track a ghost through the fog

[bossymarmalade]

[ENCRYPTED TEXT] Did something happen?

TXT: No.
TXT: I take it I need to book an appointment, then?

[ENCRYPTED TEXT] No.
[ENCRYPTED TEXT] Give me an hour. I’ll put you in the access list for the Cave’s zeta.

TXT: Bruce, you
TXT: Okay. Let me know when.

[ENCRYPTED TEXT] You’re in.

TXT: I’ll duck under the velvet rope shortly.

Kate zetaed in about five minutes after her pithy text; underneath her faintly amused expression, she wasn’t sure if she was frustrated that she hadn’t been on the goddamn access list or not. Then again, she was also telling herself she shouldn’t be surprised at this, at Bruce’s segmentation of an already intensely private life.

( get your wrist stamped )

where the heart is

[bossymarmalade]

He answers the door still dressed in the clothing he’d been in from working on the HSR in Queen Tower: black turtleneck, slacks, soft leather shoes. Bruce’s expression softens and he nods. “Stephanie."

She smiles back at him, pulling at her oversized Gotham U hoodie over her sleeping shorts and walked in. “How goes paperwork? Reached a gazillion dollars yet?" she joked.

Bruce looked back at the desk as he walked over to it, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he shook his head.

"Not Wayne Enterprises, not tonight," he said, although he didn’t clarify much else. He glanced at the girl, folded his arms over his chest and leaned against his desk as she walked further inside the room.

"Everything alright?"

"Hmm? Yeah, yeah! I was just thinking earlier is all," she said, sitting on the edge of his desk. She’d been thinking about this for a few days, actually, and finally got the cajones to rip off the bandaid.

"I’ve been thinking I might have over stayed my welcome a bit and it’s about time I get back to my apartment. You know, before Frankie and Audrey decide to run off and join Damian’s zoo," Steph joked lightly, but in truth she was sad. It was nice living here, felt more like a family (albeit moody-broody-attitudey though all together wonderfully Batty) than she was used to. But if she let herself stay here much longer, she’d get too comfortable and that meant being asked to leave or allowed to stay out of pity by them, and she didn’t know which would be worse.

"We contained the threat and all and I think I’ve spread just a wee bit more sunshine than the Cave is equipped for," she cracked again, shrugging noncommittally. “I had a really really great time staying here the past two weeks. Is it okay if I don’t go until Wednesday?" she asked, being a little greedy for the stolen time with her Bat Boys.

Bruce watched her as she took a seat at the edge of the desk, shifted his posture so he could face her, straight on, his head tilted to the side as she began to speak.

He regrets it, the instant she begins to elaborate.

Wednesday? That was only three days away, two if you didn’t count the day itself, if she chose to leave in the morning, and—

Something dawned on him, his mouth turning downwards, and he asked, quietly but stern: “Did Damian do something?" Bruce shifted his weight from foot to foot, arms tightening over his chest. “You can tell me if he did."

Instinct told her to turn her body slightly away, but the rest of her knew she didn’t have any reason to be intimidated or whatever by Bruce. Steph sat up straighter and shook her head quickly, palms up in front of her. “No no no! Damian didn’t do anything wrong, promise," she reassured him, surprised he’d jumped their first. “He’s been fun to mess with, honestly, and he didn’t stab me, so chalk one up for the win column?"

Steph stood and lost some of the nerve she’d worked up, eyes cast down to her polka dotted socks. “You guys have been really good to me, and I’m beyond grateful. You let me into your home when mine wasn’t safe and I can’t thank you enough for that, Bruce," she said, looking back up at him with a sad smile. “But I don’t want to be an obligation you have to deal with either. So I’ll pack up gracefully and leave a nice B&B review for you guys. You know, Bat and Breakfast." In truth, she didn’t want to leave, and it made her very sad to know she probably should.

Again, Bruce listened, listened to everything Stephanie had to say and, for once, in a long and illustrious line of merely taking things for their face value, attempted to understand what she was really meaning. He nodded when she assured him that Damian hadn’t done anything, but, it did nothing to quell the increasing ache at the thought of her outside, away from the wards Zatanna had put on the house, the security the Manor offered.

Then, came the remarks about the bed and breakfast and Bruce moved forward, slowly, because for all theirs years then, of working together, Stephanie was still not used to how quickly he could move, at times, not like Cassandra or even Tim were. He also knew to pose no threat, he needed to lengthen the pace of his actions, and so, he did.

He settled a hand against her shoulder, a bit awkwardly at that, and nodded.

"Stephanie.." Bruce began, mind swimming as he sought the ways to say what he needed. What he wanted. The blockage was there, it was always there, and it was the thing that damned him, each and every time, from finding the thing to say that was right that was correct, that would have kept Dick from thinking he didn’t care, keeping Tim from leaving, gallivanting half way across the world. That kept Cassandra from hurting.

That could have kept Jason alive.

Bruce swallowed, the time expanding now in front of him, and he can see in the clear blue of her eyes that it’s beginning to head into the realm of inappropriate, that the answer, whatever it was he was going to say needed to come and it needed to come fast. But, then..

She looked at him. She looked at him and he saw the beginnings of a smile at the edge of her mouth, the clear color, so unlike his own dark blue—Amazonite, he thinks, or carboxylic acid in a point-oh-one mol solution of hydrogen chloride, perhaps—not guileless, no. Not unscathed by the world, tragedy, pain, hurt. But, looking to him, looking to Bruce because he’d begun to say something. Because she trusted he’d know what was the next step at this juncture, because he always had the greater plan for all this, didn’t he?

He pulled his hand away from her shoulder, nodding.

"Of course," he stated, simply. “I’ll make sure Alfred knows when to drive you into the city."

It had always surprised her when Bruce made physical contact with her of any kind that wasn’t a form of sparring or completely essential. But his hand on her shoulder? As controlled and minute an affectionate gesture as it was? Steph wasn’t really sure what to do with that. And the silence that stretched on as she waited for him to finish his thought dragged on and bordered on awkward territory as she tensed under his hand. Was he mad that she was leaving so abruptly, like she was ungrateful? Was he relieved to have her out of his hair and trying to be polite about it?

She looked back up at him, not sure which she’d prefer, and Bruce pulled his hand away and Steph couldn’t get a read on him either way. She nodded back. “I’ll ask him to take me after lunch. Moving in the morning sucks," she replied. And she didn’t understand why, there was something there in Bruce’s tone that made her feel more at ease, and it made her smile for real.

"Thanks again, Bruce. I’ve had great time with you guys." And taking a chance, Steph took a step forward and stole a quick hug. Firm, probably three Mississippis long, and absolutely, positively nonnegotiable. It being Bruce’s turn to tense under affection, Steph let the poor guy go and let herself out of the study, equally unsure of what exactly Bruce’s real thoughts were about her leaving, and what Damian’s reaction would be.

lifestyles of the rich and the famous

[bossymarmalade]

Dick bustled around the penthouse putting on all the final touches to his outfit. Dickie Grayson had to be prettier than all the other boys to really get news, and the wilder he looked, the better. Black high-waisted pants tailored to fit his body like a second skin paired up with a bright blue bolero jacket and white ruffled shirt seemed like the perfect outfit for attracting attention. A small Bat earring finished off the ensemble. Dick looked at himself in the mirror and laughed. A few subtle touches of makeup brought out that hint of “exotic" the tabloids had always loved throwing around with any mention of him.

He stretched and did a flip across the floor, testing the suit’s flexibility again. Perfect as ever. Satisfied with his preparation, he flopped down on a chaise longue and waited for the sound of Ollie arriving on the Zeta pad.

It had been a long, long time since Ollie’d last visited the Wayne penthouse. It was one of those places that was designed to be utterly gorgeous, decadently sumptuous, and yet somehow completely forgettable. Kinda like if on your way out from the party, you were misted with some kind of drug that erased your memory of the last four wild hours.

But that had been the few times that Bruce Wayne had actually thrown parties here, before he’d moved them out and away from places with the Wayne stamp on them. As Ollie stepped from the zeta pad and gave himself the usual brush-down to make sure no parts were dislocated; his clothes seemed fine, a tailored dark brown leather jacket over a fitted grey t-shirt with vibrant orange patterning on part of it, dark jeans, his favourite purple buckled low-heeled shoes. He couldn’t wait to see what Dick was decked out in for this little jaunt. Considering how the kid dressed on a *normal* basis, his idea of attention-grabbing would likely be at an 11.

"Dick?" Ollie hollered when he was barely inside the big tinted glass doors. “Where you at, bluebird? Ready to jet?"

( like the fella once said )

machine has no will

[bossymarmalade]

Bruce is in the HSR before they are, somehow, his hands and fingers sliding against the massive consoles. He is nearly hunched, expression knit into concentration as he keys in commands, watching two screens simultaneously as he turns a dial, watching the input levels carefully.

"I’m gonna go see what your dad’s up to.” Kyle says to Damian. “Apparently he’s in the simulator control room, I dunno how your dad is weird." Kyle steps away from the others, approaching Bruce and knowing Bruce knows it’s him approaching. “So? What do you need me to do?"

The room that commands the machine is displaced to the side of it, located north of the actual room itself, at the top end of an E shaped corridor that leads from the command room to, in the middle, a maintenance corridor and finally, at the end of the shape, the HSR itself, contained within the wide, cavernous room that had once been empty—before that weekend he and Clark, Damian and Ollie, had all worked together to put together the massive enterprising machinery.

Oliver makes a face. “Hey, who wants to be left out here instead of seeing what Batman’s up to? My name’s on this tower! And his name’s on you! We deserve to be in there too!"

Bruce in a quiet, quiet voice, “Just a moment." Polite voice, even. Considering the source.

Kyle only hears him because his ring automatically amplifies Bruce’s voice in Kyle’s ears. Kyle’s ring can do a fuckload of things other Green Lantern rings can’t do, because, well. Because. He waits, rocking idly on his heels as he thinks about how awesome he is for making his ring awesome.

Damian Wayne suddenly realizes Queen is correct and elbows past to proceed him into the console room. “Father," he demands, much louder than Bruce’s voice. “Let me assist."

( ghost in the shell )

the vanished life

[bossymarmalade]

The desert wind caressed his face as J’onnJ’onzz, the last of his kind, stood alone in the Gobi Desert. His adopted home world had a wide range of environments: lush forests, dense jungles, cool meadows, high mountains. But the Martian always found himself drawn back to the deserts. The deserts here felt most like home.

He bent down, gathered a handful or the coarse sand, and let it run through his fingers. It danced on the wind before rejoining the earth. The rough rocky formations all around him were pale reminders of a life and a love long gone. They were poor substitutes for the rising towers of rock and plateau of his native land, but if he closed his eyes and made still his mind, he could connect to those lost memories, to those lost loved ones of his past.

When he remembered Ma’aleca’andra, J’onn always felt both a warming comfort and a terrible weight. Being the last Martian in the universe was a heavy burden to carry. He was so very, very lonely.

But he was not alone. He was part of a team, a family. And there was another like him in this family. The last son of Mars opened his eyes and pulled out his League communicator. He opened up his contact list, found Kal-El’s personal link, then typed in a simple request: "42.59°N, 103.43°E"

The Martian Manhunter may be alone in the universe, but he was not the only one…

( our alien ways )