#gaslights

Vincent van Gogh (1853 - 1890), The Starry Night, 1888, Oil on canvas, © Musée d'Orsay

The Starry Night

That does not keep me from having a terrible need of — shall I say the word — religion. Then I go out at night to paint the stars. — Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother

The town does not exist except where one black-haired tree slips up like a drowned woman into the hot sky. The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry night! This is how I want to die.

It moves. They are all alive. Even the moon bulges in its orange irons to push children, like a god, from its eye. The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die:

into that rushing beast of the night, sucked up by that great dragon, to split from my life with no flag, no belly, no cry.

~ Anne Sexton

BREAKING: Trump pathetically gaslights about the SEVEN MILLION Americans who protested him. TRUMP: “I saw that ridiculous march…many of them are total lowlifes. These are people that are paid agitators.” We weren’t paid. We hate your guts for FREE.

Melancholy on early winter morning

In hindsight, lurking-standing-in the kitchen doorway without announcing his presence was…maybe not the best idea.

But. The younger two, Jason and Tim, were there, getting what appeared to be jam sandwiches, and he hadn’t wanted to startle them. And, too, the detective part of him wanted to observe them. Just a little. 

Tim is the youngest of the group, and the smallest. Something about him is familiar, and later Bruce has every intention of figuring out what that is. But for now, he’s content to watch him needle his…older brother?...about the correct way to make a jam sandwich.

“—be an even spread. Even. One layer. No clots.”

“You wanna make it?” Tim wilts a little and mutters something. Jason looks down and says, grinning, “What was that?”

“Can’t reach.”

“Nope. So shut it, titmouse.”

Tim’s only response is kick him half-heartedly in the ankle. Bruce swallows a chuckle.

Jason, he does recognize, though it’s a bit of a surprise to see him up and about so soon. The other time he saw the boy, he was asleep and being carried after a run-in with…Bruce hates to refer to him as Jim, because the Jim he knew…

Never mind. He’s clearly doing better. That’s good.

He must make a sound, or maybe they just register his presence. Either way, one minute Tim’s hopping up and down to critique Jason’s sandwich skills, and the next he’s been shoved backwards into the drawers and Jason’s snapping, “You touch him and you’re dead.”

What happened.

“I’m not—”

“You think I dunno what single rich men take kids in for?” WHAT. “Think again, old man, we’re not goin’ down without a fight.”

“You seem to be confused—”

“Fuck off.”

“Jay,” Tim whispers, “he’s the Bat.”

“Yeah, and the commish was the Ripper. How many times do I gotta tell you—”

“I’m not going to hurt any of you,” Bruce soothes. He tries a smile, wishes Alfred would come, and holds out his hand. “Will you give me the knife?”

In hindsight, he should have expected Jason to stab him.

* * *

“You shouldn’t have done that, Bruce,” Selina says from the chaise lounge, turning her book’s page with smug satisfaction. Bruce looks at his bandaged hand and says nothing. He’d seen the stab coming in time to move, but he hadn’t been fast enough to completely dodge it. The boys had vanished somewhere in the manor (Dick’s room, probably), and rather than confess to Alfred that he was maimed by a twelve-year-old, he’d treated the injury himself.

Alfred, he’s sure, knows anyway.

“Thank you for the invaluable insight.”

“You’re welcome.” She stretches, sets her book aside, and rolls her head over to look at him. “Don’t look at me like that, you know it’s true. You should have backed away slowly and come back later.”

“I wasn’t expecting him to actually stab me.” He isn’t pouting. He isn’t. Batman does not pout. Selina just laughs at him and rolls to her feet to saunter towards the door.

“Now you know. Don’t go looking for them. Let them come to you.”

And then she’s gone, leaving him with a throbbing hand and the firm knowledge that he knows nothing about children. How does he get himself into these situations? He returned to Gotham to clean up the crime problem, that’s…that’s all. That’s all.

Although, he has to admit that it might be bad, and they’ll need to do something to avoid a repeat, but…it was pretty funny. It was funny because he wasn’t badly hurt, but still.

Somehow, he doesn’t think this is what Alfred meant when he started hinting about ‘neither of us are getting any younger, sir’.

He shakes his head and makes his way towards his bedroom. Selina’s right. They’ll come to him when they’re ready. Or when Alfred makes them, but that’s practically the same thing. In the meantime, he’s had a long night, and he feels as though yes, he can spare a few hours for a nap.

Gaslight at Grand Opera House, York. Keith Allen and Kara Tointon

Rupert Young and Kara Tointon as Jack and Bella