#debtbound

The  city’s  nearly  set  a  record  heat  high  during  the  day,    closing  triple  digits  in  the  evening,    and  as  a  result,    the  night  is  balmy.    Rain’s  been  due  for  weeks,    but  the  weather  goons  keep  mispredicting  in  their  forecasts.    At  least  someone  around  here  clings  to  hope.    They’ll  join  a  short  list.

It  isn’t  rain  clouds  that  ring  Wayne  Tower  in  the  distance  then.    Those  wildfires  above  the  border  are  set  to  flush  the  city  and  everything  north,    too,    and  Gothamite  ants  below  scurry  about  unbothered.    Few  wear  N95 masks  to  combat  the  pollution.    The  Batman  doesn’t  join  them;    Bruce  would,    if  he  deigned  to  leave  the  Tower  more  than  one  day  every  week  without  the  cowl  and  cape.    At  least  the  armor  would  protect  him  from  the  likes  of  Bella  Reál.    It  wouldn’t  protect  him  from  the  media’s  latest  vilification  of  the  vigilante  in  thanks  to  hopeful  -  incumbent  Harvey  Dent.

❝    Maybe.    ❞  Caine’s  not  spared  the  scrutiny  of  those  advanced  lenses  recording  his  every  movement,    and  stillness  too.    The  Batman  tracks  his  profile  some  feet  away  on  the  rooftop  they  occupy.    It  hasn’t  changed  in  minutes.    Gotham  still  bustles  in  ugly  shades  of  black  and  bruised,    also  unchanged.    Bruce  bristles.    ❝    But  I  have  to  try.    ❞  Even  if  he’s  the  only  one  trying.    ❝    Is  the  Table  really  stopping  you  from  leaving?    ❞

the wound in her side is still raw. the open wound in her chest —

her fists curl at her sides. her boots dig into the ground, scraping against the concrete. anger's easier than the alternative.

he doesn't look at caine; gaze fixed ahead on the lights of the city, its flashing colours changing in such rapid succession it's enough to give anyone a headache. he's grown rather fond of it. consistency in chaos.

the soft hiss of the record player's needle coasting along the run-out of an album that has played its b side to an end stretches between them until kerry lifts the arm and sets it back at home. caine is behind him somewhere, hovering.

it's evening, but apart from dinner, they had spent most of the day sequestered in separate areas of the house. so kerry doesn't know how long caine has been thinking about this. or hasn't. it doesn't matter probably. it's the same either way: he has been thinking about it.

what to make of that he doesn't know, either.

he retrieves the record's jacket, slides it carefully back into it, and then returns it to its place. "why’d you waited until now to say anything?" he asks as he busies himself with fishing for another record afterward. mostly it's to keep engaged with something, only partially to refrain from turning to caine to try to read his expression, an alternative that may prove frustrating if it told him anything at all. there is no irritation in that, only acceptance. caine schools his face too often for it to prove dependably useful.

in hindsight, it was fucking stupid for kerry would be done away with don blackwell for good. someone may leave for other pastures, and though the music industry is sprawling, at its core, it can be a small world. unwanted faces have a tendency to resurface when least expected.

dinner in a restaurant he never thought don would set foot in for fear he couldn't get his meal for free out of pure entitlement isn't exempt, apparently.

it took kerry a while to temper his rage into something that wasn’t so deliriously hot that it set his blood to boil every time he saw don. it took reluctant effort. holding onto that rage had felt like some minor vindication, a justification for how his hands curled into white-knuckled fists every time he saw him, or the grizzly thoughts he pictured with every one of don’s smiles.

a maladapted way of looking at things, surely. kerry doesn’t care. he does care it ended their meal early. don being only a few tables away, with his smarmy smile and snake-like bearing, threatened to set his blood to rise again. miguel had had the car pulled around and waiting for them even before their food was finished being packed.

"yeah, but i mean, i- i thought i wouldn't have to see that waste of fuckin' space when he left. put work in to push him outta my mind and everythin'." kerry works his hands over the handles of their to go bag, set on the floor between his feet. outside the car, traffic on the highway has slowed to a crawl from an accident up ahead. "'cause, he's always talked to and treated me like i'm some goddamn infant, you know? and it... it pisses me off!"

it took kerry a while to learn how to see some of the subtler flashes of enjoyment in caine, in moments of quiet contentment. in that, over time, small pieces of a larger puzzle have slot together to pad a nebulous whole. he tries to remember and reconcile all he knows with all he still doesn't and that which he can only guess until caine opens that door to him.

caine is clearer, then. only slightly opaque.

"yeah?" he says, honeyed-slow. he hums. the fragrance of honeysuckle they'd planted is redolent on the warm early afternoon breeze. kerry almost hadn’t wanted to come out here, even though here is just their yard. he's glad he was convinced otherwise.

a small world can be two lawn lounges pulled side-by-side if someone wants it to be.

kerry looks over at him. caine's face is turned towards the sun, half shrouded by the umbrella above them. his expression is relaxed, he thinks, or loose enough it can be anything pleasant enough that could be prescribed.

it's late but neither of them can sleep. they're talking instead. like a held breath, the deep quiet of the night envelopes them in a velveteen embrace that smooths the ragged edges of the past into something other. wandering thoughts and curated, chosen memories doled out in the safety between them.

they've flayed one another open with tender trust in each other countless times and would do so countless more. it's a relief and a horror to be known so well, kerry's heard, and he knows it to be true. he's not sure how caine feels about it. he's not really sure it matters, either.

they often feel differently about things like that. kerry is the more sentimental one between them. he gives enough credence to concepts and abstract ideas for both of them. to the relief and horror of being known, too.

kerry lies on his side and stares at caine's profile, the side of his head cradled in his palm. though there are no lights on, the low-light filtered enhancements of his optics make up for it. he watches him talk and notices the slight pinch to his eyebrows, the tension in his expression.

even though he wants to, kerry doesn't reach out. he doesn't try to soothe the tension away. it's sometimes best to let a feeling run its course. they both know that.

debris from the life that caine left behind drifts into their path with an irregularity that is both fortunate in that it doesn't happen more, and sometimes unpleasant in the way that unwanted things typically are. it is an inevitability they both know well and have accepted inherently. there is a lifetime of contacts and acquaintances behind him, an unfathomably deep well of people known for better or worse.

most often, caine hurries them along with bare, grim politeness, pretenses upheld out of necessity. but there are also moments where there are no pretenses, and he is sharp and harsh with no attempt to conceal it.

the rat in a business suit garnered the latter.

kerry had feigned nonreaction when caine had fisted his hand at the small of his back and guided them away with such cutting a choice of words that kerry had almost been surprised. it's rare to see near-unmitigated hostility from caine instead of the rituals of civility that seem binding. maybe the man deserved it. probably, he did.

he'd waited until they were home to ask about it.