additional sample
Her hands were soft on his, her face warm, caring, bright against a pastoral background, the land surrounding Wayne Manor so different from the reaching decay of Gotham City; his father's land so different, so untouched even through the smell of char and hot stone. She stood there, giving him an opening, a way out at the end of it all. All of the fighting and the struggling. She had been there for Bruce, guiding him. As a childhood friend. As an adult, with values, so like his and yet so different. Each, in their own way, looking toward tomorrow by focusing on today. Each, in their own way, a part of Thomas Wayne's legacy.
His voice, earnest, left his lips, pliant.
"I was a coward with a gun. Justice is about more than revenge, so. Thank you."
Her hands were soft, but his hands were calloused. Calloused by work that Bruce had never done, could never accomplish on his own. Work for Batman.
Isn't that what Ra's had suggested? That Bruce was simply a man, an ordinary man in a cape. The son of a great man, the friend of a great woman, but so far as the public was aware, simply a man who could not do much to fight injustice on his own. A man that had made sacrifices-- his home, his honesty, a woman he loved and always had. Bruce recalled the earlier part of the day, sitting in the back seat of a car in Gotham, reading a newspaper. He recalled Alfred's amusement, his words, though suddenly the words had deeper meaning, perhaps intended. Suddenly they had leaden weight and real tangibility.
Batman may have made the front page, but Bruce Wayne got pushed to page eight.
Was it true? It was. So long as Batman existed in Bruce's life, so long as part of Bruce's life was spent being the Batman, devoted to the Batman, he would always sacrifice that time, that energy, that part of his heart and mind. So long as Batman existed in Bruce, part of Bruce couldn't. Time. Money. Devotion. So long as Batman was seen, Bruce Wayne wasn't. For every time that the Batman made the front page, Bruce was pushed to page eight.
Rachel's eyes lifted toward his own, and before the words could leave her mouth, he knew that she was going to confirm the things which Bruce, deep in his mind, had already grasped a hold of-- just barely. She was going to confirm the things which Bruce perhaps feared but which a part of him wholly recognized. The rest of him protested-- denied in the way that characterized his personality. His entire life had been a denial, that much he knew. Ra's had proven that much to Bruce, what seemed like ages ago and was on some level. Ra's had proven to Bruce that Bruce would struggle always to not fall into the trap of seeing only what Bruce wanted to see, hearing only what he wanted to hear.
He loved her. Her voice was soft. It was telling him these things which he didn't want to hear, but which that small part of him recognized. She made condemnation and offered salvation with the same lips, in the same sentence. She told him without telling him, it's up to you to read into this what you want, to get out of life what you want, to make the decisions that you want.
She wanted Bruce Wayne to come back to her.
The man I loved, the man who vanished, he never came back at all.
Was it true? It was. She wanted the man she loved to come back to her. But for now, Gotham didn't need Bruce Wayne. Gotham needed Batman; Bruce Wayne needed Batman.
"But maybe he is still out there somewhere. Maybe some day, when Gotham no longer needs Batman, we'll see him again."
He wondered if a false hope was still a hope at all. Did it matter?
His voice, earnest, left his lips, pliant.
"I was a coward with a gun. Justice is about more than revenge, so. Thank you."
Her hands were soft, but his hands were calloused. Calloused by work that Bruce had never done, could never accomplish on his own. Work for Batman.
Isn't that what Ra's had suggested? That Bruce was simply a man, an ordinary man in a cape. The son of a great man, the friend of a great woman, but so far as the public was aware, simply a man who could not do much to fight injustice on his own. A man that had made sacrifices-- his home, his honesty, a woman he loved and always had. Bruce recalled the earlier part of the day, sitting in the back seat of a car in Gotham, reading a newspaper. He recalled Alfred's amusement, his words, though suddenly the words had deeper meaning, perhaps intended. Suddenly they had leaden weight and real tangibility.
Batman may have made the front page, but Bruce Wayne got pushed to page eight.
Was it true? It was. So long as Batman existed in Bruce's life, so long as part of Bruce's life was spent being the Batman, devoted to the Batman, he would always sacrifice that time, that energy, that part of his heart and mind. So long as Batman existed in Bruce, part of Bruce couldn't. Time. Money. Devotion. So long as Batman was seen, Bruce Wayne wasn't. For every time that the Batman made the front page, Bruce was pushed to page eight.
Rachel's eyes lifted toward his own, and before the words could leave her mouth, he knew that she was going to confirm the things which Bruce, deep in his mind, had already grasped a hold of-- just barely. She was going to confirm the things which Bruce perhaps feared but which a part of him wholly recognized. The rest of him protested-- denied in the way that characterized his personality. His entire life had been a denial, that much he knew. Ra's had proven that much to Bruce, what seemed like ages ago and was on some level. Ra's had proven to Bruce that Bruce would struggle always to not fall into the trap of seeing only what Bruce wanted to see, hearing only what he wanted to hear.
He loved her. Her voice was soft. It was telling him these things which he didn't want to hear, but which that small part of him recognized. She made condemnation and offered salvation with the same lips, in the same sentence. She told him without telling him, it's up to you to read into this what you want, to get out of life what you want, to make the decisions that you want.
She wanted Bruce Wayne to come back to her.
The man I loved, the man who vanished, he never came back at all.
Was it true? It was. She wanted the man she loved to come back to her. But for now, Gotham didn't need Bruce Wayne. Gotham needed Batman; Bruce Wayne needed Batman.
"But maybe he is still out there somewhere. Maybe some day, when Gotham no longer needs Batman, we'll see him again."
He wondered if a false hope was still a hope at all. Did it matter?