#convexing

DOVE IS GOOD AT THIS PART. undertaking the temperature change. getting out of bed when the sheets are still warm, retaining heat from a night already spent, and the morning air is cool. she knows the trick of it is to move fast, the same way a person doing a cold plunge will most often run into the water rather than pacing through: moving without hesitation. you can't get stuck in the discomfort ⸺ or rather, you can't linger in the satisfaction. it'll never last.

it's not meant to.

but she stirs to get out of @convexing's bed, sitting up, and gets caught looking out the window. it’s winter in new york and the leaves have all fallen, the trees stripped themselves bare, leaving only the dark crooks of branches and the snarl of a small bird's nest within them. it's the roost that catches her attention, the way they always do in the cold months. she can't pass the park without wondering what it is the birds do ⸺ if they migrate at the first sign of exposure or stay through the risk. at what point they recognize the danger, and if home can still be a home when it's visible to all.

it's jack's hand that pulls her back. the palm large and warm enough that the first impulse, when it flattens against her back, is that it's her own body heat rather than his. something blooming internally, about to spread.

a mistake, of course. if she stays in this position the cold will find her anyway. that dove knows for certain ⸺ a fact she believes in even as the warmth does spread, dispersing, as he begins to rub the length of her spine. if dove had any body hair left — if it hadn't all been burned, waxed, buffed off long ago — it would stand up and quiver.

"they need me at the theatre later." at four o'clock. she runs a hand through the thick of her hair, the curl set loosened and tousled but still holding shape, and leans forward to reach the dress shirt strewn across the nightstand. "i should probably get going."

"is that so, mr. wayne?"

her head tilts. on others this action seems to imply a measure of uncertainty, a deeply compulsive response that is the body's attempt to twist itself into understanding. on nora the movement appears rooted in something entirely different ⸺ not an adjustment of her own perception but a physical shifting of what sits in front of her. turning the object of her attention, like a kaleidoscope or a snowglobe, to discern an angle which better displays what she's looking for. the truth. a fault.

the impression of the woman doesn't change with the gesture⸺ the implication of her question does: would you lie to me? ARE YOU?

he looks a great deal like the wayne she once knew. even without the various effigies of hung around gotham, nora could have picked the latest prince out of a lineup. of course, that's not saying much: the lineup is merely a row of portraits on a pockmarked manor wall; bruce wayne merely a single charcoal sketch in a flipbook already put into motion.

"startling you wasn't my intention, but perhaps it's a good thing. in a city like our own, shock value is a high-performing stock."

her limbs are very fine and very thin. bones like silverware. they look as though they should chime with movement, but despite this she makes almost no noise at all, only the soft flutter of her gown's skirt as she moves sidelong, gliding into the path of a waiter balancing a tray of champagne. it's executed well enough that there is no falter or redundancy of step, only the smooth port de bras of her arm, the extension and retrieval of a flute. the liquid gold inside remains still in the claiming, undisturbed. again, the greatest commotion comes from nora's dress⸺ the hem swaying around her as she once more returns to bruce's side, silk breaking on the hull of her white ankles like so many icy waves.

HER KNUCKLES ARE WHITENING ON THE GILT BANISTER OF THE RAILINGS. a series of pale, warm rings on polished brass. jewelry strung in reverse.

IT MAKES HER WANT TO LAUGH.

SO SHE DOES. only a little⸺ the sound flattened between the near-press of their bodies, enough of a deep chest-sound that it's as much vibration as noise. something that at this distance he should feel, rumbling in his own breast. an animal sort of speech.

"oh i'll bet." up against the garden wall, bruce wayne grabs marble like he owns it. it crosses selina's mind that he probably does. the arm is barred with the elbow still jutting at a slight angle, not quite latched all the way straight. like a pad lock looped through the shackle but not bolted, it makes her itch with anticipation ⸺ there's nothing like walls closing in on all sides to make a girl want to claw them up.

"they teach you assumption in your ivy league classrooms," selina leans her head back against the barrier. it's the only part of her touching the evening-cool limestone behind them, the exposed violin wire of her spine arched enough that it's restrung into something else. a bowstring pulled taut. taking aim.

JOHN HARTFORD JR. IS A LUCKY MAN.

you would, being a sensible reader, likely be able to ascertain as much by the sizeable nature of his name. the practice of a namesake is rarely performed by those families without something worthwhile to pass off, which makes a silver spoon as auspicious a symbol as a four-leaf clover ⸺ and a thing infinitely more practical. what's a pretty sentiment to a mouthful of metal and vichyssoise?

so john hartford jr. was a lucky babe, infant, and boy, and even still a luckier man: in the moment he thinks about dove warming his lap, in the stretch it takes her to nearly cross his path, the universe provides a reason. quite efficiently, in fact. the reasons are all over the place.

she says "mr. hartford," at the same moment he says "careful," and it's impossible to distinguish one voice from another because they're both using the same tone. they are, really, both saying the same word, despite the fact that dove seems to have been using his name.

@convexing draws her attention to the newly broken glass mosaiced on the floor, a hundred tiny diamonds scattered before dove's feet. it's a good omen, so far as any can be found in new york city. dove clucks. or coos, one supposes, given the name and the variation of bird.

the swiftness is no remark on the sensation: every step hurts, and acts as its own labour. the feeling of her body is gritty from where she has looked back and turned into salt then been given grace again, leaving behind specks in her joints that grate with each movement. sand like that from sparta's beach, dragged up on the heel of helen's lovely foot and into paris's seafaring quarters, left behind in her knees. sand like gravel ground up, pebbles crushed into a thousand infinitesimal pieces under the weight of guinevere's horse as she goes to lancelot.

dove, another woman waterlogged by fate. by history.

she finds him in the gazebo, the one they both love, that little glass house you aren't supposed to throw rocks from while living within.