A Batman Ficlet
Jim thinks the Batman is lonely. He comes over after the apartment lights go out, somewhere between Jim's first drink and his third.
It's late. Jim never hears him come in, just the settling of the armchair.
Jim puts out an extra glass, after the first few nights.
They drink. Talk about work. Drink. Don't talk. Drink.
Sometimes Jim falls asleep mid-sentence. He wakes up later on the couch with a blanket tucked over him. It's rude of him, he knows, but he doesn't know how to tell his nightly visitor that the only time he feels he can relax these days is when they are sitting together, drinking and talking, or not talking. He is sure sometimes that the Batman leaves when he falls asleep.
Other times, he thinks the Batman stays.
Sleeping people are easy to not talk to.
On Thursday, Jim turns out the lights early. He doesn't bother with music, just closes the doors to the empty rooms and does an old, familiar sweep of the apartment. It feels so empty.
He could've made her stay, he supposed. She would've agreed, if he'd pressed. But she'd wanted so badly to go, and the children had worse than nightmares. They dreamed a man with a missing face came out of the darkness. They woke screaming. They'd needed to go. All of them. And she'd needed him, or said she did. Never mind the flinch behind every touch. Never mind the way she looked at him, when she didn't think he was watching.
Never mind that when she'd asked, there hadn't even been a decision. He'd known he would stay.
Jim sits down on the couch. He pours himself a drink.
There is a soft noise, like laundry rustling on the line.
Jim pours another. He slides it over to the man in the armchair, and raises his glass.
There is a sympathetic movement.
The Batman is either lonely, or guilty. Maybe both.
Or maybe that's just Jim.
It's late. Jim never hears him come in, just the settling of the armchair.
Jim puts out an extra glass, after the first few nights.
They drink. Talk about work. Drink. Don't talk. Drink.
Sometimes Jim falls asleep mid-sentence. He wakes up later on the couch with a blanket tucked over him. It's rude of him, he knows, but he doesn't know how to tell his nightly visitor that the only time he feels he can relax these days is when they are sitting together, drinking and talking, or not talking. He is sure sometimes that the Batman leaves when he falls asleep.
Other times, he thinks the Batman stays.
Sleeping people are easy to not talk to.
On Thursday, Jim turns out the lights early. He doesn't bother with music, just closes the doors to the empty rooms and does an old, familiar sweep of the apartment. It feels so empty.
He could've made her stay, he supposed. She would've agreed, if he'd pressed. But she'd wanted so badly to go, and the children had worse than nightmares. They dreamed a man with a missing face came out of the darkness. They woke screaming. They'd needed to go. All of them. And she'd needed him, or said she did. Never mind the flinch behind every touch. Never mind the way she looked at him, when she didn't think he was watching.
Never mind that when she'd asked, there hadn't even been a decision. He'd known he would stay.
Jim sits down on the couch. He pours himself a drink.
There is a soft noise, like laundry rustling on the line.
Jim pours another. He slides it over to the man in the armchair, and raises his glass.
There is a sympathetic movement.
The Batman is either lonely, or guilty. Maybe both.
Or maybe that's just Jim.