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thejusticelounge2014-03-31 02:06 pm
bossymarmalade) wrote in thejusticelounge2014-03-31 02:06 pm
for every useless reason i know
He’s standing at the large floor to ceiling window, still dressed in the jacket he’d worn that day. Sipping on the tumbler of scotch he holds in his hand, Bruce waits.
The painkillers Ollie’s taking now are a step up from the ones he’d finished, and they help him to move less stiffly and gingerly — something Ollie’s grateful for, when he sees Bruce. For some reason appearing before them limping and banged-up is a prospect he can’t handle, right now.
You can’t not dress for Wayne Tower, and Kate’s wearing a black trouser suit, red shell underneath. Perhaps thumbing her nose at Gotham a little, the suit’s not designer—it’s off-the-rack from Macys. Doesn’t mean she’s not impeccable. Also doesn’t mean she’s not through half her vodka martini by now either. She looks up at the sound of the door from where she’s perched on the arm of a chair.
"Hey," Ollie says, stopping some distance from them both. Hovering. Bruce nods.
"Hey," says Kate, echoing a little. She’s tense, a little wary, but there’s a furrow in her brow at just how fucking beat up Ollie looks. He taps his fingers against his thighs and then jams his hands in his pockets, hunching over a little. "So. You’re both mad at me. Wanna tell me why?"
Bruce moves over to refill Kate’s martini with the shaker on the tray near them. He looks over at Ollie, one glance, and then back at what he’s doing for her. He ignores Ollie’s question and asks, instead. “Can you drink with whatever it is you’re taking?”
"Yes. At least, I /have/ been."
Kate gives Ollie a look, but this is only the ‘Oliver, don’t be so fucking self-destructive’ look. Ollie shrugs at her. “I could use a drink, is what I’m saying. That’s all.”
"I just have concern about your liver," says Kate. "That’s all." She nods at Bruce for the drink and pokes at the lemon peel curled neatly in the glass.
Bruce blinks at him and then finishes with Kate’s drink before he steps back, to his own. He doesn’t pour Ollie one. Then, glancing at the woman between them, he states. “You went behind my back on something that not only concerned me as a League member, but went back on everything you’ve been attempting to conjure up as necessary in our relationship.” He holds Ollie’s gaze, which seems incredibly difficult then, and is, and states. “Trust. Communication. Openness.” He takes a breath and continues. “You did something unilaterally, as if you were a person on your own, and not in.. This, and after understanding the depth of how it affected Kate and I, you stated that you had no regret for your actions.” Then, he repeats, nearly verbatim, what he had told Kate the night they’d found out. “What happened to her, what mattered, it was important because of my son. Because of Damian.” He looks at Ollie. “Moving into the future knowing I did what I could for someone who I once cared about. Who gave me something I can’t—” He stops, blinking, and takes a long, draining drink of his scotch.
"I /don’t/ understand the depth of how it affected you." Ollie looks between them both, forehead furrowed. "I don’t understand why you’re reacting like this. She’s /gone/. Isn’t that what we wanted? Wasn’t that the best thing for us? And not just us, but Damian and Ramsey and hell, even everybody else, Rayner and all them."
Kate watches Bruce, keeps an eye on him, because this is more words than he’s strung together about his feelings in basically ever.
Bruce stares at Kate, as if she could help, because she is right: he is temporarily out of words and pours himself another scotch from a decanter that had been full when they had first agreed to meet.
Kate gives Bruce a soft nod of reassurance, because it’s important for him to use his words and yeah, okay, Bruce does need positive reinforcement for this kind of thing. “Bruce wanted to help her because of what it meant for Damian. Because it was what he felt was a good thing to do. Not necessarily what was the RIGHT thing to do.” She looks Ollie in the eye as she says this, willing him to understand: Bruce had wanted to do something because he felt it. Not because he was thinking it through, was cold and logical. How important this was. ”We all wanted her gone. You’re right.”
Bruce’s voice is quiet, but not soft: there is an edge to it. “More than you were made aware.”
Kate’s brow furrows further. “But Bruce wanted to try to do things the good way. Rather than the…expedient way. Believe it or not.”
"Okay." Ollie takes a breath and takes his hands from his pockets, holding them in front of him as he talks. The frown hasn’t left his forehead. "Okay, lemme see if I’m getting this straight. For a number of reasons that I wasn’t made aware of, we were supposed to wait and do things the good way with Talia rather than the expedient way, which is why neither of you then told me that Talia was being moved and I was completely out of the loop on everything. Right so far?" He doesn’t give them a chance to interject and keeps going, voice rising in volume, "Right! So then when I make a move to take care of the situation since to me — because I wasn’t /made aware/ of anything otherwise — it seemed like we were all just paralyzed with indecision, I should’ve, what, written up a proposal? Informed you both a week in advance? Y’know, since we’re ALL being so full of trust and openness and communication." Ollie gives them a scathing look, taking an unsteady step backwards. "Or am I just /conjuring/ things up again."
Bruce speaks, and his voice is icy, frigidly cold. “Nothing ever /has/ to be done, Oliver, because this doesn’t have to go on.” He continues. “And a proposal would have been overkill.” His tone shivers into subzero temperatures. “A text message would have been fine, instead of subterfuge, waiting for Adebayo to leave before you moved in.”
"You’re fucking kidding me. A text message would’ve had you swooping in there like all four Horsemen."
Bruce snarls. “And with GOOD reason.”
Kate sits there for a moment, sips her drink. “Yeah, well, no one the fuck even told me about the sweeping in apocalyptic style that happened after, so.” She takes another slurp. “I didn’t want to give her back. I didn’t even want to give her back because it was the smart thing to do.”
Ollie scowls, watching her. “Will somebody give me a fucking drink, at least?”
Kate gets up, pours Ollie a martini, then hands it over. Her fingers brush accidentally against his before she pulls away, slumps into a chair. He grabs at the glass, socking most of the drink back in one go. “Look,” Ollie says, “I get that you both think I acted rashly and without thinking. I didn’t, but I get how you’d see it that way. And it wasn’t my optimal plan to give Talia to Ra’s, in case neither of you remembers /that/ part of it. But—” Ollie rolls the thin stem of the glass between his fingers, “—it’s not /the/ worst outcome. It’s bad, but her being here was worse. Even considering how Damian feels about her.”
Bruce finishes his second scotch, and then looks over at Oliver, words thick with alcohol, anger. “My son, for all his training and claims otherwise, is what he looks like: a boy. He is.. despite everything—” Bruce’s voice thickens, catches. “—just a /boy/, who was raised by that woman, his only parent, even if it was of her own devices. That woman, who I once—” He can’t continue, and shifts, glancing to the window, and back. “—that you unplugged from her hospital machines and stole away no better than a thief in the night.. That woman.” He holds Ollie’s gaze, and swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing as he grits his teeth—as if this were painful, and maybe it is—and forges on. “He hates her, and he loves her, and the desperate, horrible nature of what they have aside, what he knows /now/ is that the man that I have forged a place for besides me—” His voice drops, into the awful iciness of before, Batman’s rage slicing through each vowel, consonant. “—that man effectively gave her away to a fate worse than death.”
Kate opens her mouth, then closes it, when Bruce starts talking, because it’s not her place. It’s really, really not. Bruce looks at Kate, as if hearing what she has said, internally. He pours himself another scotch, and takes a seat on the couch where she is perched.
Ollie, however, had no such compunctions. He finishes what alcohol is left in his glass and then stoops to set it down on the floor, carefully, the wince at the corners of his eyes obvious as he straightens back up. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Ollie says. “Like I said, this wasn’t the outcome I was hoping for. But I still don’t feel bad about it.” Ollie looks at Kate, looks at Bruce. “Parents aren’t always sacrosanct. It’ll be better for Damian in the long run if Talia’s out of his life instead of him holding onto that hope that she’s gonna turn good for him. Or for you. Because she never will.” He takes another step back, face and voice level and shuttered. “He can hate me for it. That’s fine.”
"How does that get to be your choice?" asks Kate. "How the hell does that get to be your and Dick’s decision?!"
"Because we seemed to be the only ones ready to /do/ anything to get her out of here."
"You told me to push the issue! And then when I didn’t move fast enough for your tastes, you just went the fuck ahead!"
Bruce is silent. Ollie doesn’t protest, because Kate’s pretty much hit the nail on the head there.
"Everyone always seems to do that to me. ‘Oh, Kate, we’ll do this, oh, Kate, go there,’ and then when it’s left to be my call it still isn’t!" Kate is aware she’s not making a ton of sense, but at this point she doesn’t care.
Ollie shrugs again. “I’ve never stopped you from doing anything. You coulda done something about Talia at any point, if you wanted. Since you, after all, were the only one not compromised by … how did you put it? ‘Daddy’s little girl’?”
Kate nearly gets up out of her seat, but instead her nails dig into the leather and she stays put. “You want to know why I didn’t talk to you? Because I knew this would happen, I knew you would throw everything I’ve ever done as a fuckup back at me, and I’d be forced to throw shit back at you. And then when I did, I’d feel like a shithead because of all the dumb shit I’d done and all the shit I’d said!”
Bruce looks between Ollie and Kate, saying nothing. Still.
Ollie spreads his hands out to the sides. “You wanna? Go ahead, Kate! Bring it, if you got it. Because I guarantee when all this is said and done, /I’m/ gonna be the one who’s having the shit flung at me and being told that I need to change and do better and think about things and communicate and whateverthefuck else, and it won’t be either of you two fucking saints!”
And Bruce is off the couch in a flash, his hand lifting out and nearly curling around Ollie’s shirt collar before he pulls back, and throws the tumbler against the window, because punching people is bad—Kate had made that clear— but it’s not like the anger issues have left. He /roars/ at Ollie. “It wasn’t your GODDAMN DECISION TO MAKE.”
Kate had been about to snap back, loudly, and (in honesty) probably throw a glass in some innocuous direction as well, but she’s stopped by Bruce’s doing it instead. She slides off the chair instead, slides down it and draws her knees up to her chest as she sits on the floor, back firm against the leather, like a child.
"You’re wrong." Ollie drops his hands to his sides, shoulders slumping, staring at a spot on the floor. "All the things she did to us. To you both. What she was gonna do if she stayed, and if she died, or if Ra’s attacked us to get her back." There’s no fight in Ollie’s voice or his posture, but he’s still resolute. "You’re wrong. The decision could’ve been any of ours. So I made it mine."
Bruce stares at him for long second, that spans into hours, and then days and when he feels his heart rate lowering back down, he murmurs. “..and weren’t you the one insisting that we were an ‘us’.” He shifts away from Ollie, and to Kate, giving the archer his back as he lowers himself to the floor, curling a hand against Kate’s lower back.
"And didn’t they already do just as much," murmurs Kate. "Leading to all of this shit?"
"I guess," Ollie says colourlessly as he turns towards the door, "in the end it doesn’t really matter. Not to either of you. I’m the bad guy here."
Bruce speaks over his shoulder, pushing a hand over her hair to push it back, over her ear, his voice cold. “..don’t approach my son.”
"Wouldn’t dream of it."
Kate, though, is not Bruce, refuses to leave it at that. She’s still facing outwards, eases to her feet. “Oh, the fuck do either of you pull this shit.”
Bruce sits back, nearly taking her spot on the ground, and watches her. He looks over at his decanter, and then, at what remains of his glass.
"For once, this isn’t a lecture you need to give /me/, Kate," Ollie sneers, gesturing at Bruce. "Talk to him. I’m not the one saying ‘us’ like it’s past tense."
Bruce smirks.
Kate frowns. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ollie, you can’t figure out when he’s trying to rile the fuck out of you? You’re refusing to see Bruce’s point of view, Bruce doesn’t comprehend yours, and frankly, the relevance of what I think seems to be pretty relative, so I’d say that’s the source of the problem. Everyone’s playing everyone else to their utter fucking faults, and it’s almost so perfect I’d think Talia’d have done it if she weren’t fucking passed out for the last month plus.”
Bruce looks up at Kate, and states, evenly. “I wasn’t attempting to do anything but state the obvious..” He leans back, extending his legs in a nearly childish gesture, shoes still on, gleamed to a wicked shine. “..Ollie wants us to be an us, until he doesn’t. Then, it’s just him.”
Ollie pauses, but doesn’t move back towards them. “I do see his point of view,” he says, “I don’t agree with it. Not the same thing. And he’s not trying to /rile/ me. He’s trying to hurt me. And he’s doing a great job.”
"Ollie, that’s exactly what you do to people when they’ve hurt you, you do realise that." Kate rubs the bridge of her nose, gets up and paces by the window, seemingly ignorant of the broken glass crunching softly under her shoes. It’s almost comical.
Bruce reaches up and grabs the decanter, as if he means to drink straight from it. Instead, he curls his hand around it, and states. “How is what I stated hurting you.”
Sighing, Ollie rubs his face with the heel of his hand. “I should’ve realized I’d have to present fucking evidence,” he mutters to himself, then turns fully to face them again. “Let’s try this: how many fucking times have /I/ ransomed our relationship because I was pissed off at you? Huh? Let’s explore /that/ little factoid before I need to start explaining in detail why your shutting me out of your home and the Cave and then taking potshots at what I think is important for us to BE an ‘us’ is hurtful.”
Bruce shoots back. “You, who were already cemented and affirmed in a marriage. Yes. You’ve haven’t done that, you’re correct, Oliver. And I have.” He blinks. “Because I’m learning, but not fast enough. And after everything we’ve experienced, I haven’t fallen back on that behavior.” He stares at Oliver. “I began to trust that you wanted us to be an us, I felt like it was important we take a step towards my own—” he huffs, voice going hoarse. “—affirmation of what we are.” He doesn’t use the word ‘were’, and continues. “..I trusted you, I trusted that every behavior you demanded of me, that you explained was the ground plan for the three of us, that it was equivocal. Across the board.”
It’s a bit startling, to hear all of that come out of Bruce, and Kate has paused, mid-tread, glass ground into the carpet, to watch them. Learning, but not fast enough. Like she was, for that matter.
"No! YOU’RE the one who interprets Kate and me being married as exclusionary! It’s not! We’ve never tried to make it seem that way, goddammit! You can’t blame /us/ for your own hangups, Bruce." Ollie shakes his head. "And don’t act like you’ve never kept things from me, because that would be a fucking lie. The /one/ goddamn time I keep something from you two and you act like I’ve burned down our entire relationship. Well, fine." Ollie rocks back on his heels, distraught. "Fine. If that’s how you wanna read it, okay. Not like it takes any effort for me, right? Not like I try to support you both and tell you it’s okay if you can’t eviscerate yourselves like I do and open up about everything, not like I don’t force myself to push my comfort limits and boundaries to prove how much I love you and how committed I am to us being an US, okay, fine. One lousy time I made a decision that I think is gonna be better for /all/ of us, and I’ve ruined everything. Okay. If that’s the story you two are cosigning, okay, okay, okay."
Bruce snaps and climbs to his feet, his posture shifting into the offensive. “I never stated it was exclusionary, you blistering idiot. I’m saying that you had less to lose!” His voice pitches up, hard and sudden. “I have a son who I am barely—” Bruce’s voice slicks into thickness and his hands move as if he is cupping something in his palms, fingers flexing. “—I am barely holding onto.”
"We all have everything to lose," Kate says, quietly, leaning against the windowpane, the Gotham skyline starting to go twilight behind her.
"And I love you, and that is beyond— That isn’t—" The words start to stopper and when Kate speaks, it’s enough to kill them, in Bruce’s throat.
Bruce scrubs a hand over his face, and he removes his jacket, sweat glistening against his brow and throws it against the couch. He undoes the cuff of his left sleeve, and moves to get himself a new tumbler.
"And I am FUCKED if I am going to lose it, even if I’m fucking angry," Kate adds, even quieter now.
Ollie makes a tired, half-hearted gesture at Bruce. “It’s up to him. Like it always is.”
"We’re trying to catch up, Oliver, can’t you see that?"
Bruce serves himself another scotch, neat, his motions precise and dedicated.
"So what am I supposed to do?" Ollie looks between them, sharply.
"Both Bruce and I need to improve. We get that. You’ve seen Bruce ADMIT that—" and the expression on Kate’s face indicates just how startling this is to her, "what do you want US to do?"
Bruce supplies, quietly. “Improve faster.”
"Well, yeah. That would be great. But I know it’s not happening." Ollie folds his arms, swaying slightly in the direction of the liquor but not actively going for it. "So I’d settle for you both cutting me a break once in a while instead of assuming that this is all easy-peasy for me. It’s not."
Kate rubs her forehead. “I…can see what you mean with that,” she says. In her opinion, neither Bruce nor Ollie need another drink, but she’s not about to wrest the glass from Bruce’s hand.
Bruce looks up and over at Ollie. “This isn’t something I can cut you a break on, especially when you don’t understand the implications of it, and don’t, most importantly, /care./”
"I DO care! But I don’t /agree/, jesus, Bruce!" Ollie makes a frustrated sound, scratching at his sleeves with his fingernails. "Do /you/ understand what it’s been like watching you be turned inside-out by Talia being here? Living under your roof, getting you sent to fucking prison, plotting against you, getting pregnant with your baby? Do you really, /really/ think this hasn’t all been building to a head? You think I don’t fucking CARE?"
Bruce seems to want to say something when Ollie speaks, but seems to think better of it and clarifies, instead: “Care about /this/, Oliver. About what is going to happen to her. What you facilitated. What it means for us.”
"Has it always been this?" Kate asks. "Either she’s gonna come for us whenever she gets free, inevitably, let loose the dogs of war, or if we helped her, he’d come for us?"
"It’s all the same damn thing, Bruce! It’s not like THIS happened in isolation, it’s BECAUSE of everything else that came before it! She sent Ramsey to Hell! She got Damian KILLED, and you think we can narrow down the focus to just /this/?? You think I need to prove how much I’m bleeding over /what I facilitated/??" Ollie gives a wild laugh, stooping to pick up one of the shards of glass from near Kate’s feet. "Okay, here, how’s this?" He digs it into the ball of his thumb, opening a wedge-shaped cut in the meat of it and watching with satisfaction as blood wells out and drips rapidly down his fingers. "There. Good ol’fashioned blood, how’s that? Proof enough of my remorse? Tell you what, why don’t you lend me one of your own hair shirts or floggers, then we’ll see what’s what!" He laughs, scattershot and rough.
Bruce’s voice is terse, but he turns to look at her. “What they do, Kate,” he states, “is what they’ll do. But we.. /We/—” But he stops when Ollie does what he does, and without thinking, moves tot the drinking cart. He pulls one of the folded napkins out, thick and starched, and tears a shred of cotton to wrap around the bleeding digit.
Kate stares in horror at Ollie as he cuts himself, bites her lip hard and makes a soft pained sound. “We all need to do better,” she says finally, slightly dazed. Bruce continues, fashioning a knot, and steps back, away from Oliver, looking back at Kate. He says nothing.
When Bruce moves forward with the ripped napkin, Ollie doesn’t seem to notice for a moment what’s happening and then steps back, wrenching away from the makeshift bandage. “Don’t — don’t /touch/ me,” he snarls, holding his hands out, fingers spread stiffly. “Don’t waste your time.”
"Oh my god, Oliver, shut up," says Kate, but it’s an affectionate, terrified shut up, not an actual statement. She walks towards him.
Bruce steps away, again, further away when Ollie states what he wants: honoring the distance, he moves the napkin back to where it had been.
Ollie backs up some more as Kate approaches, blood drops pattering down on the floor. “How could he think I don’t /care/,” he asks her, pained, but still moving away from her. “After all of this. How could he possibly?”
Kate looks over her shoulder, gives Bruce a Look, gestures with her chin for him to bring the napkin or at least give it to her because this is when ‘stay away from me’ doesn’t actually mean that—what it means is Ollie’s fighting the instinct to shut down, bolt, blank out.
Bruce watches as Kate approaches Oliver and he moves back, the wound on his finger seeping through the cotton. He turns to his drink and takes a long sip, drawing words he had already bitten back. He reaches for the torn napkin and takes it to her, but does not step in closer.
"He’s scared and hurt. Like you are and I am." She takes the napkin, reaches out. "Ollie. Let me have a look at your hand, okay?"
Bruce remains silent, watching her.
After a moment’s consideration, this statement seems to make sense to Ollie because he holds out his bleeding hand to her. “It’s fine,” he says. “I don’t care about that. It doesn’t hurt.” He looks over at Bruce, green eyes glassy and dull. “I do care,” Ollie says. “I don’t know how many ways I can make it obvious, I don’t know—” he trails off, then shuts his mouth, teeth clacking and a muscle in his jaw jumping. “No. I guess I do know. You want me to say I was wrong, and that’s the only thing you’ll accept. Remorse and regret and begging your forgiveness.”
Bruce says nothing, meeting Ollie’s eyes, mute.
Kate looks at Ollie’s hand, carefully unties the first bandage, applying pressure as she does, and ties the new one neatly off. “What do you want, Bruce?” she asks softly, because honestly, at this point she realises she doesn’t know.
Bruce doesn’t blink when Kate speaks to him, but continues to stare for a moment, as if he were deciphering what she meant: analyzing tone, the smoothness her face, where it is tight. But, if he is, he doesn’t make light of this and replies, as if being called on in class by a professor. “I don’t know.”
Ollie makes a little choking sound and clenches his hand around Kate’s, suddenly, like he needs it to stay upright.
Kate looks back at Bruce over her shoulder for a moment, reaches out with her other hand to steady Ollie. “I want an us,” she says, before glancing at Ollie. “Even with all of the darkness. I don’t know how to fix this. But that is what I want.”
Bruce watches her as she moves, steadying Ollie, the dark blue of his gaze flitting to her mouth as she forms the words she speaks.
The look on Bruce’s face, though—she turns again, appraises him. “Oh christ,” she mutters. “I think we broke his brain.” There’s no answer from Ollie, who looks exhausted as he drops his forehead against her shoulder and slumps heavily against her.
Bruce blinks, and looks out the window, at Gotham, glittering now, in darkness.
Kate looks at Ollie, then, and realizes that he’s probably in a similar place. He’s getting heavier, too, Kate having to support more and more of his weight. She shifts Ollie over towards the sofa, slowly, because fuck, the man is heavy, and she shifts him to lie down on it, remarkably gentle. “Bruce,” she says. “Come sit down? We don’t have to talk anymore.”
Bruce looks to her, and then to Ollie, and back to her. “Then, what will we do?” He doesn’t ask it in a snarky way, or even to get a rise out of her: he asks, because he is unsure. He’s never made it this far.
"We’ll get some rest before we try to figure it out," says Kate, honestly, and while her voice is soft, there is firmness in her gaze, in her tone, and she is not about to stop fighting for this, for her boys, together.
Bruce takes a breath and then moves to sit down, on the floor, the new tumbler of scotch still in hand.
"I love you both," Ollie mumbles, the words indistinct and half-swallowed.
"I love you too," murmurs Kate, and she leans over to check his position for a moment so there’s not an issue if he’s sick, "even when I’m pissed off at you. Do you need some water?" She reaches over and strokes fingertips against Bruce’s knee.
Bruce watches both of them, as they speak, eyes moving from one to the other.
"No," Ollie says, all of the opposition and strife leached out of his voice and leaving it papery, almost younger. "I just need the two of you." He reaches for them, Kate and Bruce, without looking, trusting they’d find his hands. "You promised you’d never leave me. Even if I don’t always make you happy."
Bruce looks at Ollie’s hand, his brow furrowing and he doesn’t take, instead, lifts his head up to state, as if he sounds confused about it: “The baby wasn’t mine.”
Kate trails her fingertips against the back of Ollie’s hand, but pauses, startling, at this statement. “What?”
"…/what/?"
Bruce reaches for Ollie’s hand, then, belatedly, as if he’d needed to state that. He looks up at them, at their startling, and can’t help the way his mouth nearly twitches at their unbelieving twin ‘whats’. “Based on the size, the assumption was made, erroneously that it was from our copulation. I tested the placenta for DNA after she delivered.” He takes Ollie’s hand in his own.
"So then who…what…" Kate looks utterly baffled. It was obviously not Ollie’s child, so…
Bruce looks at Kate.
"I don’t understand," Ollie says outright, clutching at their hands hard enough to grind their knuckles. "Whose was it?"
The realization dawns slowly over Kate’s face. “Kyle. Does he know?”
"No."
"I don’t understand," Ollie repeats more insistently. "Why didn’t you say something before?"
Bruce states then, his hand still around Ollie’s, thumb worrying a tiny spot at the callous at the edge of the archer’s palm. He doesn’t realize he is doing it, and he looks up at them. “Because I was still running tests.” He hears the words from his mouth realizes he needs to clarify, so they don’t misunderstand. “On myself, not the DNA.”
Kate blinks, cocks her head, now really confused.
"What tests were you doing on yourself if you already knew you weren’t the father?" Ollie crumples his whole face, perplexed and starting to want more painkillers. But he’s loathe to let go of their hands.
Bruce looks between the two of them, as if he doesn’t /exactly/ understand what they are asking him. He licks his lips, to ask for more information, and then states. “I have no viable sperm left for it to have been mine. I was attempting to confirm that along with the fetus’ parentage and abnormal growth.”
Kate smooths her hand softly over Bruce’s knee, carefully.
After the few moments it takes for that to sink in, Ollie blurts, “Damian’s never going to willingly leave you, Bruce. Not for Talia. Not for anything.”
Bruce looks over at Ollie and nods, as if he understands and agrees. His fingers stop, abruptly.
Kate lets her hand linger for a moment, warm, against Bruce’s knee. “You don’t have to talk about it anymore right now if you don’t want to,” she says.
Bruce looks to Kate. “About what?”
"All of this."
Bruce nods.
"Rest for a little while," Kate says. "That goes for both of you."
The painkillers Ollie’s taking now are a step up from the ones he’d finished, and they help him to move less stiffly and gingerly — something Ollie’s grateful for, when he sees Bruce. For some reason appearing before them limping and banged-up is a prospect he can’t handle, right now.
You can’t not dress for Wayne Tower, and Kate’s wearing a black trouser suit, red shell underneath. Perhaps thumbing her nose at Gotham a little, the suit’s not designer—it’s off-the-rack from Macys. Doesn’t mean she’s not impeccable. Also doesn’t mean she’s not through half her vodka martini by now either. She looks up at the sound of the door from where she’s perched on the arm of a chair.
"Hey," Ollie says, stopping some distance from them both. Hovering. Bruce nods.
"Hey," says Kate, echoing a little. She’s tense, a little wary, but there’s a furrow in her brow at just how fucking beat up Ollie looks. He taps his fingers against his thighs and then jams his hands in his pockets, hunching over a little. "So. You’re both mad at me. Wanna tell me why?"
Bruce moves over to refill Kate’s martini with the shaker on the tray near them. He looks over at Ollie, one glance, and then back at what he’s doing for her. He ignores Ollie’s question and asks, instead. “Can you drink with whatever it is you’re taking?”
"Yes. At least, I /have/ been."
Kate gives Ollie a look, but this is only the ‘Oliver, don’t be so fucking self-destructive’ look. Ollie shrugs at her. “I could use a drink, is what I’m saying. That’s all.”
"I just have concern about your liver," says Kate. "That’s all." She nods at Bruce for the drink and pokes at the lemon peel curled neatly in the glass.
Bruce blinks at him and then finishes with Kate’s drink before he steps back, to his own. He doesn’t pour Ollie one. Then, glancing at the woman between them, he states. “You went behind my back on something that not only concerned me as a League member, but went back on everything you’ve been attempting to conjure up as necessary in our relationship.” He holds Ollie’s gaze, which seems incredibly difficult then, and is, and states. “Trust. Communication. Openness.” He takes a breath and continues. “You did something unilaterally, as if you were a person on your own, and not in.. This, and after understanding the depth of how it affected Kate and I, you stated that you had no regret for your actions.” Then, he repeats, nearly verbatim, what he had told Kate the night they’d found out. “What happened to her, what mattered, it was important because of my son. Because of Damian.” He looks at Ollie. “Moving into the future knowing I did what I could for someone who I once cared about. Who gave me something I can’t—” He stops, blinking, and takes a long, draining drink of his scotch.
"I /don’t/ understand the depth of how it affected you." Ollie looks between them both, forehead furrowed. "I don’t understand why you’re reacting like this. She’s /gone/. Isn’t that what we wanted? Wasn’t that the best thing for us? And not just us, but Damian and Ramsey and hell, even everybody else, Rayner and all them."
Kate watches Bruce, keeps an eye on him, because this is more words than he’s strung together about his feelings in basically ever.
Bruce stares at Kate, as if she could help, because she is right: he is temporarily out of words and pours himself another scotch from a decanter that had been full when they had first agreed to meet.
Kate gives Bruce a soft nod of reassurance, because it’s important for him to use his words and yeah, okay, Bruce does need positive reinforcement for this kind of thing. “Bruce wanted to help her because of what it meant for Damian. Because it was what he felt was a good thing to do. Not necessarily what was the RIGHT thing to do.” She looks Ollie in the eye as she says this, willing him to understand: Bruce had wanted to do something because he felt it. Not because he was thinking it through, was cold and logical. How important this was. ”We all wanted her gone. You’re right.”
Bruce’s voice is quiet, but not soft: there is an edge to it. “More than you were made aware.”
Kate’s brow furrows further. “But Bruce wanted to try to do things the good way. Rather than the…expedient way. Believe it or not.”
"Okay." Ollie takes a breath and takes his hands from his pockets, holding them in front of him as he talks. The frown hasn’t left his forehead. "Okay, lemme see if I’m getting this straight. For a number of reasons that I wasn’t made aware of, we were supposed to wait and do things the good way with Talia rather than the expedient way, which is why neither of you then told me that Talia was being moved and I was completely out of the loop on everything. Right so far?" He doesn’t give them a chance to interject and keeps going, voice rising in volume, "Right! So then when I make a move to take care of the situation since to me — because I wasn’t /made aware/ of anything otherwise — it seemed like we were all just paralyzed with indecision, I should’ve, what, written up a proposal? Informed you both a week in advance? Y’know, since we’re ALL being so full of trust and openness and communication." Ollie gives them a scathing look, taking an unsteady step backwards. "Or am I just /conjuring/ things up again."
Bruce speaks, and his voice is icy, frigidly cold. “Nothing ever /has/ to be done, Oliver, because this doesn’t have to go on.” He continues. “And a proposal would have been overkill.” His tone shivers into subzero temperatures. “A text message would have been fine, instead of subterfuge, waiting for Adebayo to leave before you moved in.”
"You’re fucking kidding me. A text message would’ve had you swooping in there like all four Horsemen."
Bruce snarls. “And with GOOD reason.”
Kate sits there for a moment, sips her drink. “Yeah, well, no one the fuck even told me about the sweeping in apocalyptic style that happened after, so.” She takes another slurp. “I didn’t want to give her back. I didn’t even want to give her back because it was the smart thing to do.”
Ollie scowls, watching her. “Will somebody give me a fucking drink, at least?”
Kate gets up, pours Ollie a martini, then hands it over. Her fingers brush accidentally against his before she pulls away, slumps into a chair. He grabs at the glass, socking most of the drink back in one go. “Look,” Ollie says, “I get that you both think I acted rashly and without thinking. I didn’t, but I get how you’d see it that way. And it wasn’t my optimal plan to give Talia to Ra’s, in case neither of you remembers /that/ part of it. But—” Ollie rolls the thin stem of the glass between his fingers, “—it’s not /the/ worst outcome. It’s bad, but her being here was worse. Even considering how Damian feels about her.”
Bruce finishes his second scotch, and then looks over at Oliver, words thick with alcohol, anger. “My son, for all his training and claims otherwise, is what he looks like: a boy. He is.. despite everything—” Bruce’s voice thickens, catches. “—just a /boy/, who was raised by that woman, his only parent, even if it was of her own devices. That woman, who I once—” He can’t continue, and shifts, glancing to the window, and back. “—that you unplugged from her hospital machines and stole away no better than a thief in the night.. That woman.” He holds Ollie’s gaze, and swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing as he grits his teeth—as if this were painful, and maybe it is—and forges on. “He hates her, and he loves her, and the desperate, horrible nature of what they have aside, what he knows /now/ is that the man that I have forged a place for besides me—” His voice drops, into the awful iciness of before, Batman’s rage slicing through each vowel, consonant. “—that man effectively gave her away to a fate worse than death.”
Kate opens her mouth, then closes it, when Bruce starts talking, because it’s not her place. It’s really, really not. Bruce looks at Kate, as if hearing what she has said, internally. He pours himself another scotch, and takes a seat on the couch where she is perched.
Ollie, however, had no such compunctions. He finishes what alcohol is left in his glass and then stoops to set it down on the floor, carefully, the wince at the corners of his eyes obvious as he straightens back up. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Ollie says. “Like I said, this wasn’t the outcome I was hoping for. But I still don’t feel bad about it.” Ollie looks at Kate, looks at Bruce. “Parents aren’t always sacrosanct. It’ll be better for Damian in the long run if Talia’s out of his life instead of him holding onto that hope that she’s gonna turn good for him. Or for you. Because she never will.” He takes another step back, face and voice level and shuttered. “He can hate me for it. That’s fine.”
"How does that get to be your choice?" asks Kate. "How the hell does that get to be your and Dick’s decision?!"
"Because we seemed to be the only ones ready to /do/ anything to get her out of here."
"You told me to push the issue! And then when I didn’t move fast enough for your tastes, you just went the fuck ahead!"
Bruce is silent. Ollie doesn’t protest, because Kate’s pretty much hit the nail on the head there.
"Everyone always seems to do that to me. ‘Oh, Kate, we’ll do this, oh, Kate, go there,’ and then when it’s left to be my call it still isn’t!" Kate is aware she’s not making a ton of sense, but at this point she doesn’t care.
Ollie shrugs again. “I’ve never stopped you from doing anything. You coulda done something about Talia at any point, if you wanted. Since you, after all, were the only one not compromised by … how did you put it? ‘Daddy’s little girl’?”
Kate nearly gets up out of her seat, but instead her nails dig into the leather and she stays put. “You want to know why I didn’t talk to you? Because I knew this would happen, I knew you would throw everything I’ve ever done as a fuckup back at me, and I’d be forced to throw shit back at you. And then when I did, I’d feel like a shithead because of all the dumb shit I’d done and all the shit I’d said!”
Bruce looks between Ollie and Kate, saying nothing. Still.
Ollie spreads his hands out to the sides. “You wanna? Go ahead, Kate! Bring it, if you got it. Because I guarantee when all this is said and done, /I’m/ gonna be the one who’s having the shit flung at me and being told that I need to change and do better and think about things and communicate and whateverthefuck else, and it won’t be either of you two fucking saints!”
And Bruce is off the couch in a flash, his hand lifting out and nearly curling around Ollie’s shirt collar before he pulls back, and throws the tumbler against the window, because punching people is bad—Kate had made that clear— but it’s not like the anger issues have left. He /roars/ at Ollie. “It wasn’t your GODDAMN DECISION TO MAKE.”
Kate had been about to snap back, loudly, and (in honesty) probably throw a glass in some innocuous direction as well, but she’s stopped by Bruce’s doing it instead. She slides off the chair instead, slides down it and draws her knees up to her chest as she sits on the floor, back firm against the leather, like a child.
"You’re wrong." Ollie drops his hands to his sides, shoulders slumping, staring at a spot on the floor. "All the things she did to us. To you both. What she was gonna do if she stayed, and if she died, or if Ra’s attacked us to get her back." There’s no fight in Ollie’s voice or his posture, but he’s still resolute. "You’re wrong. The decision could’ve been any of ours. So I made it mine."
Bruce stares at him for long second, that spans into hours, and then days and when he feels his heart rate lowering back down, he murmurs. “..and weren’t you the one insisting that we were an ‘us’.” He shifts away from Ollie, and to Kate, giving the archer his back as he lowers himself to the floor, curling a hand against Kate’s lower back.
"And didn’t they already do just as much," murmurs Kate. "Leading to all of this shit?"
"I guess," Ollie says colourlessly as he turns towards the door, "in the end it doesn’t really matter. Not to either of you. I’m the bad guy here."
Bruce speaks over his shoulder, pushing a hand over her hair to push it back, over her ear, his voice cold. “..don’t approach my son.”
"Wouldn’t dream of it."
Kate, though, is not Bruce, refuses to leave it at that. She’s still facing outwards, eases to her feet. “Oh, the fuck do either of you pull this shit.”
Bruce sits back, nearly taking her spot on the ground, and watches her. He looks over at his decanter, and then, at what remains of his glass.
"For once, this isn’t a lecture you need to give /me/, Kate," Ollie sneers, gesturing at Bruce. "Talk to him. I’m not the one saying ‘us’ like it’s past tense."
Bruce smirks.
Kate frowns. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ollie, you can’t figure out when he’s trying to rile the fuck out of you? You’re refusing to see Bruce’s point of view, Bruce doesn’t comprehend yours, and frankly, the relevance of what I think seems to be pretty relative, so I’d say that’s the source of the problem. Everyone’s playing everyone else to their utter fucking faults, and it’s almost so perfect I’d think Talia’d have done it if she weren’t fucking passed out for the last month plus.”
Bruce looks up at Kate, and states, evenly. “I wasn’t attempting to do anything but state the obvious..” He leans back, extending his legs in a nearly childish gesture, shoes still on, gleamed to a wicked shine. “..Ollie wants us to be an us, until he doesn’t. Then, it’s just him.”
Ollie pauses, but doesn’t move back towards them. “I do see his point of view,” he says, “I don’t agree with it. Not the same thing. And he’s not trying to /rile/ me. He’s trying to hurt me. And he’s doing a great job.”
"Ollie, that’s exactly what you do to people when they’ve hurt you, you do realise that." Kate rubs the bridge of her nose, gets up and paces by the window, seemingly ignorant of the broken glass crunching softly under her shoes. It’s almost comical.
Bruce reaches up and grabs the decanter, as if he means to drink straight from it. Instead, he curls his hand around it, and states. “How is what I stated hurting you.”
Sighing, Ollie rubs his face with the heel of his hand. “I should’ve realized I’d have to present fucking evidence,” he mutters to himself, then turns fully to face them again. “Let’s try this: how many fucking times have /I/ ransomed our relationship because I was pissed off at you? Huh? Let’s explore /that/ little factoid before I need to start explaining in detail why your shutting me out of your home and the Cave and then taking potshots at what I think is important for us to BE an ‘us’ is hurtful.”
Bruce shoots back. “You, who were already cemented and affirmed in a marriage. Yes. You’ve haven’t done that, you’re correct, Oliver. And I have.” He blinks. “Because I’m learning, but not fast enough. And after everything we’ve experienced, I haven’t fallen back on that behavior.” He stares at Oliver. “I began to trust that you wanted us to be an us, I felt like it was important we take a step towards my own—” he huffs, voice going hoarse. “—affirmation of what we are.” He doesn’t use the word ‘were’, and continues. “..I trusted you, I trusted that every behavior you demanded of me, that you explained was the ground plan for the three of us, that it was equivocal. Across the board.”
It’s a bit startling, to hear all of that come out of Bruce, and Kate has paused, mid-tread, glass ground into the carpet, to watch them. Learning, but not fast enough. Like she was, for that matter.
"No! YOU’RE the one who interprets Kate and me being married as exclusionary! It’s not! We’ve never tried to make it seem that way, goddammit! You can’t blame /us/ for your own hangups, Bruce." Ollie shakes his head. "And don’t act like you’ve never kept things from me, because that would be a fucking lie. The /one/ goddamn time I keep something from you two and you act like I’ve burned down our entire relationship. Well, fine." Ollie rocks back on his heels, distraught. "Fine. If that’s how you wanna read it, okay. Not like it takes any effort for me, right? Not like I try to support you both and tell you it’s okay if you can’t eviscerate yourselves like I do and open up about everything, not like I don’t force myself to push my comfort limits and boundaries to prove how much I love you and how committed I am to us being an US, okay, fine. One lousy time I made a decision that I think is gonna be better for /all/ of us, and I’ve ruined everything. Okay. If that’s the story you two are cosigning, okay, okay, okay."
Bruce snaps and climbs to his feet, his posture shifting into the offensive. “I never stated it was exclusionary, you blistering idiot. I’m saying that you had less to lose!” His voice pitches up, hard and sudden. “I have a son who I am barely—” Bruce’s voice slicks into thickness and his hands move as if he is cupping something in his palms, fingers flexing. “—I am barely holding onto.”
"We all have everything to lose," Kate says, quietly, leaning against the windowpane, the Gotham skyline starting to go twilight behind her.
"And I love you, and that is beyond— That isn’t—" The words start to stopper and when Kate speaks, it’s enough to kill them, in Bruce’s throat.
Bruce scrubs a hand over his face, and he removes his jacket, sweat glistening against his brow and throws it against the couch. He undoes the cuff of his left sleeve, and moves to get himself a new tumbler.
"And I am FUCKED if I am going to lose it, even if I’m fucking angry," Kate adds, even quieter now.
Ollie makes a tired, half-hearted gesture at Bruce. “It’s up to him. Like it always is.”
"We’re trying to catch up, Oliver, can’t you see that?"
Bruce serves himself another scotch, neat, his motions precise and dedicated.
"So what am I supposed to do?" Ollie looks between them, sharply.
"Both Bruce and I need to improve. We get that. You’ve seen Bruce ADMIT that—" and the expression on Kate’s face indicates just how startling this is to her, "what do you want US to do?"
Bruce supplies, quietly. “Improve faster.”
"Well, yeah. That would be great. But I know it’s not happening." Ollie folds his arms, swaying slightly in the direction of the liquor but not actively going for it. "So I’d settle for you both cutting me a break once in a while instead of assuming that this is all easy-peasy for me. It’s not."
Kate rubs her forehead. “I…can see what you mean with that,” she says. In her opinion, neither Bruce nor Ollie need another drink, but she’s not about to wrest the glass from Bruce’s hand.
Bruce looks up and over at Ollie. “This isn’t something I can cut you a break on, especially when you don’t understand the implications of it, and don’t, most importantly, /care./”
"I DO care! But I don’t /agree/, jesus, Bruce!" Ollie makes a frustrated sound, scratching at his sleeves with his fingernails. "Do /you/ understand what it’s been like watching you be turned inside-out by Talia being here? Living under your roof, getting you sent to fucking prison, plotting against you, getting pregnant with your baby? Do you really, /really/ think this hasn’t all been building to a head? You think I don’t fucking CARE?"
Bruce seems to want to say something when Ollie speaks, but seems to think better of it and clarifies, instead: “Care about /this/, Oliver. About what is going to happen to her. What you facilitated. What it means for us.”
"Has it always been this?" Kate asks. "Either she’s gonna come for us whenever she gets free, inevitably, let loose the dogs of war, or if we helped her, he’d come for us?"
"It’s all the same damn thing, Bruce! It’s not like THIS happened in isolation, it’s BECAUSE of everything else that came before it! She sent Ramsey to Hell! She got Damian KILLED, and you think we can narrow down the focus to just /this/?? You think I need to prove how much I’m bleeding over /what I facilitated/??" Ollie gives a wild laugh, stooping to pick up one of the shards of glass from near Kate’s feet. "Okay, here, how’s this?" He digs it into the ball of his thumb, opening a wedge-shaped cut in the meat of it and watching with satisfaction as blood wells out and drips rapidly down his fingers. "There. Good ol’fashioned blood, how’s that? Proof enough of my remorse? Tell you what, why don’t you lend me one of your own hair shirts or floggers, then we’ll see what’s what!" He laughs, scattershot and rough.
Bruce’s voice is terse, but he turns to look at her. “What they do, Kate,” he states, “is what they’ll do. But we.. /We/—” But he stops when Ollie does what he does, and without thinking, moves tot the drinking cart. He pulls one of the folded napkins out, thick and starched, and tears a shred of cotton to wrap around the bleeding digit.
Kate stares in horror at Ollie as he cuts himself, bites her lip hard and makes a soft pained sound. “We all need to do better,” she says finally, slightly dazed. Bruce continues, fashioning a knot, and steps back, away from Oliver, looking back at Kate. He says nothing.
When Bruce moves forward with the ripped napkin, Ollie doesn’t seem to notice for a moment what’s happening and then steps back, wrenching away from the makeshift bandage. “Don’t — don’t /touch/ me,” he snarls, holding his hands out, fingers spread stiffly. “Don’t waste your time.”
"Oh my god, Oliver, shut up," says Kate, but it’s an affectionate, terrified shut up, not an actual statement. She walks towards him.
Bruce steps away, again, further away when Ollie states what he wants: honoring the distance, he moves the napkin back to where it had been.
Ollie backs up some more as Kate approaches, blood drops pattering down on the floor. “How could he think I don’t /care/,” he asks her, pained, but still moving away from her. “After all of this. How could he possibly?”
Kate looks over her shoulder, gives Bruce a Look, gestures with her chin for him to bring the napkin or at least give it to her because this is when ‘stay away from me’ doesn’t actually mean that—what it means is Ollie’s fighting the instinct to shut down, bolt, blank out.
Bruce watches as Kate approaches Oliver and he moves back, the wound on his finger seeping through the cotton. He turns to his drink and takes a long sip, drawing words he had already bitten back. He reaches for the torn napkin and takes it to her, but does not step in closer.
"He’s scared and hurt. Like you are and I am." She takes the napkin, reaches out. "Ollie. Let me have a look at your hand, okay?"
Bruce remains silent, watching her.
After a moment’s consideration, this statement seems to make sense to Ollie because he holds out his bleeding hand to her. “It’s fine,” he says. “I don’t care about that. It doesn’t hurt.” He looks over at Bruce, green eyes glassy and dull. “I do care,” Ollie says. “I don’t know how many ways I can make it obvious, I don’t know—” he trails off, then shuts his mouth, teeth clacking and a muscle in his jaw jumping. “No. I guess I do know. You want me to say I was wrong, and that’s the only thing you’ll accept. Remorse and regret and begging your forgiveness.”
Bruce says nothing, meeting Ollie’s eyes, mute.
Kate looks at Ollie’s hand, carefully unties the first bandage, applying pressure as she does, and ties the new one neatly off. “What do you want, Bruce?” she asks softly, because honestly, at this point she realises she doesn’t know.
Bruce doesn’t blink when Kate speaks to him, but continues to stare for a moment, as if he were deciphering what she meant: analyzing tone, the smoothness her face, where it is tight. But, if he is, he doesn’t make light of this and replies, as if being called on in class by a professor. “I don’t know.”
Ollie makes a little choking sound and clenches his hand around Kate’s, suddenly, like he needs it to stay upright.
Kate looks back at Bruce over her shoulder for a moment, reaches out with her other hand to steady Ollie. “I want an us,” she says, before glancing at Ollie. “Even with all of the darkness. I don’t know how to fix this. But that is what I want.”
Bruce watches her as she moves, steadying Ollie, the dark blue of his gaze flitting to her mouth as she forms the words she speaks.
The look on Bruce’s face, though—she turns again, appraises him. “Oh christ,” she mutters. “I think we broke his brain.” There’s no answer from Ollie, who looks exhausted as he drops his forehead against her shoulder and slumps heavily against her.
Bruce blinks, and looks out the window, at Gotham, glittering now, in darkness.
Kate looks at Ollie, then, and realizes that he’s probably in a similar place. He’s getting heavier, too, Kate having to support more and more of his weight. She shifts Ollie over towards the sofa, slowly, because fuck, the man is heavy, and she shifts him to lie down on it, remarkably gentle. “Bruce,” she says. “Come sit down? We don’t have to talk anymore.”
Bruce looks to her, and then to Ollie, and back to her. “Then, what will we do?” He doesn’t ask it in a snarky way, or even to get a rise out of her: he asks, because he is unsure. He’s never made it this far.
"We’ll get some rest before we try to figure it out," says Kate, honestly, and while her voice is soft, there is firmness in her gaze, in her tone, and she is not about to stop fighting for this, for her boys, together.
Bruce takes a breath and then moves to sit down, on the floor, the new tumbler of scotch still in hand.
"I love you both," Ollie mumbles, the words indistinct and half-swallowed.
"I love you too," murmurs Kate, and she leans over to check his position for a moment so there’s not an issue if he’s sick, "even when I’m pissed off at you. Do you need some water?" She reaches over and strokes fingertips against Bruce’s knee.
Bruce watches both of them, as they speak, eyes moving from one to the other.
"No," Ollie says, all of the opposition and strife leached out of his voice and leaving it papery, almost younger. "I just need the two of you." He reaches for them, Kate and Bruce, without looking, trusting they’d find his hands. "You promised you’d never leave me. Even if I don’t always make you happy."
Bruce looks at Ollie’s hand, his brow furrowing and he doesn’t take, instead, lifts his head up to state, as if he sounds confused about it: “The baby wasn’t mine.”
Kate trails her fingertips against the back of Ollie’s hand, but pauses, startling, at this statement. “What?”
"…/what/?"
Bruce reaches for Ollie’s hand, then, belatedly, as if he’d needed to state that. He looks up at them, at their startling, and can’t help the way his mouth nearly twitches at their unbelieving twin ‘whats’. “Based on the size, the assumption was made, erroneously that it was from our copulation. I tested the placenta for DNA after she delivered.” He takes Ollie’s hand in his own.
"So then who…what…" Kate looks utterly baffled. It was obviously not Ollie’s child, so…
Bruce looks at Kate.
"I don’t understand," Ollie says outright, clutching at their hands hard enough to grind their knuckles. "Whose was it?"
The realization dawns slowly over Kate’s face. “Kyle. Does he know?”
"No."
"I don’t understand," Ollie repeats more insistently. "Why didn’t you say something before?"
Bruce states then, his hand still around Ollie’s, thumb worrying a tiny spot at the callous at the edge of the archer’s palm. He doesn’t realize he is doing it, and he looks up at them. “Because I was still running tests.” He hears the words from his mouth realizes he needs to clarify, so they don’t misunderstand. “On myself, not the DNA.”
Kate blinks, cocks her head, now really confused.
"What tests were you doing on yourself if you already knew you weren’t the father?" Ollie crumples his whole face, perplexed and starting to want more painkillers. But he’s loathe to let go of their hands.
Bruce looks between the two of them, as if he doesn’t /exactly/ understand what they are asking him. He licks his lips, to ask for more information, and then states. “I have no viable sperm left for it to have been mine. I was attempting to confirm that along with the fetus’ parentage and abnormal growth.”
Kate smooths her hand softly over Bruce’s knee, carefully.
After the few moments it takes for that to sink in, Ollie blurts, “Damian’s never going to willingly leave you, Bruce. Not for Talia. Not for anything.”
Bruce looks over at Ollie and nods, as if he understands and agrees. His fingers stop, abruptly.
Kate lets her hand linger for a moment, warm, against Bruce’s knee. “You don’t have to talk about it anymore right now if you don’t want to,” she says.
Bruce looks to Kate. “About what?”
"All of this."
Bruce nods.
"Rest for a little while," Kate says. "That goes for both of you."