NINJAMEME MASTERPOST 8|

[whatfriendsdo]

I have nothing to say here DEAL W/I.

Comments

[whatfriendsdo]

They always do. [Her focus goes distant for a moment with thoughts of her own job, her father's. Lies on lies, the supernatural smoothed over for unimaginative minds. She twists her fingers around his and gives his hand a little tug.]

Must be part of the reason I like you. Those crepes ready?

[cowled]

And edible, I daresay.

[He flips the last one off onto a plate, shuts the stove off and gestures to the kitchen table, a small mahogany number, several times older than both of them put together. It's small enough to warrant intimacy amongst diners.

He used to eat here sometimes with his parents. Special occasions.]

[whatfriendsdo]

[She hops down from her stool and runs a hand along the edge of the table until she picks a seat, not at the head but next to it. She likes the table. It reminds her of her mother's kitchen. It has generations worn into it.

Murphy raps her knuckles against the surface once, a superstitious kind of greeting for the ghosts of diners past.]

I'm curious. What's Bruce Wayne's day like after a disaster like last night?

[cowled]

[He sets the crepes on the table, returns to the kitchen for plates and silverware and a basket of fresh blueberries.]

The same as any other day, Lieutenant. I learned a long time ago not to allow myself to be crippled by tragedy.

[He'd never get out of bed in the morning, were that the case.]

[whatfriendsdo]

{Her expression softens, not quite sympathy. Understanding.] I meant how much press corralling will you have to do.

[cowled]

Ah.

[He's so used to people making everything about his parents, he forgets--]

As much as I feel like, then. It's not uncommon for me to disappear on an extended vacation whenever Gotham's in a bit of a rough patch. I make a habit of being unavailable.

[He's an intensely private person, that much is no doubt in evidence.]