in the gutter, looking at the stars.

So when they were starting to feel an odd kind of feeling in this location, the entity did feel a certain obligation to at least listen to the impulse even if not entirely pursued.

"Heh. Right. I guess the dogs might have seen something, sensed something that might otherwise.. not get noticed. Might be beneath.. somewhere in this area. " There's always so many layers to places, who knows what could be lurking beneath it all.

The notion of leaving after another night, Atieno pauses for a moment - the notion of traveling with someone feeling almost a bit novel for a moment.

"Hm."

The dogs hadn't budged. One scratched lazily behind its ear. Another let out a thin little whine before settling again, every muzzle still turned toward the water where the tide dulled beneath the evening. Ben moved toward the truck waiting above the dunes.

"'Bout a day's drive to the next town."

Looking back toward the marsh where the dogs still kept their quiet vigil, he asked,

Is it just because you ran into me? she wants to ask, demand, attack, but she's smart enough, self aware enough, to know she doesn't want to know the answer. That there is no right answer, especially not with the way she's feeling already.

He twists them around but he isn't getting out of it that easily — no one does, so why should he? He isn't better than anyone else in this building — and she uses her legs already straddling his thighs to lift just a little higher and trap him between them, ankles hooking behind him so he can't leave her without taking her with him.

And then he kisses her, and something burns in her ribcage. There's a reality where it soothes her sharper edges; in this reality it cuts her on them.

And she lets him go.

And she watches him through cat-hooded eyes, trying to piece together what the fuck just happened.

And he couldn’t tell Selina about this, could he? That a couple of Gotham's gilded sons—the Falcones, the Kanes—had yoinked him by the collar, that Selina had yoinked him by the collar.

Instead, he stands with one palm on the door, free fingers worrying the rumpled seam at his collarbone, while the room lists half a degree beneath him. 

“I shouldn’t be.” 

@kylo-wrecked sent: 🥀 Kiss the receiver as if it is for the very last time. { ex!ben for tony }

It wasn't the kiss itself that set Tony's nerves on edge. There was hunger and desperation in the kiss, yes, but Ben always kissed him that way, like he was never going to see him again, like he had to convince himself that this was real. The kiss wasn't why Tony grabbed onto Ben's arms, holding the other man close to him.

No, it wasn't the kiss.

It was the way Ben's hands grabbed onto his waist, the way he could feel fingers digging bruises into the space right below his ribs. It was the way Ben stepped closer, cornering Tony against the counter, their bodies pressed together almost as if Ben was trying to morph into him, to truly become one. That was different.

Ben was not a man who held onto someone like they were going to disappear into a fine mist if he let go. He cringed away from most touch. Tony had spent ages trying to get him used to touch. But initiating it? Ben never did that.

Didn't flinch or look away, but he could feel the shame in his face.

"It's hard pretending I don't want you," he said softly. His hands still belted Tony's hips, fingers settling into the hard line of bone there as though they belonged. "Just acted on what's natural."

It'd felt that way. Natural. Like his hands here, and like this kiss, brushed against Tony's mouth almost by accident. Maybe he was s'posed to wait around, hands in pockets, let Tony come to him.

Ben’s thumb found the seam of Tony's shirt where it'd ridden loose from his jeans and gently smoothed it down, like he was hoping he could smooth Tony's nerves too. And maybe he did.

She found him as she had always found him - mortal. Only, this time, he had seen some of the other side. He had played a hand with death, and it had cost him. A tally sat above his head now, and an Old God with one eye grinned.

Her sisters had come for the Bride. She had fought a battle, wielding her bouquet and a burning door handle. She had been worthy of Valhalla. The others would be visited upon by other gods. Other angels. Other things from other places. The colours of their souls would be bundled up, fireproof, and whisked off.

Brunnhilde did not go to that car. She sat beside Ben as a passenger, only she was not dressed for dinner. She wore black leather and metal. In place of a handbag, a helmet. In place of stilettos, a spear. In place of clear skies, rain, and thunder, and a pair of squalling ravens.

"They are dead." She affirmed, not touching Ben. Not speaking. Barely moving. "You could be dead too. Have you checked?"

He wasn't dead, and that was the best and the worst of it. The worst, because he was supposed to be. The best, because it meant he was not Odin's. The Wanderer wanted this one. He had found him, and he wanted him. He wanted a bargaining chip. A black-haired tool. He wanted to weild his Furies for Ragnarok, and he would do so with whatever leash he could find.

"...I should be." 

Ben couldn’t have known that there was an old god with one eye grinning at him or that Brunnhilde’s sisters had come for the bride, that there was any place for her to go… but somehow he’d always known…

He knows his mouth. He knows his stomach. He makes sudden acquaintances with the yawning gash on his crown and looks up, lashes caked with smoke and blood, to see Brunnhilde, corsetted in leather and wearing a mask.

And he knows he isn't really speaking, but he lifts his head. He looks at her and says,

"You won't take me anywhere. I knew you were lying." 

Maybe his eyes say it.

Prove it, he said. Prove it - like he didn't already taste of apples. The fucker. Prove it.

Brunnhilde matched Ben's posture. She matched his contumacious, paradoxical, venerable gaze. She had made him a god - and that made her a god. She had made him an altar - and she took pride in the fact that he had laid his I love you upon it first.

It was true. Even his mother, well meaning though she often was, wasn't radical like Reb, didn't have the understanding of issues that Reb did or the insights that she was born with. Other people who aligned with her side wanted to be saviors. They didn't understand that they didn't need to be saviors to make a difference. Ben challenged her ideas, not her mentality. She needed that, in this place where she was under constant attack simply for being who she was.

The kiss was brief. Some silent treaty. Some apology ratified without another committee meeting, and all that need be forgiven was forgiven. 

"I can't be the only person who sees you."

Ben’s forehead bumped lightly against hers.

"But I can be one of the people who supports you. And the only one who gets to kiss you, which would also, you know..." Ben leaned back and raised his eyebrows. "...be nice."

He smiled.

"Hungry?"

The smile didn't vanish, but it waned, as though Reb had quietly raised another picket sign before him: ‘LOW BLOOD SUGAR.’

Slender fingers pull at the knitted fabric of a scarf securing it closer to reddened cheeks. Even in this cold the city continues to try and improve as Rey takes a step to the side to avoid some scaffolding. Tense, that's the feeling pulling at her limbs, a nervousness as they grow closer to their destination. Say something... anything. "This winter seems a bit harsher than last year don't you think?" Oh yes the weather that's going to get his attention.

The loud noises of the city became muted with the swish of the buildings door being pulled open. Warm air cascades across cooled cheeks before going through the threshold. Was this happening? Am I about to go up to HIS place. Their direction passed the security desk, apparently they knew Mr. Solo well. And of course why shouldn't they, he did after all live here. A smile is directed at the person behind the desk on their way to the elevators. I should just tell him... right? Tell him the truth? That the paper was for him? That it wasn't a joke? That she found him attractive and really would like to get to know him more.

"Ben... " Nope.... nope.. nope. "What floor is your place on?"

“Mm?” Ben glanced her way, nosing his collar. “The nineteenth.”

He hadn't known the misery that was elevator small talk until then.

“I wanted 'a view.'”

The apartment faced west, and the tall narrow windows opened on a  Manhattan pared down to its angles by winter. The dark line of the park stretched southward, leafless and dormant.

“Lot of memories in this place.” Ben shrugged one shoulder. “It’s been newly renovated. I’d rather have had it restored.”

The lock clicked.

Although the steam heaters had been latched, a sense of warmth met them at the door, followed by old oak beneath their feet, high plaster ceilings trimmed in heavy crown molding, and the faint smell of beeswax worked into the wood.

Ben crossed the living room, dress shoes making the floor creak in places it didn’t when Rey followed him.

“Look,” he said, and drew Rey’s attention to a broad pair of sliding pocket doors set squarely in the middle of the apartment. Their oak frames had been stripped and refinished until the grain swam beneath the shellac like smoke trapped in amber. Leaded glass panels, patterned in small beveled diamonds, caught the pale afternoon and scattered it across the floor.

He slid one door from its recess, thumb wandering the stile, tracing the worn relief.