#trueblu3

unfortunately not. it's not like you haven't come close, having lost track of the amount of times you've watched your own blood pour out of an open wound, wondering if maybe, you'll finally get lucky. but luck's never been on your side, has it? and so here you are, still alive, still breathing, even if only by the absolute loosest definition.

strangely enough, your close calls with death aren't your main concern for once. it's her. it's been years, and while all the drugs and alcohol you poison yourself with are usually enough to make you forget the people that have come and gone, you haven't forgotten her. it wasn't love, because you never let yourself get that close, because you've made the mistake of falling for a girl too good for you before, and you weren't stupid enough to make it again — but maybe one day it could have been, if only you gave the two of you more time.

“ you look different. ” wrong, somehow, though you can't place your finger on why. it almost reminds you of when you'd catch glimpses of yourself shortly after the death of your family — back when you still looked like yourself, not completely ridden with scars, and at the same time, like a complete stranger. it's something about her eyes. they're sadder, you think, and if you were a better person, it might break your heart, remembering the way she was back then. but you've been hardened by the fire, heart blackened and charred, so you can't afford any sympathy, even for her.

it's true. even you know better than to deny it, because you've never known how to stop, to keep yourself from pushing the knife in deeper, like it wasn't enough to plunge it in the chest in the first place. it's worse with her, although you're not sure why. maybe it's because she has the type of life you always wanted — a boyfriend, friends, parents who seem to love her, a mother who stayed, a father who looks at her without disgust. maybe it's because you see a part of yourself in her: the insecurity, the fear of not being enough, the fear that you'll never be more than what you are now, the self-doubt. because you hate yourself, the way he raised you to, and lashing out at anyone who reminds you of yourself, the parts you hate most, is the only way you can think to deal with it.

or maybe you're just not a good person. you never have been, even before this, before being here started to strip all of you of your humanity. maybe you had hardly any to begin with.

there's the sound of traffic , an overpass above them as they stand on a corner. a sign for wayne botanical garden's ! looms over them - only five blocks away. ' i've gotta check in ' the two of them move within midtown , ' give me a minute ' steps inside phone booth as he picks up phone and dials oswald's number.

the line thrills two times before anyone picks up. matches watches satine as she leans against booth , and flashes her a smile. blonde hair turned white in the hazy moonlight , her own transformed into a carmine red as the lighting from above sets the scene.

there's a dampness to the night , a threat of rain that never relents. for a few minutes oswald chews his ear off about how he's not keeping an eye on midtown mall , that things are falling through the cracks. matches detects the slight panic in oswald's voice - an indication that the war with sofia falcone was taking it's toll.

' yeah , yeah i'll stake it out ... don't worry , what you think the big ole' bat is gonna come out to get me ? ' laugh emboldened by a knowledge that only he can outsmart the bat , ' trust me oz , you're worrying about shit that'll never touch us ' - phone hung up as the final exchange results in pacifying whatever fears oswald had.

phone placed back on receiver as he inhales and then goes to rub temples. ' wanna go to the wayne botanical gardens ? ' he gestures up at sign , ' mall can wait ... plus it closes in an hour ' his unique accent hugs wording in all the right places , manages to somehow sound endearing as he reaches inside jacket for a packet of cigarettes. ' it'll make up for the shitty pit stop '

i haven't seen the gardens since i was young , i remember my mother holding my hand as she beamed. it was probably one of the few times she felt pride. a botanical garden founded by her very name - she spent an inordinate amount of time there. i still remember all the names of the various flowers and plants that occupy space. i'm getting off track , and that cigarette has been held between my fingertips for too long. i orchestrate a smile , and hold up a lighter - at last moving the night along.

sitting upon countertop he allows her to tend to his latest wound , his neck bowing as he just barely misses the sconces that decorate his current living space. there's the invitation , the allowing of satine to see him for who he is. though , admittedly it's a side of self that he slips all to comfortably into. she applying some antibacterial cream to a wound that he had himself been tending to for days , though the newest wound that had been inflected recently doesn't allow him to easily reach just where her hand sits.

' that one ? ' his voice soft , yet ? there's the accent that begs of two cities , and he clears throat , ' nasty run in with some asshole who thought he could kill me ' matches brutally honest with satine , ' little did he know he was only opening a wound that i got when i was younger ' the memory causes the slightest smile , ' i was being a little shit skating on a pond that i had no business skating on ... you know when you smell snow ? ' matches pauses at the memory , and there's the slight influx of bruce wayne - this influx causes him to shift the memory ever so , ' i was playing hockey and i wanted to smell the ice... ' that smile grows , ' so i bent down and did just that ' his voice akin to the sound of tires upon gravel , ' but uh - this other punk thought it'd be nice to shove me in the sides with his skate ... '

IT'S a shift , the kind of change that accompanies a sharp breeze , and bruce cannot help but the slight pulling of lips as mouth opens.

❝  i just didn’t like the way they were looking at you.  like you weren’t mine.  ❞ / @trueblu3

' i uh ... jules ' the hallway somehow made smaller as she looks right into his eyes and the runway to a mic is moments away. ' you sound jealous ... ' bruce then looks over the notecards that he has in the pocket of jacket.

' you can't be cold one minute and pretend to own me the next ... just because you know how i feel ' bruce takes a beat , ' jealous ? don't be ... you have me , i'm yours '

his hand resting on the back of her shoulder as he looks back at her , ' so ... you're warming up to me ' juliette focused on what was proper for her family , what LOOKED appropriate , and bruce ? well , he had known her for years.

at some point their mother's had come together , and thought it was 'adorable' if they even regarded one another. now ? now they were in their 30s and bruce wayne was in love with one juliette king. he had declared such a sentiment softly in bed. the way her body was shaped by his hands , and the way his lips worshiped her very being.

the leaving of her presence , and leaning in ever so - an interesting way to leave his mark. ' i'll see you later ... - or maybe i won't - i'm yours ... always ' then realizing that he needs to step away from her presence , ' this guy looks promising ' another replaces his presence that seems to have all the right credentials yet ? he's missing something.

She’d  slipped  in  through  the  window  silently,    only  the  cold  rain  at  her  back  proof  of  entry.    For  anyone  else,    she’d  have  left  the  sill  damp  and  the  shutters  cracking  against  the  frame  from  the  wind  and  only  the  ominous  open  window  telling  of  an  intruder.    For  Satine,    Inej  shuts  even  the  sash  and  somehow  keeps  every  drop  of  water  off  the  floor.    There’s  no  use  in  hiding  when  she  means  to  be  seen;    the  Wraith  perches  on  the  chaise  draped  with  rejected  laces  and  satins  and  silks,    and  watches  Satine  with  keen  regard  for  each  of  her  movements.

❝    I  have  always  thought  you  carried  yourself  quite  well.    ❞  There  is  a  stipulation  in  Inej’s  observation.    What  she  doesn’t  say  is  a  secret  that  they  share,    a  wound  they  have  both  been  dealt  as  girls  like  them  are  far  too  often  dealt.    You  must  be  very  tired,    Inej  thinks  of  Satine  with  a  sad  and  familiar  sort  of  awareness.    I  am  very  tired,    too.    ❝    You  will  have  to  teach  me  someday.    ❞  Inej  sits  so  still  that  marble  would  appear  to  shift  beside  her;    not  even  her  breath  is  distinguishable.    Still,    she  quirks  a  brow  and  offers  a  suggestion  of  knowing.    ❝    Are  we  working  tonight?    Or  is  it  tea  and  gossip?    ❞

they had been living together for three weeks , the penthouse had shifted it's feel - her grief and sadness could be felt within every inch of the house. the penthouse seeming to blossom within such emotions , light somehow making it's way into rooms as fireplaces stoked with a heat that bruce had not felt in some time. he's noticing it , picking up on the changes here and there. there's no longer the feeling as if someone was watching him in such a space , instead ? what is left is the odd comfort of the one he loved being evident within each room. keys dropped on kitchen counter , her clothes strewn in a bedroom that they both now shared.

grief is comfort , bruce had lingered in such an emotion for far too long and now ? it seems that grief has once again found a way into his heart. their bodies left bruised , her injuries far less evident though ? she's taking more risks nightly , and he is now the one who is desperately trying to keep up with her.

only here , in this penthouse is where they raise a white flag and come back to one another. holding one another in such intimate embraces , voices hushed as they talk about memories that remain now as spoken history. he allows her to cry , to be vulnerable - he himself becoming undone as she speaks about henry , her mother .... and the family that had been undone by unspeakable bloodshed.

he holds her now , she's careful not to linger for too long ; the notion that when they don suits that they will be worlds apart. in a low whisper she asks a question that is familiar in delivery. a question that he had asked her years ago , before he had shipped off to college - the memory feeling as if it were only a few days ago. bruce then clears throat , can feel the pull of emotion that comes with such an ask.