Down the rabbit hole and into Xanadu.
As a child Bruce had always imagined himself, re-imagined himself, as an adventurer. Solitary of disposition, these adventures, more often than not, were pursued alone. He’d disappear into the grounds that surrounded their home (he was young enough then just to call it home) or perhaps into the basement or the attic and he’d emerge hours later,
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Comments 48
It's not morning, but it's still raining when the street is disturbed again by the sound of riotous female laughter, a raised and angry voice, light spilling out an abruptly open door and a tall blonde spilling out with it, dressed as though she remembered the weather and forgot in the middle, still holding her coat in her hands-
"-hands off, wankstain," she snaps at the man very firmly encouraging her to leave, "do you see me fucking going here? Yeah! You put your hand on me one more time I'm gonna think you want me to keep it-"
-which seems to do the trick, and there's a smug swing to her step as she pulls her coat back on and pulls her hair out from under the collar to toss it back over her shoulders.
As she passes Bruce, she takes in his appearance and tosses a few coins (English - like the accent) in his direction. What a nice girl.
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It's cold, but it's not the coldest he's ever been, he's pulled a newspaper out of a nearby trash can - a free music trade weekly with some band he doesn't recognise on the cover - and he's fashioned an extra layer of cover to supplement the stolen wardrobe.
The laughter is what wakes him up. It travels into his half dream and the green haired friend is replaced by the blonde woman who stands over him for a moment before throwing her coins down.
"Are you all right?"
He says, without any indication he recognises the irony of the homeless guy with the bruised face and the cut lip and the rest saying this to the woman who has just thrown him her loose change.
"Someone giving you trouble?"
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The grin she gives him is predatory - there's nothing actively malicious or anything to suggest she genuinely means him ill right now, it's just that she's like that and where someone else might have more of a filter, might pretend to be other than what they are, October probably couldn't if she wanted to. The strongest impression she gives is that she thinks it's really cute of him to ask a silly question like that.
"Aren't you a peach! We just had a little misunderstanding, him and me." Presumably it's now painfully clear to whoever that was.
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"That's me,"
And, Bruce, of course, is the opposite - everything you see is carefully filtered through layers, and years, of carefully placed artifice.
"I'm a definite peach."
He smiles as he says it, he sounds as amused as she looks, and he swings his legs out off the bench to sit up, an unexpected wave of nausea rushing through him as he does it.
"Maybe so, but you shouldn't be wandering about with misunderstood types like that around. I'll walk you to your car."
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Xanadu at night is almost utterly foreign to him--he prefers to limit his excursions to daylight hours, or perhaps has more occasion to wander during those times. In any case, he selects a cluster of lights and heads for them, pausing beneath awnings for a brief respite from the rain.
Alan nearly walks by the man, huddled as he is in a darkened doorway. Even when he does register the man's presence, the more sensible portion of his decision-making apparatus urges him to continue on. He wouldn't approach a stranger on an abandoned street on a rainy night in Boston--to do so here, in a city where the lines between realities blur, is beyond folly ( ... )
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"Alan,"
He says in that Bruce-like way that, when unfiltered, unchecked, somehow turns every sentence, every word, into a quasi-command as if his will knows no other way to conduct itself. In a way it's a compliment, this lack of filter, lack of pretence, but Alan might be forgiven for not finding it flattering.
"I'm surprised," He says. "That it's you. I thought maybe Alfred, or Lucius. Or Henri - I thought maybe Henri. But it's you."
Bruce stands up, looks Alan over for a sign of what he signifies. For something different. Some layer of meaning. He finds none.
"I'm glad it's you. I never would have thought I would be. But I'm glad it's you."
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"Bruce." He smiles, tentative but genuine, and moves too late to offer Bruce a hand up (not that Bruce would have availed himself of it anyway). "I, on the other hand, am always less surprised than I should be to find you a bloody mess. Here." He begins to remove his coat.
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Knights. Practitioners of magic. Clowns. Sounds like a regular day on the streets of Gotham.
“That’s hardly fair. I’m usually better presented than you.”
This might be true, by a margin, Alan is well groomed but Bruce can be bordering on fastidious - and with less of a flair for the ridiculous.
… Oh, the irony.
“Keep your coat.” He says. “It’s cold and you’re - more in need of it than I am.”
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It's the cold, freezing rain, Six notes, with some disdain; she likes it when it's warm out, but this is wintry, and thus it'll all ice over by the following night, leaving the streets slick, shiny, and incredibly dangerous.
Pretty, though. For now, it's mostly incredibly unhospitable, so Six is on her way back to the Voltaic for refuge. She has an umbrella to protect her (she doesn't care much about the clothes, even though they're all Yves Saint Laurent blah blah blah), and fortunately is wearing flat boots, so she's not too scared for herself, but she hasn't seen many transients -- or stuck people, another possibility -- out in this weather. When she spots Bruce, she bites her lip, hesitating; she's been told a million times not to do this, but she's also been told a million times she never listens to anybody about anything.
So.
"Sir?"
She's stopped in her tracks, rain pounding against the top of her umbrella.
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She notices that he's barefoot now. That's even worse. On one hand, walking on wet asphalt is probably uncomfortable, but she can't leave someone out here...especially not in a city like this with lax rules about vagrancy; there's got to be someplace better.
Her accent is difficult to specify: a little French, a little British, a lot upperclass American, like she's moved around a lot. Six is soft-spoken, which can make her a touch difficult to hear over the rain; one does generally have to listen closely to hear her, but she has a way of making herself heard when she wants to be.
"I don't think you should be out here. There's a hotel nearby with a lobby you could wait in instead, 'til the rain stops. It's warmer...and you run less of a risk of catching pneumonia."
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"I probably shouldn't be out here."
He agrees. And his voice is clearly American and clearly east coast money. Not the sort of voice you'd expect on a guy huddled in a doorway, in mismatched clothing and without any shoes.
"I don't think I should be here at all. But I'm trusting my subconscious to refrain from giving me pneumonia."
Unless, of course, his subconscious is not his subconscious at all. R'as has been known to meddle where he shouldn't. And then there is Crane. Or even Luthor with his increasingly dangerous (and increasingly absurd experiments).
Bruce frowns, it's an involuntary motion that he checks immediately (and berates himself for).
"I think I'm going to stay here."
He finally says. He refrains from adding - until I wake up from whatever state of unconsciousness I've found myself in.
"I am going to stay here." Better. What was with the uncertainty? "But thank you for your concern. You should get out of the rain, Miss."
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