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.]
[ For once, his hands are ungloved: there are splits in his knuckles from recent late-night prowling, some old cuts that have healed into discolorations that look like fault lines. The sudden touch to his skin doesn't inspire a recoil, but it does tip his gaze from city to fingers, at the spot where Diana's fingers skim over him, rainwater-gentle.
It almost looks like he doesn't understand. Recognition comes slowly, and he turns his hand over to brush fingertips to Diana's palm before he retracts. A spiritual thank-you, maybe, for her offer, even if he wasn't looking for reciprocity.
(Alfred, Don Mitchell's orphaned son, Selina, and now, Diana. If only he could do more for any of them, if only he could make the world make sense for them.) ]
This wasn't meant to be a transaction.
[ A disclaimer that might've sounded more jagged if Bruce'd tried. Instead, it manages to sound hesitant, like he has his hand pressed up against a glass wall, and he's trying to see how much pressure he can apply until it gives. Still starkly aware that he's not their Bruce, not the Bruce Wayne that saved the entire planet Earth from imminent destruction (kind of puts his Reddit slapfight with Riddler into perspective); he's not sure how much of Diana he's allowed to know, especially if Victor or Barry or even Clark, a God amongst men, don't know certain things about her. Toes, stepping on them, etc. ]
[As the moments pass and her thoughts progress, she becomes more and more certain that sharing this piece of her life with him is the right thing to do. Because wasn't she in a similar situation, once? Misplaced from the world she knew, trying to learn how to simply exist among people she didn't know anything about. Her heart bleeds for him anew, and she can no longer sit still. Diana stands, moving towards the railing that separates them from a drop into the bay. She speaks as she walks, gesturing with one hand for him to follow.]
I wouldn't have offered if it was.
[She finds herself saying different variations of the same thing fairly often. I wouldn't have said I'd help if I wasn't willing, and I wouldn't have come if I didn't want to. It always seems to catch people off guard, the way she gives herself them; but Amazons are taught never to accept a task they cannot handle, or are unwilling to complete. If something can be done by someone else who is both willing and able to do it, then it is better off in their hands.
Diana simply finds that she has the time and inclination to fulfill most requests made of her. Not only out of duty, but also out of, yes, love. Even after all this time, that is still the strongest force in her life, and it has never steered her wrong.
Themyscira is precious to her; she can see clearly now that sharing a piece of it with someone else will not make it less so. It is her story to tell, her life to give. And she wants to give that piece to Bruce.]
[ He doesn't immediately follow Diana when she moves, and uses his vantage point to watch how her outline melds into the cityscape around them, how her posture transcends the artificial horizon that the water makes. Funny, how she doesn't allow Bruce the comfort of his addiction to isolation, and funnier still, that he doesn't resent his inability to retreat into it.
Cutting across the thin strip of grass separating the bench from the water, Bruce hovers just to Diana's left. His attention swims, Gotham to night sky to the woman next to him, before finally setting on his own hands, battered, curled around cool metal railing. ]
Alright.
[ Why is he the one making the concession? What a dingus. He catches himself and his lack of social grace, and huffs through his nose. ]
I'd like to hear it.
[ Rephrase. This world's Bruce should teach him a thing or two about being a socialite, orー well. Wearing the veneer of one, at least. Wearing less eyeliner, too. ]
[She's in no rush. The one thing Diana has always had plenty of is time, and she's willing to give it to anyone who needs it. Her own hands rest lightly atop the railing, eyes locked on the shimmering city before them. She's seen countless skylines over the past century, but she knows that she will never forget this one.
A little smile curves her lips at his words, and she thinks on where to start. There is so much to say about her beloved island, and five thousand years of memories to get through. So she starts with the basics: Diana tells him of the forests, the springs, the white-sand beaches. She tells him about the open-air markets, the artisans, and, briefly, about the palace where she spent her childhood and the barracks where she spent the better part of her adult life. She loses herself in her own words, but snaps back to reality after a little while.
Her heart feels lighter, her soul elated. But she feels heat high on her cheeks, and glances at him from the corner of her eye.]
I miss it.
[And, in a rare show of true vulnerability, there's open longing in her voice. She has duties, responsibilities in this world--she usually can't afford to show this kind of weakness. But in this semi-darkness, lit only by the moon above and the neon across the water, she feels... like she gets a pass, just this one time. She doesn't have to have the weight of the world on her shoulders right now. She can just be Diana, talking about a home she hasn't seen in a hundred years. A home she is now certain she will never see again. And while she's accepted that as truth, it hasn't become much easier to bear.]
[ For the few minutes he spends in the company of Diana's words, Bruce sees the world from her eyes: azure oceans, verdant forests, baked sand. He catches himself squinting through an invisible sunbeam halfway into her recollections, his eyes shielding against a light that isn't there. After a stretch of silence, Diana confesses that she misses it, and he thinks, of course she does.
He exhales a breath that he didn't know he was holding. His eyes peel away from the middle distance they'd been trained on, somewhere between Gotham and Themyscira and the void they both keep tucked close like memorabilia. When he looks at her this time, it's still with the awkward trepidation of Bruce Wayne, and not the confident distance of the Batman. ]
It sounds beautiful.
[ What an immeasurable tradeoff, leaving someplace so precious for this strange, conflict-wracked earth. She's going to carry that with her forever, which is also an insurmountable, terrifying amount of time that Bruce can't begin to wrap his mind around. Twenty years in his own head's been eternity enough.
Fleetingly, he thinks of putting his hand on Diana's shoulder. Finds it difficult, even despite knowing that she wouldn't brush him off. So he does what he thinks is the next best thing, which is shrugging off his thin between-season jacket and draping it over Diana's shoulders, to keep her insulated in her memories and away from the lukewarm Gotham seabreeze. ]
This world's lucky to have you. [ He appends, almost inaudibly. Like he's just clearing his throat with this last statement. ]
[She doesn't think talking about Themyscira will ever be painless. She left so much of herself there, and over the past hundred years, has had to try and fill in the gaps of herself. She's taken bits and pieces of people she's met, things that remind her of home and things that were brand new, and tried to mold them together to form a semi-new person who could exist in this world. It's worked, for the most part. But she knows that some of her will always be on the island, lost to the woman she is now.
Caught up in her own spiraling thoughts, she doesn't realize what he's doing until it's already done. His residual heat soaks into her, warms her against the cold realizations she makes again and again every day. It's... nice. Unexpected, and sweet. She curls her shoulders into his coat, shifting a bit until it settles comfortably. Is this an easier weight to bear? It's certainly different. But she knows it isn't an easy gesture for him to make. Briefly, she wonders what she's done to deserve it. Maybe opening up is a better choice than she's thought it to be in the past.]
I am the lucky one.
[She means that. Diana has learned so much from this world, things she never would have known if she'd stayed on Themyscira. Good and evil would still be black-and-white, she wouldn't be able to see any of the gray areas in between, areas that have become invaluable to her over the past hundred years. Living in a modern world when you don't visibly age can't be accomplished by exactly legal means. She's learned that nobody is defined by their flaws, or even by their crimes. It had been a hard lesson, and sometimes it still is. But, she thinks, it's made her a better person.
She tilts her head back, looking up at the sky, out towards the stars and the moon. Its shimmering reflection in the water isn't so different from what she'd see on Themyscira.]
This world is a gift, and I'm glad I'm here to protect it.
[ Bruce watches Diana shift on her feet, her profile sharp and beautiful against the backdrop of Gotham's vibrating night. It solidifies something in him: that personal creed, that life is senseless. Nothing can ever convince Bruce Wayne that the universe operates the way it should, with good people being given the grace of peace and uncomplicated happinessー Diana is the kind of warm, unconditional soul that should be able to return to where her people love her and cherish her, but even that simplicity has become an impossibility.
(He is still unaware, again, that this might be projection. Martha Wayne and her pearl necklace, shot and pulled apart and scattered in all permutations of his life. God, he doesn't want anything like that to happen to Diana Prince.)
For a few beats, Bruce doesn't know what to say. Never really has a good quip in his arsenal, unlike Bruce Prime. He just takes it in, her sincerity, and finally straightens up and away from the fence separating him from the river. ]
At least give yourself a break with Gotham.
[ Batman tentatively... tentatively has that one under control!! Diana can take a vacation here. No obligations. She can leave the protection duties to a weird billionaire with no hobbies. ]
It might not be Spain, but there are tourist spots here.
[ Like, uh. That one falafel stand that locals love. Bruce wants so much more for Diana than he can give, incidentally. ]
[For those brief moments, Diana doesn't mind the silence that falls between them. Just as she's likely given him plenty to think about, she's also opened up some doors to thoughts she's kept locked away for a long time. But they don't overwhelm her, as they once might have. Silently, she's grateful for his presence, which she's sure has something to do with that.
When he finally speaks, she moves away from the railing along with him, eyes sparking with gentle amusement. Diana can't remember the last time she took a real break, but she doesn't feel right mentioning that now. She knows it's hypocritical of her, but despite how much she worries over others, she can't bear it when they worry over her. Diana is the protector, the guide. Her duty is to give everything she has to everyone else. It doesn't really feel right to let someone else take on that burden.
She leans her back against the railing, arms crossed loosely over her stomach so she can hold the edges of his coat with her fingers, insulating herself against the evening chill.]
Would you take me to see one?
[She doesn't specify when, and that's on purpose. They've made progress tonight, she thinks, and she doesn't want to take a step backwards by pressing him into something he isn't ready for. She leaves it open to give him the choice to accept or refuse, to set a timeframe. Diana has learned to take on patience as a virtue over the past century.]
[ Strange heroes and vigilantes with all the capability in the world to save others, and none at all when it comes to saving themselves. Maybe it's Bruce Prime that had the strange gift of prescience when it came to down to it, that he understood how much he, and subsequently everyone else in the League, just genuinely needed each other to stay relatively sane.
Bruce, this one, will think about the consequences of that needing, later. For now, he lingers by the border where concrete meets grass, heels playing against the faultline in the ground, watching Diana watching him. Feeling the weight of her patience being placed in his hands, and understanding that it's his choice to take it or discard it.
He wonders if this is how Alfred felt. Feels. Waiting for a little bit of return investment for everything he ever gives. Guilt knocks between Bruce's ribs, but it's swallowed down. Not the time. ]
...I hope you like street food.
[ A "yes", essentially, even if he doesn't set a date. First of all, Bruce needs to figure out where anything is in this version of Gotham, and if the food trucks even exist here; he also has to actually try the street food to make sure that it's good, because, let's be real, he hasn't actually tried much of it in... what, years? Being a shut-in means that you only know these things academically, not personally. Phew.
He gestures towards the car. ] It's getting colder.
[His answer, simple but minorly committal, makes a smile bloom across her lips. Not to be obvious about being pleased by his response, but it's impossible for her to hide. She doesn't mind that there's no date, no time, or even a concrete "yes." It's something for her to grasp on to, and to work towards. Give him time, she reminds herself. She dials back the beaming a bit, but her smile doesn't disappear.]
I do, very much. I practically live on it.
[That isn't a lie. For all her gods-given and cultivated talents, cooking isn't one of them she's put much effort into. It's one of her best-kept secrets, actually. She can do well enough for herself, but she also spent nearly five millennia eating a soldier's rations whenever she wasn't in the palace (and mostly sweets when she was). Diana loves food, indulges in fine cuisine when the mood strikes her, but her comfort level in actually practicing the culinary arts amounts to spitting a rabbit over an open fire and not much else. Street food is one of mankind's greatest ideas, and she'd never hear a word against that.
She nods, realizing that she is a little cold, despite his jacket.]
Then we should be going.
[She doesn't rush to the car, instead strolling towards it as she takes a deep breath of the brackish air. And before she ducks into the passenger's seat, she looks over her shoulder one more time at the neon-lit outline of Gotham behind her, memorizing the way it looks and the way it made her feel to briefly glimpse it through Bruce's eyes, even imperfectly.]
[ He tries to imagine it: Diana, joyously chomping into one of Gotham's street dogs, which he would not wish on her. (Maybe they could've destroyed Steppenwolf that way, feeding him one of those.) It doesn't quite make him smile to think about it, but it lightens the weight on his shoulders, hikes his posture a centimeter higher.
He'll find something for her to enjoy here. Seems like the least he can do.
Back into the car they goー the ride to Wayne Manor is, incidentally, quick and easy. No horrific traffic for once (the city not being waterlogged helps), culminating in a smooth, seamless slide underground and into the establishment's basement parking lot.
Alfred meets them at the proverbial gate, the angles of his drawn face softening when he sees Diana through the windshield. "Good evening, Miss Prince", is his sigh-smile, the expression fracturing for a fraction of a second when he notes Bruce's jacket around her shoulders.
Bruce doesn't wait to let the gesture sink in. He gets out of the car, hands Alfred his keys, and warns: ] She's tired.
[She takes her time sifting through her thoughts on the ride to the manor: Gotham, what the city means to Bruce (both of them, really), realizing she can empathize with how much they want to protect their home, wondering what kind of street food really exists in the city. She's only ever attended charity fundraisers or galas in the city, and there's no possible way any of them sold anything that came from a cart. But she trusts that Bruce will, eventually, find something they'll both enjoy.
Alfred's welcome makes affection bloom in her chest, and she offers him a kind smile. Over the past months of building up the League, he's been an invaluable resource, and a good friend. Plus, nobody makes a cup of tea like he does, and she's been around the world enough to make a fair comparison. She returns his greeting with a warm one of her own, grabbing her bag out of the trunk as she listens to Bruce make excuses for her.
She can't hide her amusement as she rejoins the conversation, duffel bag slung over her shoulder.]
Just a few time zones' worth of jet lag to work through. [Not that she sounds or looks like it. But she's trying to do Bruce a solid.] Bruce said there is a bed I could borrow for a night two? [It's still phrased as a question, out of courtesy.]
[ Diana is the only one (besides Victor, on occasion) who bothers to be courteous in Wayne Manor; everyone else is too cavalier about the space (Arthur) or they're Barry, who keeps tripping over himself and the decor. Bruce hasn't asked Bruce Prime about the logistics or how much freedom he has as an interloper to freely offer housing for tired superheroes, but he listens to his instincts on this one.
Before Alfred can say anything: ] He won't mind.
[ He, meaning the actual owner of this place. Alfred, still with one brow raised and poised for a question he never gets to ask, relents.
"You'd know, wouldn't you," he sighs. And, afterwards: "it'd be a pleasure to have you, Miss Prince. I'll get you set up shortly."
Used to whims of a moody billionaire, clearly. No one deserves Alfred, and certainly not Bruce; he watches the other man retreat upstairs (not without one last backwards Look, searching), and rakes a hand through his hair. ]
Amazons aren't nocturnal, [ unlike bats, ] so you should probably get warm and get some rest.
[ They got new bathtubs, recently: claw-feet. Mostly for Diana, but Barry kind of loves them, too. Bruce motions for her to follow him, which isn't him asking if they can bathe together, but just. Awkwardness. How does he be hospitable in a Manor that isn't even his, The Struggle. ]
[Watching the two of them feels almost like an intrusion; she doesn't doubt they are still working through the logistics of this multiversal phenomenon. But it seems like they are handling things just fine. Alfred's infinite patience is to thank for that, she's sure. That man was blessed by the gods with a deep well of love for Bruce Wayne, and not even a tear in space and time could empty it.
A quiet thank you, and Alfred departs. She tracks him as he heads upstairs, flashing him a smile when he looks back at the two of them. Infinitely patient, and infinitely nosey when it comes to his ward. An excellent friend all around.
Diana's attention returns to Bruce, and she hefts her duffle bag higher on her shoulder. One perfect brow raises, but she doesn't comment that Amazons may not be nocturnal, but they don't necessarily need as much sleep as a mortal. It's habit now for her to keep a diurnal schedule, and probably for the best that she doesn't break that.]
That sounds perfect.
[It really does. Sleeping on a plane doesn't really agree with anyone, and her plane also hadn't had a shower. A long bath and warm pajamas will do her a world of good, and she's grateful he's alluded to both. So on the hospitality front, he's killing it.
Though she's already mapped the manor in her head, she's content to follow him to one of the ridiculously enormous guest baths. She'll never admit that she's taken more than a few turns around the house just to admire the architecture, but she's sure someone has noticed. She just appreciates they haven't pointed it out.
The tub is definitely new, and her face lights up with delight when she sees it. She lets her bag drop unceremoniously to the ground (it clanks suspiciously), and almost runs towards the tub (more of a graceful lope, because she's Diana). She slides one hand along the rim appreciatively before looking over her shoulder at Bruce to comment, if he's still hovering in the doorway.]
[ The cavernous guest bath is likely nothing compared to the ones in Themyscira (it would be funny, admittedly, to watch Bruce be as impressed by the water as Steve was), but it's decadent enough. With Alfred's discerning touch, stocked with amenities and bath salts that have nothing to do with Bruce's preferences and everything to do with being prepared.
(One of the bath salt canisters is half-empty. Barry got a little overzealous with it.)
Bruce, hovering around just to find a clean towel to hand to Diana, comments: ]
It's a pain to get out of.
[ Imagine: Bruce, like a wet black dog, trying to scurry out of a slippery bathtub. What may sound like Bruce being a spoilsport is mostly him roasting himself lightly again; an offhanded dig at himself for not being used to Bruce Prime's version of decadence.
Mostly, it'd be nice if Diana smiled. ] Feel free to use whatever you want in the room.
![[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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It almost looks like he doesn't understand. Recognition comes slowly, and he turns his hand over to brush fingertips to Diana's palm before he retracts. A spiritual thank-you, maybe, for her offer, even if he wasn't looking for reciprocity.
(Alfred, Don Mitchell's orphaned son, Selina, and now, Diana. If only he could do more for any of them, if only he could make the world make sense for them.) ]
This wasn't meant to be a transaction.
[ A disclaimer that might've sounded more jagged if Bruce'd tried. Instead, it manages to sound hesitant, like he has his hand pressed up against a glass wall, and he's trying to see how much pressure he can apply until it gives. Still starkly aware that he's not their Bruce, not the Bruce Wayne that saved the entire planet Earth from imminent destruction (kind of puts his Reddit slapfight with Riddler into perspective); he's not sure how much of Diana he's allowed to know, especially if Victor or Barry or even Clark, a God amongst men, don't know certain things about her. Toes, stepping on them, etc. ]
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I wouldn't have offered if it was.
[She finds herself saying different variations of the same thing fairly often. I wouldn't have said I'd help if I wasn't willing, and I wouldn't have come if I didn't want to. It always seems to catch people off guard, the way she gives herself them; but Amazons are taught never to accept a task they cannot handle, or are unwilling to complete. If something can be done by someone else who is both willing and able to do it, then it is better off in their hands.
Diana simply finds that she has the time and inclination to fulfill most requests made of her. Not only out of duty, but also out of, yes, love. Even after all this time, that is still the strongest force in her life, and it has never steered her wrong.
Themyscira is precious to her; she can see clearly now that sharing a piece of it with someone else will not make it less so. It is her story to tell, her life to give. And she wants to give that piece to Bruce.]
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Cutting across the thin strip of grass separating the bench from the water, Bruce hovers just to Diana's left. His attention swims, Gotham to night sky to the woman next to him, before finally setting on his own hands, battered, curled around cool metal railing. ]
Alright.
[ Why is he the one making the concession? What a dingus. He catches himself and his lack of social grace, and huffs through his nose. ]
I'd like to hear it.
[ Rephrase. This world's Bruce should teach him a thing or two about being a socialite, orー well. Wearing the veneer of one, at least. Wearing less eyeliner, too. ]
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A little smile curves her lips at his words, and she thinks on where to start. There is so much to say about her beloved island, and five thousand years of memories to get through. So she starts with the basics: Diana tells him of the forests, the springs, the white-sand beaches. She tells him about the open-air markets, the artisans, and, briefly, about the palace where she spent her childhood and the barracks where she spent the better part of her adult life. She loses herself in her own words, but snaps back to reality after a little while.
Her heart feels lighter, her soul elated. But she feels heat high on her cheeks, and glances at him from the corner of her eye.]
I miss it.
[And, in a rare show of true vulnerability, there's open longing in her voice. She has duties, responsibilities in this world--she usually can't afford to show this kind of weakness. But in this semi-darkness, lit only by the moon above and the neon across the water, she feels... like she gets a pass, just this one time. She doesn't have to have the weight of the world on her shoulders right now. She can just be Diana, talking about a home she hasn't seen in a hundred years. A home she is now certain she will never see again. And while she's accepted that as truth, it hasn't become much easier to bear.]
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He exhales a breath that he didn't know he was holding. His eyes peel away from the middle distance they'd been trained on, somewhere between Gotham and Themyscira and the void they both keep tucked close like memorabilia. When he looks at her this time, it's still with the awkward trepidation of Bruce Wayne, and not the confident distance of the Batman. ]
It sounds beautiful.
[ What an immeasurable tradeoff, leaving someplace so precious for this strange, conflict-wracked earth. She's going to carry that with her forever, which is also an insurmountable, terrifying amount of time that Bruce can't begin to wrap his mind around. Twenty years in his own head's been eternity enough.
Fleetingly, he thinks of putting his hand on Diana's shoulder. Finds it difficult, even despite knowing that she wouldn't brush him off. So he does what he thinks is the next best thing, which is shrugging off his thin between-season jacket and draping it over Diana's shoulders, to keep her insulated in her memories and away from the lukewarm Gotham seabreeze. ]
This world's lucky to have you. [ He appends, almost inaudibly. Like he's just clearing his throat with this last statement. ]
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Caught up in her own spiraling thoughts, she doesn't realize what he's doing until it's already done. His residual heat soaks into her, warms her against the cold realizations she makes again and again every day. It's... nice. Unexpected, and sweet. She curls her shoulders into his coat, shifting a bit until it settles comfortably. Is this an easier weight to bear? It's certainly different. But she knows it isn't an easy gesture for him to make. Briefly, she wonders what she's done to deserve it. Maybe opening up is a better choice than she's thought it to be in the past.]
I am the lucky one.
[She means that. Diana has learned so much from this world, things she never would have known if she'd stayed on Themyscira. Good and evil would still be black-and-white, she wouldn't be able to see any of the gray areas in between, areas that have become invaluable to her over the past hundred years. Living in a modern world when you don't visibly age can't be accomplished by exactly legal means. She's learned that nobody is defined by their flaws, or even by their crimes. It had been a hard lesson, and sometimes it still is. But, she thinks, it's made her a better person.
She tilts her head back, looking up at the sky, out towards the stars and the moon. Its shimmering reflection in the water isn't so different from what she'd see on Themyscira.]
This world is a gift, and I'm glad I'm here to protect it.
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(He is still unaware, again, that this might be projection. Martha Wayne and her pearl necklace, shot and pulled apart and scattered in all permutations of his life. God, he doesn't want anything like that to happen to Diana Prince.)
For a few beats, Bruce doesn't know what to say. Never really has a good quip in his arsenal, unlike Bruce Prime. He just takes it in, her sincerity, and finally straightens up and away from the fence separating him from the river. ]
At least give yourself a break with Gotham.
[ Batman tentatively... tentatively has that one under control!! Diana can take a vacation here. No obligations. She can leave the protection duties to a weird billionaire with no hobbies. ]
It might not be Spain, but there are tourist spots here.
[ Like, uh. That one falafel stand that locals love. Bruce wants so much more for Diana than he can give, incidentally. ]
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When he finally speaks, she moves away from the railing along with him, eyes sparking with gentle amusement. Diana can't remember the last time she took a real break, but she doesn't feel right mentioning that now. She knows it's hypocritical of her, but despite how much she worries over others, she can't bear it when they worry over her. Diana is the protector, the guide. Her duty is to give everything she has to everyone else. It doesn't really feel right to let someone else take on that burden.
She leans her back against the railing, arms crossed loosely over her stomach so she can hold the edges of his coat with her fingers, insulating herself against the evening chill.]
Would you take me to see one?
[She doesn't specify when, and that's on purpose. They've made progress tonight, she thinks, and she doesn't want to take a step backwards by pressing him into something he isn't ready for. She leaves it open to give him the choice to accept or refuse, to set a timeframe. Diana has learned to take on patience as a virtue over the past century.]
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Bruce, this one, will think about the consequences of that needing, later. For now, he lingers by the border where concrete meets grass, heels playing against the faultline in the ground, watching Diana watching him. Feeling the weight of her patience being placed in his hands, and understanding that it's his choice to take it or discard it.
He wonders if this is how Alfred felt. Feels. Waiting for a little bit of return investment for everything he ever gives. Guilt knocks between Bruce's ribs, but it's swallowed down. Not the time. ]
...I hope you like street food.
[ A "yes", essentially, even if he doesn't set a date. First of all, Bruce needs to figure out where anything is in this version of Gotham, and if the food trucks even exist here; he also has to actually try the street food to make sure that it's good, because, let's be real, he hasn't actually tried much of it in... what, years? Being a shut-in means that you only know these things academically, not personally. Phew.
He gestures towards the car. ] It's getting colder.
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I do, very much. I practically live on it.
[That isn't a lie. For all her gods-given and cultivated talents, cooking isn't one of them she's put much effort into. It's one of her best-kept secrets, actually. She can do well enough for herself, but she also spent nearly five millennia eating a soldier's rations whenever she wasn't in the palace (and mostly sweets when she was). Diana loves food, indulges in fine cuisine when the mood strikes her, but her comfort level in actually practicing the culinary arts amounts to spitting a rabbit over an open fire and not much else. Street food is one of mankind's greatest ideas, and she'd never hear a word against that.
She nods, realizing that she is a little cold, despite his jacket.]
Then we should be going.
[She doesn't rush to the car, instead strolling towards it as she takes a deep breath of the brackish air. And before she ducks into the passenger's seat, she looks over her shoulder one more time at the neon-lit outline of Gotham behind her, memorizing the way it looks and the way it made her feel to briefly glimpse it through Bruce's eyes, even imperfectly.]
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He'll find something for her to enjoy here. Seems like the least he can do.
Back into the car they goー the ride to Wayne Manor is, incidentally, quick and easy. No horrific traffic for once (the city not being waterlogged helps), culminating in a smooth, seamless slide underground and into the establishment's basement parking lot.
Alfred meets them at the proverbial gate, the angles of his drawn face softening when he sees Diana through the windshield. "Good evening, Miss Prince", is his sigh-smile, the expression fracturing for a fraction of a second when he notes Bruce's jacket around her shoulders.
Bruce doesn't wait to let the gesture sink in. He gets out of the car, hands Alfred his keys, and warns: ] She's tired.
[ No she's not?? ? ? Real smooth, Bruce. ]
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Alfred's welcome makes affection bloom in her chest, and she offers him a kind smile. Over the past months of building up the League, he's been an invaluable resource, and a good friend. Plus, nobody makes a cup of tea like he does, and she's been around the world enough to make a fair comparison. She returns his greeting with a warm one of her own, grabbing her bag out of the trunk as she listens to Bruce make excuses for her.
She can't hide her amusement as she rejoins the conversation, duffel bag slung over her shoulder.]
Just a few time zones' worth of jet lag to work through. [Not that she sounds or looks like it. But she's trying to do Bruce a solid.] Bruce said there is a bed I could borrow for a night two? [It's still phrased as a question, out of courtesy.]
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Before Alfred can say anything: ] He won't mind.
[ He, meaning the actual owner of this place. Alfred, still with one brow raised and poised for a question he never gets to ask, relents.
"You'd know, wouldn't you," he sighs. And, afterwards: "it'd be a pleasure to have you, Miss Prince. I'll get you set up shortly."
Used to whims of a moody billionaire, clearly. No one deserves Alfred, and certainly not Bruce; he watches the other man retreat upstairs (not without one last backwards Look, searching), and rakes a hand through his hair. ]
Amazons aren't nocturnal, [ unlike bats, ] so you should probably get warm and get some rest.
[ They got new bathtubs, recently: claw-feet. Mostly for Diana, but Barry kind of loves them, too. Bruce motions for her to follow him, which isn't him asking if they can bathe together, but just. Awkwardness. How does he be hospitable in a Manor that isn't even his, The Struggle. ]
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A quiet thank you, and Alfred departs. She tracks him as he heads upstairs, flashing him a smile when he looks back at the two of them. Infinitely patient, and infinitely nosey when it comes to his ward. An excellent friend all around.
Diana's attention returns to Bruce, and she hefts her duffle bag higher on her shoulder. One perfect brow raises, but she doesn't comment that Amazons may not be nocturnal, but they don't necessarily need as much sleep as a mortal. It's habit now for her to keep a diurnal schedule, and probably for the best that she doesn't break that.]
That sounds perfect.
[It really does. Sleeping on a plane doesn't really agree with anyone, and her plane also hadn't had a shower. A long bath and warm pajamas will do her a world of good, and she's grateful he's alluded to both. So on the hospitality front, he's killing it.
Though she's already mapped the manor in her head, she's content to follow him to one of the ridiculously enormous guest baths. She'll never admit that she's taken more than a few turns around the house just to admire the architecture, but she's sure someone has noticed. She just appreciates they haven't pointed it out.
The tub is definitely new, and her face lights up with delight when she sees it. She lets her bag drop unceremoniously to the ground (it clanks suspiciously), and almost runs towards the tub (more of a graceful lope, because she's Diana). She slides one hand along the rim appreciatively before looking over her shoulder at Bruce to comment, if he's still hovering in the doorway.]
Very nice.
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(One of the bath salt canisters is half-empty. Barry got a little overzealous with it.)
Bruce, hovering around just to find a clean towel to hand to Diana, comments: ]
It's a pain to get out of.
[ Imagine: Bruce, like a wet black dog, trying to scurry out of a slippery bathtub. What may sound like Bruce being a spoilsport is mostly him roasting himself lightly again; an offhanded dig at himself for not being used to Bruce Prime's version of decadence.
Mostly, it'd be nice if Diana smiled. ] Feel free to use whatever you want in the room.
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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!