#trueblu3

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?    ❞

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 ... '

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.

That  look  on  his  face  won’t  do.    That  smug  smirk  is  definitely  attractive,    but  more  than  that,    it’s  infuriating.    Allison  tosses  her  recurve  on  the  ground  despite  her  safety  training  (and  her  father  in  her  ear  warning  her  to  take  better  care  of  her  tools)  and  strides  away  from  Clint  before  she  says  something  embarrassing.    The  long  range  field  gives  her  enough  space  and  enough  time  to  cool  down  as  she  retrieves  their  arrows  until  she  has  to  yank  his  from  hers,    which  he’d  split  straight  down  the  middle.    She  cracks  her  splintered  arrow  into  pieces  and  tosses  the  bits  on  the  ground  with  a  scoff.

❝    I’m  not  usually  a  loser,    ❞  she  says  through  her  teeth  as  she  crosses  back  to  him.    With  his  arrow  clutched  in  her  hand,    she  extends  her  arm  to  his  with  a  pout  and  glowers  at  him.    ❝    Stop  smiling  at  me  like  that.    ❞  Her  own  mouth  trembles  with  the  threat  of  a  grin.    Allison  purses  her  lips  to  keep  it  from  blooming  across  her  face,    but  it’s  already  slipping.    ❝    I  let  you  win.    That  last  shot  was  pure  luck  on  your  part.    One  more  round?    ❞

Not as bad as I thought!!!

His  latest  unreleased  single  can’t  set  a  lighter  tone  between  them  from  where  it  drifts  quietly  from  his  phone’s  speaker.    His  low  croon  is  discordant  against  the  synths  that  nearly  scream  minorly beneath the top layer.    It’s  too  heavy  even  this  far  up  above  the  city;    Gotham  is  below,    but  always  all  around,    and  he  suspects  that  she’s  never  felt  so  suffocated  by  it  than  she  does  now.    He  remembers  burying  his  sister  with  his  own  shaking,    dirty  hands (his mother, not long after)  and  not  being  able  to  breathe  again  until  he’d  crossed  state  lines  years  later.

This  is  the  third  loop  of  his  song.    He  doesn’t  think  she’s  really  heard  it  at  all,    but  he  doesn’t  turn  it  off  for  concern  that  she’d  be  irritated  by  the  perceiving  of  his  coddling.    So  Milo  just  sits  with  her.    Rings  of  smoke  parade  from  his  parted  lips  as  he  exhales  nicotine  and  holds  out  his  arm  to  offer  her  his  cigarette.    It  sits  between  his  index  and  middle  finger  precariously  caught  by  the  very  edge  of  the  filter  so  she  can  take  it  easier.

❝    Yeah.    ❞  He’s  no  good  at  comfort;    how  can  he  be  when  he’s  never  known  it  himself?    Milo’s  a  hands  -  on  learner,    tactile  and  visual  with  his  reception  of  new  skills,    and  there’s  never  been  a  model  in  his  life  to  show  him  how  to  care  properly.    That  doesn’t  mean  he  doesn’t  want  to  do  it  though.    The  cigarette  hangs  silently  between  them.    ❝    I  get  it.    That’s  not–  I’m  not  just  saying  that,    I–  I’m,    like,    not  trying  to  be,    you  know,    condescending  or–  ❞  Milo  glares  out  at  Gotham’s  skyline,    his  cheeks  ruddy.    ❝    Sometimes  things  don’t  make  sense  e - even  when  the  facts  are  right  in  front  of  you.    Like  you  can’t  accept  the  truth  because–  Because  what  the  fuck  do  you  do  with  it  now  that  you  know?    Wish  I  didn’t  fucking  know.    Right?    ❞

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.