2015, gwen had been in the wind as far as public appearances went; it coincided with the wynne-yorks tightening their personal security substantially.
the team she travels with now, hand-picked by felix guilfoyle, are a staple since then. not before. the rumours were fueled by further murmurings that her godfather, septimus beauchamp, had reached out to a private investigator friend of his...but that had gone no where, too, and in the absence of answers there had been newer, more interesting gossip to question, instead.
in contrast to his daughter's ability to go dark for months at a time, emeric wynne-york is too easy to look into; most people like him, unless he's recently fucked their wife, and even most of the fights (physical, usually, but occasionally in the press) he's got into over the years have been made up sooner than later, though he's remained notably cool towards his daughter's highest profile ex-boyfriend, a UK installation artist and short film director about fifteen years her senior with a Twiggy-era supermodel for a mum and an assault charge from the time he took to one of mum's beaus with a tire iron.
wes lode signed a contract with gwen last year to use some of the poetry she wrote about him and several photoshoots they did together in an upcoming project of his; he and gwen still follow each other on instagram, though her account is impersonal and sparsely used. it might not mean much. who's to say.
gwen, maybe. to gordon personally, possibly, because the very wealthy don't like to be woken up in the dead of night by the police. she does text a selfie she took behind one of them rifling through her closet, throwing up a peace sign by her cheekbone, to a friend: )
GPD going through my knicker drawer. I'm a real Gothamite now.
ーhas fucked things up, somewhere. Breaking news. Call it growing pains, call it oversight, call it whatever; a fuckup is a fuckup, and it occurs to him sometime between the hours of 5 to 7 am, deep in his insomnia-driven investigation in a sea of files and dossiers, fingers poised over the sunken keys of his mania-worn keyboard.
The flat-panel television behind him starts playing the Gotham morning news. Painted smiles, filed nails, kitschy mugs reading "I ♥ GOTHAM". Bruce listens to pleasant tenors drone on about Bella Reál ("she's really been stepping up!"), joke about the waterlogged state of the city's downtown ("too soon?"), list names and operations linked to the now-deceased Carmine Falconeー
ーand never discuss, in hushed or theatrically melancholy tones, the untimely demise of a young socialite in her uptown hotel suite.
Unusual.
Bruce always has a low-grade connection to Gotham's tossing and turning: if Batman is how he establishes direct communications with the details of the city's secrets, Bruce Wayne is how he steps back and sees them in broader strokes. Cramped fingers gripped against the edge of his work desk, Bruce stretches his legs and watches the goings-on fade in and out of the news cycle, hollowed eyes reading headline after headline, until he decides...
...that he doesn't have sufficient information to make any cogent call.
(She wasn't breathing, he thinks to himself. There was water, and it was still, and everything felt, without touching anything, so fucking cold.)
Alfred follows Bruce's quick trot up from basement to ground level, offering breakfast just to hear his ward refuse it. The only semblance of normalcy they've managed to maintain.
Bruce asks for Alfred to call Miss Wynne-York, and this time, instead of raising a brow, his surrogate father looks at him with tired, resigned affection. It says everything that Alfred never needs to say out loud: "You're doing that thing to yourself that you're not going to like, again."
Of course, is what Alfred concedes, and Bruce looks over his shoulder, still remembering the burn-sears that cut across Alfred's skin.
Thank you, Bruce says like a prayer, and retreats into the safety of his room, leaving the man he trusts most in his life to make his awkward phone call for him. ]
( it's a brief phonecall — gwen answers it herself, harried and audibly irritated, though she makes a point of assuring mr pennyworth that she isn't annoyed with him, of course, it's just— would he mind terribly if she called him back—
her morning is just really not what she expected it to be. he understands, doesn't he. here, guilfoyle has just arrived, he'll take the call, pass a number on, she'll be in touch just as soon as she can.
it's a popular hotel — one of the few unaffected by the flooding damage — so while gwen does not, in and of herself, necessarily generate headlines now that she definitely isn't a corpse, several photographs are captured of her in the morning being hustled out of the lobby, her great dog's leash in hand, a security detail in a tight phalanx around her, and all of her luggage being removed to decamp immediately from this location. a text pings through to whatever number alfred had been convinced to give up by felix: )
Hi, I won't be reachable at the hotel any more. This number is fine.
( the office space, she complains to guilfoyle; he arranges for the rental of a townhouse with its own private office, a location that feels easier to control and secure than a hotel, although it's closer to the ground than either of them would strictly speaking like. a compromise. she leaves it with him, spending more of her day than she would like drinking shitty police coffee in a shitty police precinct, listening to what is increasingly sounding to her like after-the-fact justification for harassment.
she can't tell if the sincere concern — and it is sincere concern — is for her, or the prospect that she's going to rain hell down on them for wasting her time. or some mixture of the two: that she's going to lawyer up and demand all of their badges, only for them to turn out to have been right to worry in the first place. it's that that holds her off, although she texts a friend in the UK, )
Do your brother or your husband speak American cop?
( and gets back the prompt response, )
Sweetie, Bel and Monty barely speak London cop. What's going on?
That seems like an unfair assessment. Nothing. Don't tell your sister I texted you. Thanks, anyway, Lo.
Don't talk to the filth without a lawyer, sweetie. Call me if you change your mind.
( it's good advice, if weird to get from the wife of a detective inspector, little sister of a brother in homicide — but lo was from gotham before the morrays adopted her, gwen remembers, so maybe she will call her. later. later.
she does not allow the officers to convince her that her dog doesn't need to be there. she convinces them that he does, and they let it be. )
[ The entirety of Gotham PD is caught in a bureaucratic clusterfuck, and Jim Gordon bears the brunt of the publicity-and-paperwork-related nightmare. A martyr for the cause, an example of what happens when a man and his heart takes one too many midnight calls too seriously. He runs the usual gauntlet, is dressed down in the same utilitarian police patois that boils down to "when are you going to get your head out of your ass" (Gordon, wisely, parrots the same question in his mind, and keeps the reciprocal derision in his pocket); the tabloids will have a field day with this one, he thinks, but whether they'll run with the incompetency of an already fragmented system or go with "visiting socialite may be caught up in more hidden agendas unearthed in Gotham" is for them to find out in the span of a very short time.
Bruce listens to the hubbub through an earpiece, awake from his 2-hour morning sleep cycle. (What, you think he doesn't have at least half of the precinct wired?) Barely had to ask Alfred to call Ms. Wynne-York to come to the conclusion that she really isn't dead.
Which is bizarre.
He scratches MEDICAL CONDITION on a piece of paper, and tucks it into his quickly-expanding dossier full of clippings, printouts, photographs. In all his research, he doesn't find a single thing about mysterious drownings in Gwen's periphery, or, in fact, much in the way of the family's medical histories at all. Bruce does not have to consult with WebMD about conditions which inspire people to sleep in water without breathing for prolonged periods of time; no quick Google search will give him anything meaningful about that particular abnormality.
(Maybe he should read a book. Indulge in literature. Think outside of the strict confines of logic and reason.
He isn't quite there, yet.)
Bruce receives Gwen's message, but he leaves her, impossibly, on read. As if the entire city isn't humming with news of her, and as if his attention shouldn't, very rightly, be on her safety or on concepts adjacent. First red flag: is he just ignorant, or does he not give a fuck?
It's long after the sun's begun to set and Bruce has started to prune his insane conspiracy board that he finally sends a message back. ]
Long day for you.
[ Yeah, Captain Fucking Obvious. He is sitting, cross-legged, on the floor of his study, with MEDICAL CONDITION circled 5 times on the crumpled paper next to his knee.
( it has been a long day, and gwen's been so focused on dealing with it that by the time her phone buzzes with a text back from bruce wayne she's nearly forgotten that she texted him in the first place. the scrutiny on her is not familiar — she's used to existing at the edges of that kind of attention, not merely content to be in someone else's public shadow but preferring it, and navigating it as something in any way relevant to her does not come naturally.
it doesn't seem strange to her that she's not at the top of his priority list. she's pretty sure she has no idea what that guy's priorities look like, and that he prefers it that way; they've met a handful of times and she's obviously fine. probably, he assumes that she has it under control.
not that someone assuming that has never bothered her—not that she hasn't been unwarrantedly petulant in the face of having her competence assumed when what she wanted was to be fussed over regardless—
but whatever's going on with bruce and whatever interest she has in whatever's going on with bruce is complicated, and she's found herself unexpectedly with kind of a lot on her plate. she'd set it aside as a less pressing issue she could get back to later (what, the guy who haunts wayne tower and is physically pained by interpersonal interaction and facial expressions is going to go somewhere?), and assumed he'd done much the same about her. besides, he doesn't seem like the type to fuss over anyone. it's probably not one of the, generous estimate, five things his face can do if pressed.
and while everyone else has been tripping over their dicks to get in her way and make getting to the bottom of this harder, now that she looks down at her phone she has the equal parts affectionate and uncharitable thought that it probably took him all day to figure out how to express whatever it is he thinks he's expressing. concern, maybe, or interest. she tucks her foot beneath herself on the sofa, taking her stylus out of her mouth where she'd been zoned out into space to tap out a reply, and discards the idea that he might have agonized over whether or not it's his business. that also doesn't seem like something that bruce wayne really concerns himself with. maybe he had to pitch drafts to pennyworth, does this sound normal to you?
she is not entirely aware that she's smiling as she responds, )
Finally, a proper welcome to the city.
( yes, she does think she's hilarious, thanks for playing. )
I meant to get back to you and Mr Pennyworth sooner, but as I understand half the fucking city is now aware, something came up.
[ Armor is censure, almost as much as a name and a title and a legacy is; Bruce has been sitting here for the past however-the-fuck-many hours, hunched over the outlined sketch of Gwenaëlle Wynne-York written in paper and print, trying to seeー really seeー the shape of her in all of these blank spaces.
Invasive. It occurs to him between sending the text and receiving her reply, that this entire ordeal is a massive infraction on an individual's privacy, and that there are appropriate emotional repercussions to it, some of which may contribute to future patterns of anger and resentment stamped into the strings of Gwen's cello.
She may think she's hilarious, yes. But Bruce thought she was dead (let it fucking go, Bruce). He is aware that she is not aware, and that this playacting requires a lot of bullshitting on both sides.
They are both far too tired for this. And yet. ]
I heard rumors that you were dead.
[ There are Layers to this statement. (Definitely not proofread by Alfred, who would've deleted it and told him to try again, dumbass.) On one hand: he is the one that fucking started this rumor. One the other: she is not dead, and ha ha, isn't this a funny and morbid thing to say to someone who's spent the entire day in the illustrious company of the GPD? On the hypothetical third hand: "ok, but why aren't you dead, and don't ask me why I'm asking."
Whatever dimension they're playing this game of chess on, Bruce doesn't like it. He's also the one that set the pieces up, so. Eat shit, Bruce Wayne. He stretches on the floor of his sitting room, still wearing the same pajama sweats and T-shirt he slept in during the morning, rubbing tension out of his cramped shoulders. ]
So did I, and if I find the cunt that started that rumour I'm going to have incredibly stern words with them.
( when.
she means when.
whether or not stern words is a euphemism remains to be seen, but hey: appearances have been well-established, at this point, to be deceiving. and when was the last time someone led with 'cunt' and followed it up with 'to whom it may concern'. maybe, at best, 'to the cunts it may concern'.
actually, gwenaëlle might start a letter like that, so nevermind— )
The worst part is, I've always slept terribly and I was actually managing to get a decent night here lately but nothing will fuck that quite like having half a dozen incompetent wankers in uniform barge through your door at three in the morning.
[ Papers shift, and Bruce skids back, shoulderblades to the flat of a wall. Gwen's hypothetical threat to his wellbeing is earned; he's not worried about it. Insteadー
ー"A decent night", he reads, and rereads. ]
Sorry to hear that. Especially since your hotel's known for updating their mattresses regularly.
[ Harmless banter, "sorry for your lack of sleep". Implicit, though, is his assumption that she should've been sleeping on those ridiculously-luxe mattresses, which is a weird as fuck thing to point out? Maybe? What do normal people talk about when they're not trying to surreptitiously gather intel about them, but in a well-meaning way?
(It's not that he doesn't care; he does. People are allowed to exist beyond his notice, beyond the realm of his understanding, because god forbid he deny anyone their secrecy, their masks. Butー
ーhe thinks of water and her pale limbs, her music, her bare-boned life history. How much of Gwen's life is hers, and not a footnote for something, someone else?) ]
[While Gotham is a city whose character seems to be enhanced by the night, every now and then, a new detail is added, nothing big in the scheme of things, but it makes itself noticed, like a spot of red paint, or a shift in the light.
There's a message that appears on what's supposed to be a dead phone.]
HELLO!!! I have a request!!! I don't know if this is gonna work, but this is the number I got to work with And if you're unsure about this Midnight Grind, boss speaking here Thank you for taking care of my employee 😚😚😚
[ Gotham is a pulse-made-physical: undulating, frenetic, and skipping the occasional beat. Strangeness is part and parcel of its existence. Messages to dead phones are perfectly tame, comparatively.
Bruce gives the message a once-over. Considers ignoring it, given that the request neither seems urgent nor something that he needs to take care of, specifically (what can a Bat do for the proprietor of a cafe?), but.
Best to keep his bases covered. Hindsight is always 20-20. ]
She always says she can take care of herself, but I know better!! I am the BOSS!!! 😤😤😤
[Frantic. Energetic. Barely a few lines and they are all very loud. Very boss-like behavior.]
So anyway We've been getting a lot of customers from Gotham and one of them I'm kind of worried about Probably a criminal, but not a bad guy if that makes sense? I want to look for him with your help! Cause apparently, according to my employee, "He seems like he would have a manic pulse on that sort of thing."
[ Very energetic. Not at all like the placid young woman he'd met before, her calm like still water, her troubles like congealed mud on seabed. ]
You didn't think to contact authorities?
[ Funny inclination, that. Preferring to ring a strange man in a costume before trusting the police, which, hm. Kind of fair, considering everything one knows about the Gotham PD and its recent stint with corruption. ]
[Some people would go "ACAB, BABY!!" Iona is a bit more roundabout than that.]
Considering that I run a very off-the-grid business establishment, I'd rather keep my interactions with authorities between 0 and the bare minimum as possible. Cause if I get entangled, so do my employees and that's the last thing I want.
[It's sincere and honest. She lays out her answer, plainly and with little deceit behind them.]
That and I wanted to meet you!! The customers were talking about the man in a bat suit and I thought, "Wow, neat!"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
[ tfln - DIANA. ]
You didn't have to come all the way back. [ He says, not just to be contraryー again, "you could have stayed in Europe instead of flying back to check in on me".
But Diana smiles, and the space around her bends to smile with her. Caught in the crosshairs of her sincerity, Bruce flicks his gaze to the side, needing the extra breath to digest the eternity of understanding in the way she looks at people. Does it make him feel exposed, or secure? Hard to tell.
Anyway.
Enough being skittish. With Diana secured in the passenger's seat, it's a quick ride back to this world's sleeker, more modern, decidedly more tasteful version of Wayne Manor. Gotham flies past their tinted windows, labyrinthine and obscure and familiar, even despite the chirality of this version's with Bruce's. (Less rain. Less water in general.) ]
Staying the night?
[ Not actually his residence to offer, but he knows Bruce Prime won't mind. Bruce Prime is also out being the Batman tonight, so there's that, too. ]
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My business there was concluded.
[Which is the truth, mostly. She could have stayed another day, could have scouted out another few additions for the museum's collection, but none of it was particularly urgent. Besides, she has other responsibilities now that come before her dayjob--checking up on her teammates happens to be one of them. And she's happy to do it.
She doesn't miss how he looks away, and though her smile doesn't falter, she does let it fade away. A practiced move that looks natural. He needs time, and space, and she's willing and able to give him both. Coming to pick her up is a step, she's sure. The question is, towards what? It's for him to decide, really. All she can do is try to help guide him.
The city zips by, and she can see the bright spots that Bruce (both of them, all of them across the multiverse, she imagines) fights so hard for: a teenager helping an old woman with her groceries, a woman taking a box full of kittens with "free" scrawled on the side into her apartment. Shining gems refusing to drown in the darkness that threatens this city every day. They mean so much to him, just as they mean so much to her--they are the goodness that lives in mankind, the goodness worth fighting for.
She glances over to him, noting as her eyes pass the glowing instrument panel that there are some buttons that don't appear standard on this car. Of course it has a few tricks. She shouldn't be surprised.]
If there's room.
[Sometimes Victor stays over, sometimes Barry or Arthur, too. Clark never does, not when he has Lois to go home to. There are enough rooms in the manor, but not all of them are ready yet, with the ongoing rebuilding efforts. She would never dream of usurping someone else's bed. Besides, there are plenty of hotels in the city she could get a room at--she's fairly certain Bruce even owns some of them, nearly guaranteeing her a room. But if she's honest with herself, she'd rather stay in the manor, close to them all. That's a recent change, one that had surprised her--she's always valued her privacy. But it doesn't bother her so much, with them.
Also, the mansion is huge, so it's fairly easy to disappear for a while if she has to.]
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They stop at a red light. A mother holds her elementary-school son's hand, and laughs at how he hops from white stripe to white stripe as they cross the street. Bruce leans back in the driver's seat, expression obscured by the strong backlight of Gotham's nightlife, unreadable. ]
There's room.
[ With conviction, punctuated by a flit of his focus to the passenger's seat. He can't tell if Diana is trying to be playful with the non-question, if she is truly Not Aware that there's always going to be a space for her, and if she isn't, how anyone could have failed to give her that memo.
Engines flare back to life, the light turns green, and they rumble on. Bruce does not engage the hyperdrive, or whatever that conspicuously suspicious big button on the dashboard is (don't tell Bruce Prime, but sometimes Bruce Two thinks that his use of his wealth is, hm, a bit Extra). ]
I'd tell you not to make checking in on me a habit, but I won't flatter myself.
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Then I'm staying.
[A simple answer that closes the topic. She doesn't say for how long, trusting herself to know when it's time to go. Nobody would ever ask her to go, and she loves them for it, but knows the company grates after a while. Again, she doesn't take it personally. She's too old for that.
Diana doesn't try to hide her surprise at his comment, brows rising and lips parting slightly. Less who do you think you are? and more, I can't believe you've said this aloud. Of course she's checking up on him; she checks up on all of them. Even Clark, whose fiancée's and mother's eyes never stray too far from him nowadays. She checks up on Barry, who burns through his clothes faster than she can replace them; she checks on Arthur, a fledgling king who doesn't know the meaning of diplomacy; even Victor, who is on such a different level from the rest of them that sometimes she doesn't know what she's checking for, other than making sure he remembers that he is human.
Of course she checks on Bruce, the both of them now, holed up in that mansion with their gadgets and nocturnal sleep cycles. At least the older one is still maintaining appearances, attending the occasional gala or fundraiser, buying a restaurant now and then. But this Bruce--still young and raw--has none of that. And she isn't about to just ignore it.
Surprise gives way to--something else. Her brows draw together, the corners of her lips turn down. She reaches for that cool calm she's spent a hundred years crafting, perfecting, wielding to keep herself from feeling exactly this way.
Disappointed. Not in him, but that he doesn't want her help. And she can do nothing if he doesn't invite her in.
Her expression smooths, her eyes remain on the road. Her tone is placid, conversational, silk sliding over steel.]
And yet you've told me anyway.
[It won't stop her, of course it won't. But she's acknowledging it anyway.]
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He stalls in front of another red light. Back then, in his world, cloistered in what might've been his guardian's hospital-room-turned-sepulcher, he'd said that he doesn't give a fuck what happens to himself, and that's still true. Hurting himself, fineー occupational hazards.
Hurting someone else, though. Terrifying. Not with fists or clever little gadgets, no, but with the hollow of his emotions; maybe that's why Bruce Prime is the way he is now, open-armed faith and all. Still awkward and distant, but Working On It.
Horns honk behind him. Right. Driving. ]
Force of habit. [ "I consistently feel the need to remind people that I'm bad company, and I know it's offputting." There's a sorry in there, as he starts moving again.
Not in the direction of Wayne Manor, though. Slight detour; Diana might notice the sudden left turn in the direction of Gotham's waterfront. No explanation, and no attempt at smalltalk until he rolls the car to a halt where the edge of Gotham meets the sprawling body of water surrounding it, bright lights in the distance from all the bridges that segment and connect the city to the continent, to its other compartments.
He gets out. Moves to the passenger seat, where he pops that door open, too. ] Things worth seeing, [ he finally ventures, ] before you tell me about yours.
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Force of habit. She reads the apology in his words, buried not-so-deep. And it slowly melts that icy barrier she's put up, letting her relax in her seat. She's content to sit back into the expensive cushion of the passenger's side, silently watching the streets go by until they turn down one that doesn't match up with the route in her head. Her posture doesn't change, but she's instantly more alert, wondering where he's taking her, and why. She doesn't have to wait long, and her eyes track him as he moves around the car to open her door. Alfred should be proud.
Diana waits for him to speak, and once he does, that chill around her heart dissipates completely. She stands beside him, eyes drifting across the rippling water, sensing no immediate danger from its depths. When her dark eyes finally return to him, they're full of warmth, and most of all, the desire to understand.]
Show me.
[Agreement, to see whatever it is he wants to show her. She trusts that it will be something that helps her know him just a little bit better.]
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(Psychiatrists will call it projection, probably.)
This Gotham isn't his, but it feels the same. Same drug, different strain. It makes Bruce less awkward in its shadows, stacks his spine a little straighter when he leads Diana from car to waterside, scuffed shoes walking a confident trajectory along cracked concrete. He doesn't offer to take her hand, but the sentiment nestles in how he looks over his shoulder, dark eyes mindful of where Diana is stepping.
Neurotic. Careful. Slightly sentimental. He leads Diana to a picturesque shot right out of "Manhattan" (a movie that may or may not exist with a different title in this universe): a lone park bench looking into the river surrounding Gotham, glittering lights from adjacent bridges casting firework-fragments of red and gold against dark waters. Outlines of the fluorescent skyline stretch to their right and left, inexorable. It's all artificial, imposing, and most of allー
ーoverwhelmingly triumphant. A beacon of a city, prevailing against its odds.
After a slow inhale and exhale to orient himself in this space, Bruce gestures for Diana to sit. She's the best of them, and deserves the best seat in the proverbial house. ]
Gotham feels bigger when you're in it. [ He offers, quietly. Such a small sliver of a bigger world, and it humbles him to think how hard it's been to protect it. ]
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She knows it isn't the same for all of them, not yet. But she truly hopes it will be.
Diana follows where he leads, heart warming at the way he looks back, holds consideration for her. It's small, but so meaningful in her eyes. A step in the right direction. She sees the skyline come into view, solidifying out of the slight mist over the water, but it doesn't truly come into focus until she settles on the bench. And then she looks, really looks at this city, trying to see it through Bruce's eyes--this Bruce, who is both a stranger to and a son of this city. Her hands rest in her lap as she drinks it in without blinking, gaze roving from one end of the bank to the other.
And it takes her breath away, for the first time.
Even this far away, she can feel the pulse of the city, faint but still strong. Still going, despite it all. In spite of it all, more like. She exhales slowly, tilting her head back to look up at him.]
Because you love it. [Of course he does. And it's a love that has transcended realities, a thought that fills her with wonder, and hope.]
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It must be agonizing for her, to feel so much for so many things, so deeply. To convert that agony into affection takes a strength of character that he's still only attempting to understand; it compels him to open his mouth, when he'd normally choose to answer in silence. ]
It's what's been left to me.
[ By people who were beloved to him made sacrosanct by death, who are perfect even in their newly-discovered imperfections. Gotham is a mark of their love, and Bruce can't bear to see it destroyedー it's the only thing he has of them left.
(A scared, angry young man with clawed hands, gripping at the vestiges of his stability with bleeding nails. One day, he'll learn to love the League like this; strangely, and wholly.)
He doesn't sit. Kind of just. Hovers around like a wraith by Diana's side, marveling at her a little. She's anomalous and divine, and yeah, she's beautiful. What of it. ]
Like your homeland.
[ Admitting to some snooping, about her and the outlines of what anyone knows about Themyscira, which is very little. ]
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The way he stands, watching both her and the city across the water in turn, doesn't bother her. He's a man caught in-between, and hasn't yet found where he fits into this particular world. And that's alright. He can take as much time as he needs. She's got him--they've got him.
Diana's hand settles back in her lap, and a little smile finds her lips.]
I'll tell you about it, if you'd like.
[Barry is the only one who's ever asked her outright about Themyscira; Clark and Victor are too polite, Arthur knows enough from his own people's histories to satisfy any curiosity he might have, and the Bruce of this world is... well, he's Bruce. He'd only pry if he felt like he had to. Thus far, he hasn't. And she's never offered up any information because some selfish part of her has always wanted to keep her memories of her beloved homeland safe, a secret just for her. But by bringing her here, he's shared a small, sacred part of his heart with her, and it feels right that she do the same.]
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50 million years later...!! sorry for the late, feel free to drop it 🙏
no worries! i just got back from vacation so your timing is impeccable
✨!! hope you had a great vacation!!
i did, thank you!
it's time to cause problems.
a penthouse hotel suite is not that difficult for someone like the batman to gain access to when the bulk of security is focused on the usual means of entry — key-card access elevator, a security detail in the private foyer at the top of it, the best kind of reinforcement that money can buy — and not, say, the admittedly still locked balcony doors that overlook the city. an ashtray, and a few long burned out cigarette butts sit on the table out there, all other evidence of occupation tidied away inside.
through those doors, the suite is quiet, and for the most part, just as tidy. dishes have been rinsed out and set aside for house-keeping in the suite's kitchen, where putin's food and water bowls are as well, gwen's belongings are put away rather than strewn haphazardly around her temporary spaces. music is still playing, quiet, from the lounge; paperwork related to the wynne-york gotham projects covers the dining table, as well as some sheet music, and photographs of various venues that she's begun drawing on in sharpie to get an idea of what they will be.
no gwen, in the bed. putin onaritz is sleeping there, over the top of the otherwise undisturbed bedding, sprawled out large enough that she might have trouble figuring out where to put herself as well even in a california king. his collar and harness are both hanging on the back of the door with her coats (one bruce has seen; three he hasn't). he shows no signs of having been disturbed at all, no distress, though he's too good a guard dog not to begin to stir at the slow, silent interruption of a stranger in the space.
the suite's vault is also located in the bedroom, closed and locked but the curtain that would hide it pulled open.
the door between the bedroom and the en suite is open, wide enough for putin to have easily moved between the two, and a flickering light remains within. there, the last of a dozen burning down tea-light candles is preparing to give up the ghost, casting its dying light into the mirror and reflecting strangely around the room. here, things are less impersonally neat; gwen's robe draped over a plush seat at the vanity, a small cosmetics bag spilled out onto the marble bench and her perfume bottle there, too. que sais-je, again. an unopened bottle of valentina by valentino beside it. the jewelry she removed, a diamond bracelet that matches the earrings next to it, much more delicate than the art deco engagement ring in its open ring-box. a pendant, a single diamond on a long chain attached to a thin choker.
the room has the heavy smell of burned down wax, not unpleasant, and something crisper from the water.
in the water,
the bathtub is enormous. enough to fit five people of bruce's size, nevermind one of only gwen's; it is deep, sunken into the floor with steps down into it, a mosaic of tiles at the bottom depicting a,
it's difficult to say. at the bottom of the bathtub, peacefully on her side, gwen breaks up the image with her body; her hair floats a shadow of curls around her head. the tattoo on her thigh is more clearly visible, a black ribbon tied in a knot with its two strands hanging down the side. through the still water, she might only be sleeping. it has a calm, steady, unbroken surface,
no air. )
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Bruce is a broken-off piece of that distant rain, sweeping over carpet and marble with the grace of a natural disaster, if more focused than one. He doesn't look twice at the jewelry or the accoutrements that comprise the entirety of the space, even if he notes the choices with the distant curiosity of a man who likes to play I Spy; he takes his chances with the open-doored bedroom and the sleeping behemoth that would, he knows, beeline for his jugular if given the chance, given the silence of the suite everywhere else.
Inhabited, but unoccupied. First impressions don't bode well.
It is an eventuality, then, that the Bat finds Gwenaëlle Wynne-York submerged in the pit of her pool-turned-bathtub, hair like vines winding over mosaics, a revelation in beauty and morbidity. Limbs curled in repose, toes relaxed in cold (he assumes, without having the insane inclination to touch to make sure) water like a butterfly cast in amber. The serenity of the tub's surface never breaks; Bruce watches for minutes that stretch like eons for pockets of air to drift from the corner of Gwen's shapely mouth, and understands, distantly, that they won't.
Alright, he thinks, because he is a man who knows that irrationality of the world waits for no one to adjust to it. Alright, he thinks, because he knows that things aren't alright.
Dead, then, he thinks, because so many people are.
He does not move to pull the body out of its tomb, nor does he start thinking of the declension of events that led to a young woman's untimely demise, not yet; the first thing he does is walk back out to the balcony, lean the small of his back against the balcony landing, and call Jim Gordon on a burner phone.
Penthouse suite, he murmurs. Gives an address to the groggy-sounding detective on the other side, who Bruce can hear between shifting sheets, sleep-slow breath breaking the ambient noise of an otherwise peaceful night. Who is this?, Jim Gordon asks, and Bruce terminates the call. Breaks the cell phone in half, pocketing both pieces in his utility pouch to dispose of later.
The Bat doesn't do well with tragedies. Jim Gordon is Gotham PD's finest, whose work is unimpeachable by virtue of his empathy; Bruce, heels teetering along the edge of round-carved railings, looks over his shoulder into the warm light of the hotel room, and is hit with the olfactory memory of Que Sais-je.
He jumps. A siren wails nearby. Suspended between heaven and hell, Bruce thinks about water (it's always water now, rain and harbors and bathtubs), and opens up his investigation into the Wynne-Yorks, their enemies and their detractors. ]
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or, rather, the commotion that fully wakes putinka, harried out of the last of his dregs of sleep by the sound of an argument in the penthouse foyer — gotham's finest, the wynne-york's personal security, the former winning but not quickly — and roused into vocal outrage that pulls gwen surging to the surface, sweeping her hair back from her face, bewildered. the voices filter in, then, and by the time the door has burst open (at least it hasn't been burst through) she's pulled on a robe and is knotting it closed as she emerges, demanding in the most strident tones she has at her disposal,
alright, maybe not the most strident tones she has at her disposal,
what the fuck they think they're playing at.
her appearance renders the exercise— somewhat farcial. gotham pd is not one hundred percent sure what they were looking for, only that it had been considered urgent and even moreso after being informed at the front desk to whom the suite belonged; gordon, delivered an urgent warning about a foreign socialite whose philanthropic efforts locally have made waves? no one had said body, yet, but they hadn't really needed to up until the point at which she wanted an explanation.
she lets them search the place, looking for signs of intrusion, of surveillance; she asks pointed questions about why they're there and who gave them the address and if anyone in this godforsaken city has heard of knocking.
(they did knock. putinka was already barking, by that point.)
apologies are rendered to her, but hand-in-hand with the apologetic news that it would probably be best if she came down to the station in the morning, just for a conversation, she's not in any trouble, of course — someone either had reason for concern, or wanted people to think there was, and that in itself can't just be ignored. gwen, who would certainly like the police to stay out of her business, would love to pretend to ignore it,
she agrees, before closing the door behind them and letting her security detail do their own sweep before leaving her alone. )
Okay, ( she says, quietly, sinking her fingers into putinka's thick fur, ) okay. How about I stay in here with you, tonight.
( no formal report was ever filed with the metropolitan police, but rumours of something happening to her in london have dogged gwen for years, now; missing for less than 24 hours but still, long enough to be remarkable, especially when she'd been a recluse for months afterwards. the mid-point of 2015, gwen had been in the wind as far as public appearances went; it coincided with the wynne-yorks tightening their personal security substantially.
the team she travels with now, hand-picked by felix guilfoyle, are a staple since then. not before. the rumours were fueled by further murmurings that her godfather, septimus beauchamp, had reached out to a private investigator friend of his...but that had gone no where, too, and in the absence of answers there had been newer, more interesting gossip to question, instead.
in contrast to his daughter's ability to go dark for months at a time, emeric wynne-york is too easy to look into; most people like him, unless he's recently fucked their wife, and even most of the fights (physical, usually, but occasionally in the press) he's got into over the years have been made up sooner than later, though he's remained notably cool towards his daughter's highest profile ex-boyfriend, a UK installation artist and short film director about fifteen years her senior with a Twiggy-era supermodel for a mum and an assault charge from the time he took to one of mum's beaus with a tire iron.
wes lode signed a contract with gwen last year to use some of the poetry she wrote about him and several photoshoots they did together in an upcoming project of his; he and gwen still follow each other on instagram, though her account is impersonal and sparsely used. it might not mean much. who's to say.
gwen, maybe. to gordon personally, possibly, because the very wealthy don't like to be woken up in the dead of night by the police. she does text a selfie she took behind one of them rifling through her closet, throwing up a peace sign by her cheekbone, to a friend: )
GPD going through my knicker drawer. I'm a real Gothamite now.
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ーhas fucked things up, somewhere. Breaking news. Call it growing pains, call it oversight, call it whatever; a fuckup is a fuckup, and it occurs to him sometime between the hours of 5 to 7 am, deep in his insomnia-driven investigation in a sea of files and dossiers, fingers poised over the sunken keys of his mania-worn keyboard.
The flat-panel television behind him starts playing the Gotham morning news. Painted smiles, filed nails, kitschy mugs reading "I ♥ GOTHAM". Bruce listens to pleasant tenors drone on about Bella Reál ("she's really been stepping up!"), joke about the waterlogged state of the city's downtown ("too soon?"), list names and operations linked to the now-deceased Carmine Falconeー
ーand never discuss, in hushed or theatrically melancholy tones, the untimely demise of a young socialite in her uptown hotel suite.
Unusual.
Bruce always has a low-grade connection to Gotham's tossing and turning: if Batman is how he establishes direct communications with the details of the city's secrets, Bruce Wayne is how he steps back and sees them in broader strokes. Cramped fingers gripped against the edge of his work desk, Bruce stretches his legs and watches the goings-on fade in and out of the news cycle, hollowed eyes reading headline after headline, until he decides...
...that he doesn't have sufficient information to make any cogent call.
(She wasn't breathing, he thinks to himself. There was water, and it was still, and everything felt, without touching anything, so fucking cold.)
Alfred follows Bruce's quick trot up from basement to ground level, offering breakfast just to hear his ward refuse it. The only semblance of normalcy they've managed to maintain.
Bruce asks for Alfred to call Miss Wynne-York, and this time, instead of raising a brow, his surrogate father looks at him with tired, resigned affection. It says everything that Alfred never needs to say out loud: "You're doing that thing to yourself that you're not going to like, again."
Of course, is what Alfred concedes, and Bruce looks over his shoulder, still remembering the burn-sears that cut across Alfred's skin.
Thank you, Bruce says like a prayer, and retreats into the safety of his room, leaving the man he trusts most in his life to make his awkward phone call for him. ]
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her morning is just really not what she expected it to be. he understands, doesn't he. here, guilfoyle has just arrived, he'll take the call, pass a number on, she'll be in touch just as soon as she can.
it's a popular hotel — one of the few unaffected by the flooding damage — so while gwen does not, in and of herself, necessarily generate headlines now that she definitely isn't a corpse, several photographs are captured of her in the morning being hustled out of the lobby, her great dog's leash in hand, a security detail in a tight phalanx around her, and all of her luggage being removed to decamp immediately from this location. a text pings through to whatever number alfred had been convinced to give up by felix: )
Hi, I won't be reachable at the hotel any more. This number is fine.
( the office space, she complains to guilfoyle; he arranges for the rental of a townhouse with its own private office, a location that feels easier to control and secure than a hotel, although it's closer to the ground than either of them would strictly speaking like. a compromise. she leaves it with him, spending more of her day than she would like drinking shitty police coffee in a shitty police precinct, listening to what is increasingly sounding to her like after-the-fact justification for harassment.
she can't tell if the sincere concern — and it is sincere concern — is for her, or the prospect that she's going to rain hell down on them for wasting her time. or some mixture of the two: that she's going to lawyer up and demand all of their badges, only for them to turn out to have been right to worry in the first place. it's that that holds her off, although she texts a friend in the UK, )
Do your brother or your husband speak American cop?
( and gets back the prompt response, )
Sweetie, Bel and Monty barely speak London cop. What's going on?
That seems like an unfair assessment. Nothing. Don't tell your sister I texted you. Thanks, anyway, Lo.
Don't talk to the filth without a lawyer, sweetie. Call me if you change your mind.
( it's good advice, if weird to get from the wife of a detective inspector, little sister of a brother in homicide — but lo was from gotham before the morrays adopted her, gwen remembers, so maybe she will call her. later. later.
she does not allow the officers to convince her that her dog doesn't need to be there. she convinces them that he does, and they let it be. )
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Bruce listens to the hubbub through an earpiece, awake from his 2-hour morning sleep cycle. (What, you think he doesn't have at least half of the precinct wired?) Barely had to ask Alfred to call Ms. Wynne-York to come to the conclusion that she really isn't dead.
Which is bizarre.
He scratches MEDICAL CONDITION on a piece of paper, and tucks it into his quickly-expanding dossier full of clippings, printouts, photographs. In all his research, he doesn't find a single thing about mysterious drownings in Gwen's periphery, or, in fact, much in the way of the family's medical histories at all. Bruce does not have to consult with WebMD about conditions which inspire people to sleep in water without breathing for prolonged periods of time; no quick Google search will give him anything meaningful about that particular abnormality.
(Maybe he should read a book. Indulge in literature. Think outside of the strict confines of logic and reason.
He isn't quite there, yet.)
Bruce receives Gwen's message, but he leaves her, impossibly, on read. As if the entire city isn't humming with news of her, and as if his attention shouldn't, very rightly, be on her safety or on concepts adjacent. First red flag: is he just ignorant, or does he not give a fuck?
It's long after the sun's begun to set and Bruce has started to prune his insane conspiracy board that he finally sends a message back. ]
Long day for you.
[ Yeah, Captain Fucking Obvious. He is sitting, cross-legged, on the floor of his study, with MEDICAL CONDITION circled 5 times on the crumpled paper next to his knee.
Seriously, what the hell. ]
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it doesn't seem strange to her that she's not at the top of his priority list. she's pretty sure she has no idea what that guy's priorities look like, and that he prefers it that way; they've met a handful of times and she's obviously fine. probably, he assumes that she has it under control.
not that someone assuming that has never bothered her—not that she hasn't been unwarrantedly petulant in the face of having her competence assumed when what she wanted was to be fussed over regardless—
but whatever's going on with bruce and whatever interest she has in whatever's going on with bruce is complicated, and she's found herself unexpectedly with kind of a lot on her plate. she'd set it aside as a less pressing issue she could get back to later (what, the guy who haunts wayne tower and is physically pained by interpersonal interaction and facial expressions is going to go somewhere?), and assumed he'd done much the same about her. besides, he doesn't seem like the type to fuss over anyone. it's probably not one of the, generous estimate, five things his face can do if pressed.
and while everyone else has been tripping over their dicks to get in her way and make getting to the bottom of this harder, now that she looks down at her phone she has the equal parts affectionate and uncharitable thought that it probably took him all day to figure out how to express whatever it is he thinks he's expressing. concern, maybe, or interest. she tucks her foot beneath herself on the sofa, taking her stylus out of her mouth where she'd been zoned out into space to tap out a reply, and discards the idea that he might have agonized over whether or not it's his business. that also doesn't seem like something that bruce wayne really concerns himself with. maybe he had to pitch drafts to pennyworth, does this sound normal to you?
she is not entirely aware that she's smiling as she responds, )
Finally, a proper welcome to the city.
( yes, she does think she's hilarious, thanks for playing. )
I meant to get back to you and Mr Pennyworth sooner, but as I understand half the fucking city is now aware, something came up.
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Invasive. It occurs to him between sending the text and receiving her reply, that this entire ordeal is a massive infraction on an individual's privacy, and that there are appropriate emotional repercussions to it, some of which may contribute to future patterns of anger and resentment stamped into the strings of Gwen's cello.
She may think she's hilarious, yes. But Bruce thought she was dead (let it fucking go, Bruce). He is aware that she is not aware, and that this playacting requires a lot of bullshitting on both sides.
They are both far too tired for this. And yet. ]
I heard rumors that you were dead.
[ There are Layers to this statement. (Definitely not proofread by Alfred, who would've deleted it and told him to try again, dumbass.) On one hand: he is the one that fucking started this rumor. One the other: she is not dead, and ha ha, isn't this a funny and morbid thing to say to someone who's spent the entire day in the illustrious company of the GPD? On the hypothetical third hand: "ok, but why aren't you dead, and don't ask me why I'm asking."
Whatever dimension they're playing this game of chess on, Bruce doesn't like it. He's also the one that set the pieces up, so. Eat shit, Bruce Wayne. He stretches on the floor of his sitting room, still wearing the same pajama sweats and T-shirt he slept in during the morning, rubbing tension out of his cramped shoulders. ]
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( when.
she means when.
whether or not stern words is a euphemism remains to be seen, but hey: appearances have been well-established, at this point, to be deceiving. and when was the last time someone led with 'cunt' and followed it up with 'to whom it may concern'. maybe, at best, 'to the cunts it may concern'.
actually, gwenaëlle might start a letter like that, so nevermind— )
The worst part is, I've always slept terribly and I was actually managing to get a decent night here lately but nothing will fuck that quite like having half a dozen incompetent wankers in uniform barge through your door at three in the morning.
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ー"A decent night", he reads, and rereads. ]
Sorry to hear that. Especially since your hotel's known for updating their mattresses regularly.
[ Harmless banter, "sorry for your lack of sleep". Implicit, though, is his assumption that she should've been sleeping on those ridiculously-luxe mattresses, which is a weird as fuck thing to point out? Maybe? What do normal people talk about when they're not trying to surreptitiously gather intel about them, but in a well-meaning way?
(It's not that he doesn't care; he does. People are allowed to exist beyond his notice, beyond the realm of his understanding, because god forbid he deny anyone their secrecy, their masks. Butー
ーhe thinks of water and her pale limbs, her music, her bare-boned life history. How much of Gwen's life is hers, and not a footnote for something, someone else?) ]
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rooftops and night air
There's a message that appears on what's supposed to be a dead phone.]
HELLO!!!
I have a request!!!
I don't know if this is gonna work, but this is the number I got to work with
And if you're unsure about this
Midnight Grind, boss speaking here
Thank you for taking care of my employee 😚😚😚
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Bruce gives the message a once-over. Considers ignoring it, given that the request neither seems urgent nor something that he needs to take care of, specifically (what can a Bat do for the proprietor of a cafe?), but.
Best to keep his bases covered. Hindsight is always 20-20. ]
She took care of herself fine.
What do you need?
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I am the BOSS!!! 😤😤😤
[Frantic. Energetic. Barely a few lines and they are all very loud. Very boss-like behavior.]
So anyway
We've been getting a lot of customers from Gotham and one of them I'm kind of worried about
Probably a criminal, but not a bad guy if that makes sense?
I want to look for him with your help!
Cause apparently, according to my employee, "He seems like he would have a manic pulse on that sort of thing."
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You didn't think to contact authorities?
[ Funny inclination, that. Preferring to ring a strange man in a costume before trusting the police, which, hm. Kind of fair, considering everything one knows about the Gotham PD and its recent stint with corruption. ]
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Considering that I run a very off-the-grid business establishment, I'd rather keep my interactions with authorities between 0 and the bare minimum as possible.
Cause if I get entangled, so do my employees and that's the last thing I want.
[It's sincere and honest. She lays out her answer, plainly and with little deceit behind them.]
That and I wanted to meet you!!
The customers were talking about the man in a bat suit and I thought, "Wow, neat!"
[And there's that too.]