NINJAMEME MASTERPOST 8|

[whatfriendsdo]

I have nothing to say here DEAL W/I.

Comments

ohohoho~

[whatfriendsdo]

Father Forthill is a good man. He's put his life on the line for me and my people more than once - he puts his life on the line every day just hanging on to the coins.

[She stretches until he back gives a little click. Murphy gives Bruce a little sideways glance, amusement twinkling across her face.] Did you find out anything about the Holy Swords?

[cowled]

[His expression is wry. He sees that amusement, Murphy. Did you honestly think he wouldn't find out as much information as possible in as short a time?]

Some. The Excalibur connection was a little obvious. I have a... [he doesn't use the word 'friend'] an ally from that time period who would recognize it on a more personal level.

[The problem with Bruce is that he has an alarming tendency to find credence in the most awful stories, and is only ever skeptical of the positive ones.]

The other two-- well. History is full of stories based on magic objects. Swords have always been popular paraphernalia, and most myths are rooted in some semblance of fact. I wouldn't rely on them personally, but I'm--

[-'disturbingly self aware'-]

Difficult like that.

[whatfriendsdo]

Amoracchius, Esperacchius, and Fidelacchius. Love, hope, and faith. [And the greatest of these is love. She smiles a little.] There's no 'semblance' involved, Bruce. They are what they are. Excaliber, Durendal, Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi. Whatever you want to call them. Dresden's current theory is that the wielders have all descended from royalty, or something, which seems kind of sketchy to me.

[She plucks at the hem of the shirt she's wearing.] I've been offered Fidelacchius twice. The swords aren't just tools. They're a calling. One you have to be willing to die for.

[Murphy clears her throat, realizing with an uncomfortable little jolt how much she's thought about the weapons and her steadfast refusal to pick one up.] They're not something to rely on, in any case.

[cowled]

[He's a skeptic by nature, Karrin, and he's not about to apologize for it. But he nods.]

There isn't much I do rely on. I think I'm safe.

[whatfriendsdo]

Safer than other options. [She does wriggle her fingers between his now.] Mostly.

[Eyebrow.] So when do I get to do a ride-along in the Batmobile?

[cowled]

[He mirrors that expression with something that's alarmingly close to amusement.]

You think you can handle it?

DEFAULT ICON ON PHONE ftw

[whatfriendsdo]

[That earns a squinted glare.] You think I can't?

[cowled]

I think you might have to start small. The Batsidecar.

[He might be grinning. Just a little.

It's funny how fast she's gotten under his skin. Bruce and Batman aren't allowed to overlap. After Jezebel-- it was almost impossible to allow it. But something about Murphy makes it easy.

Easy is dangerous in his line of work. He should be careful about that. But that can come later. Being lost in time has put his life in some measure of perspective that he didn't have before.]

[whatfriendsdo]

Are you implying something? [SAY THE WORD 'SMALL' AGAIN, BRUCE. SHE DARES YOU. His middle knuckle gets a mostly-affectionate bite.] Keep digging and I'll be the one driving, mister.

[cowled]

You wouldn't be able to.

[No, really. He means that. The Batmobile is voice-print activated, with broad-spectrum DNA sequencing. No one can even get close to it without activating its defenses, unless they know its - and by extension Bruce's own - tricks.]

[whatfriendsdo]

[Her glare is brief and - mostly - insincere. Dresden has accustomed her to the idea that there are in fact things she simply can't do. It still chafes, even when it's stated completely without dismissal, or said with a total lack of challenge in the words. Murphy is competitve. Ferociously. She wouldn't be good at her job otherwise - she wouldn't be alive, if she weren't so driven to be useful.]

I'll hijack one of those fancy sports cars and tailgate you all the way through Gotham.

[.....she does not, however, accept her limitations gracefully.]

[cowled]

Just don't touch the McLaren.

[He kisses her cheek, the gesture almost chaste but hardly naive in its chastity, and moves to get up. There's a telltale signal visible through the window. Gotham's own nightlight, made to chase away the monsters.]

Duty calls. Will you be all right here?

[whatfriendsdo]

[She tightens her grip on his hand, fleeting enough to give him pause but not enough to stop him if he moves away.]

I mean it. About the ride-along.

[cowled]

Another night.

[It's not hard or outright dismissal. He's seen what she can do. For someone who hasn't been training for this life twelve hours a day since she was pre-pubescent, he has no doubt she could do the job. But she needs training, a uniform. All things he insists on for people who want to run in his turf. Onyx is the only one he tolerates using her real name and face, and that's due to her connection to the League.]

[whatfriendsdo]

[She lets go, slowly. His turf, his rules. She knows that. But she hates to sit by in a mansion while he's out there fighting in the street.

Her problem. Not his.]

Promise me.

/phonetags

[cowled]

We'll start tomorrow morning.

[It's as close as he ever comes to reassuring.]

[whatfriendsdo]

[The fact that he puts a timer on it is what gets her to settle back on to the couch. No simple I promise or Maybe next time.]

Wake me up when you get back. [As though she plans on sleeping.] And don't get killed.

[cowled]

[A brief quirk of a smile.]

Of course.

[This is the story of how he leans down and kisses her forehead, and then heads out for the night.

Bruce is generally gone from ten until six in the morning - sometimes shorter or longer depending - and this time he stumbles in at four. His injury tally is somewhat higher than he appreciates it being - two broken ribs, numerous contusions, a light concussion and a knife wound that bit through his kevlar and etched a line across one shoulder.

But, true to his word, he stops in front of the couch.]

Karrin.

[Just her name, pitch-perfect to draw her from her dreams.]

[whatfriendsdo]

[She stirs from the middle of her paperwork nest, scrubbing at her eyes. There's a criminal profile stuck to her forearm.]

[cowled]

[... he peels it off. so helpful.]

I'm going to shower. Care to accompany me?

[whatfriendsdo]

[She swings to her feet, exploring his sides, arms, hips, gently with her fingertips.] Sure. What happened?

[cowled]

Another night in Gotham.

[His injuries are non-issues, as far as he's concerned. But he does catch her hand, tangle their fingers together and head for one of the manor's more luxurious showers. He's still in uniform, which is probably a mark of how tired he is, only the cowl is pushed back. His hair is ruffled, and damp with sweat. These suits don't breathe as well as they probably should.]

[whatfriendsdo]

[Murphy lets herself be led along, dancing her free fingertips along the points of his gauntlets. She's going to shower with Batman.

Murphy has to bite down on the grin that threatens at those words. Because honestly, it can't be the most ridiculous scenario in which she's ever found herself. There's something about the sentence, though, that makes her want to laugh.] Another night in Gotham doing what?

[cowled]

[He snorts. Her... enthusiasm is almost contagious. Almost. If Bruce were susceptible to it, he'd have been a much different person after Dick.]

Oh, you know. Hitting up all the best parties.

[That's part Bruce and part Batman. The lines blur with her. He tugs her into the bathroom and releases her so he can undo his uniform. It's a process, and there are all sorts of security overrides built into the suit. The sort that deliver a large - but nonlethal - shock to anyone trying to tamper with it if he's unconscious.]

I have a mild concussion. You really shouldn't let me sleep after this.

[Innuendo? Maybe. He tosses the gauntlets into one corner of the (elaborately ornate, completely marble-walled bathroom) and the utility belt follows shortly afterwards. The rest is just the semi-rigid nomex-and-kevlar weave, which he peels off.

Say what you will about Bruce, he's not the least bit self-conscious about his body.]

[whatfriendsdo]

Well, I wouldn't want to make your injuries any worse, either. [Innuendo? Psh, of course. She picks the utility belt up with the ginger care of someone who knows pressing the wrong button will earn her a nasty surprise, examining the pouches without trying to open any of them.

When she looks up, he's undressed, his fresh bruises evident, along with old scars. More than she's ever seen on him. Murphy knew he wore high-quality body make-ups to hide the worst marks from former injuries - hard to play the suave playboy when you look like a mercenary. But this is the first time she's seen him naked in the most honest way.

She brushes hand across the puckered dip in his chest that marks an impaling he probably shouldn't have survived. It only takes a second to strip of her borrowed shirt, to figure out the few-too-many knobs in the shower. She closes her eyes and lets the water soak her for a breath, anchor her. His body is a war zone of miraculous survivals. It's...

A reminder, that's all. A reminder.

Murphy finds a soft cloth and a bar of soap, lathers the former, and takes her turn to lead him into the water. She starts with that mark on his chest, cleaning it carefully, moving on to another jagged stripe cut sideways down to his torso. She kisses it, tastes a trace of sweat and the musk of used kevlar, and swipes away both with lavender and citrus. Mark by mark, cut by cut, scar by scar.]