hold tight (our promises)

[bossymarmalade]

He had been sitting at his desk in the empty penthouse when he found the scarf in the lowest, left hand drawer. It hadn’t been the color of it that had drawn his eye to it, but rather, the cotton handkerchief that Alfred had wrapped it in after cleaning it, the neat ATCP monogrammed onto even that: a laundering cloth. Roughened, scarred fingertips lifted it up, shutting the drawer as he rose up with it flat in his palm, walking to the larger table in the meeting room, lights automatically shutting off behind him as he moved. Outside, Gotham’s evening was grey with summer rain, the clouds heavy and purple, slung over the tops of the building like fading bruises, the windows face streaked with rivulets of rain that made him think too much of tears.

Bruce doesn’t dare to open until the neat, little parcel of it is laying upon the mahogany of the table, wood shaded the colour of blood and ruin and rust. War-scarred now, the smooth and expansive surface, Gotham split across the rack where she is stretched, in digitized miniature. Partitioned, divided off into manageable pieces, each of his children’s insignia glowing dull in the corner of his eye as he looks down at the small cotton square.

Carefully, carefully, Bruce lifted his fingers and the white material back, staring down at the lush green of the pashmina, expression settling upon his face like a shroud.

Now how’d you know I was starting to feel the cold nipping at my chest?

..it wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

The feeling is at once overwhelming and Bruce cannot navigate away from it. It was early evening, too early for patrol, but too late in the day for any Wayne Enterprises business. The markets were closed, there were no calls that needed to be made, and most of all, there was no Manor nor Cave that demanded his silent attention. Nothing. No stalwart archer, no patroness of the fallen humming their way through coffee or tea, nimble fingers rearranging things on bookshelves because they’d gotten comfortable in doing so. No bare feet tucked over the edges of his legs, sprigs of lavender on his pillow, nothing.

Instead, there was this. The facsimile of memory surrounding him, in stark whites and greys of a deep-rooted, corporate understanding; stainless steel banisters that wrapped around the space like wrought ivy, glass windows without the warmth of his mother’s hand upon them, or his father’s design, leaving him open and exposed and raw to the city; like a pulse still beating in an eviscerated body. No sudden, damp noises from unsuspecting corners, no discussion on the landing of the stairs, not even the discussion of the bats up in the roosts of the stone crevices of the cave; none of them had followed Bruce here. No, they’d remained in the homes they’d made themselves, and the one that could have—

Bruce remembers, quite suddenly, the way Ollie had reacted at the gift—quite silly, and quite spur of the moment on Bruce’s part—the echoes of his own sentiment witnessing the other man’s joy and delight sending shivers of ache along the long sloping lines of his chest. Too much. It was too much, too difficult, too heavy to think of the curve of the archer’s mouth, then, the way he formed his words, the unthinking curl of his upper lip, the flash of his eyelashes as he detailed what he wanted them to do—always them, never just Kate, never just Bruce, never just him—uncaring when all of his flights of fancy turned into outright fantasy, when he and Kate brought him back down by his ankles to Earth, and—

A sudden noise at the corner of the room pulled Bruce from his thoughts, and he looked past the wooden slab, at the darkened corner of his office, throat working to speak, despite knowing that Alfred was not, could not be there: he was out at his book club in the city, the smallest of luxuries he could afford himself. It wasn’t until he swallowed, his Adam’s apple sluggish, too-large in his throat that the understanding dawned on Bruce. That noise, it had been him.

Lifting his hand, Bruce dragged his hand across his face, meeting the sea at its shore, fingers streaking the dampness across his temple as he drew in a sharp breath, looking up at the open window, of the city before him, calm and still. His hand curled, crushing the fabric in his fist, as he walked, towards the darkness of the corner he had been staring at, words leaving him, quietly.

"They’re not here."

The silence that met him was not a surprise, was not anything but a cold, true reality. Bruce stepped forward, moving past the place he had been, the material of the scarf slipping between his fingers, very nearly dragging against the floor.

”..neither of us can hurt them when they’re not here. You know that as well as I do.” He took a breath, walking out of the room, his back turned to it, and towards the back wall of the office, placing his hand against the smooth finish of the wood, shiny as plastic, his voice dropping, softening.

”..he might say that this isn’t a problem as long as I don’t answer myself back.” Bruce glanced over his shoulder, blue eyes dark and deep in his face, glittering, at the void across the space, on the other side of the battlefield, Gotham in her artificial glory floating between them. His gaze went lax, lashes drifting low.

..then you better keep quiet.

Turning, Bruce brought his hand to the spot on the wall that held the hidden biometric scanner just below the surface, his palm lighting up the sensors behind the slick white, the light dampening as the privacy shields drifted over the floor to ceiling windows, panels expanding like lungs. Hydraulics hissed as the wall’s facade split, dropping out of the way just as the suit rose up in the darkness of the room, armor well-worn, too-large, backlit just barely, just barely.

"The color brings out your eyes."

Laughing, Bruce tucked the scarf across the back of his neck, and began to suit up.