(no subject)
The farm gets very quiet late at night. It's nothing like Gotham, but it's not much like Eden, either - it's a farm and it's alive, and there's wind through the fields of crops and insects buzzing around and people talking quietly back inside the farmhouse, and there's electric light spilling out from the windows but it doesn't reach very far. And there's the stars. There were stars in Eden, too, but Steph didn't recognise the constellations or know what to expect. The stars here are basically the same as the ones she knew from before, from Gotham - except there's so many of them. Millions. On a clear night on the Gotham rooftops there might be fifty stars. Here they just never stop.
And Steph never gets tired of watching them, lying stretched out on the roof of the bunker with a pillow, listening to toddler snores from within and the soft hum of the generators. There's a few lights on in the cruise ship and a few more in the castle, warmer and yellower and closer than the stars, but the farmhouse is dark and quiet and the bunker, too. It's nearly summer again and the air is warm enough that she only needs a light jacket.
If only everything else could be as comforting.
And Steph never gets tired of watching them, lying stretched out on the roof of the bunker with a pillow, listening to toddler snores from within and the soft hum of the generators. There's a few lights on in the cruise ship and a few more in the castle, warmer and yellower and closer than the stars, but the farmhouse is dark and quiet and the bunker, too. It's nearly summer again and the air is warm enough that she only needs a light jacket.
If only everything else could be as comforting.