whatfriendsdo | NINJAMEME MASTERPOST 8|

[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.

We'll start tomorrow morning.

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

[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.

[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.]

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

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

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

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

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.]

[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?

[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.]

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.]

[Bruce stands, still and silent as she... the only word he can think of is tends to him. He doesn't protest. It's--

Nice. Comfortable. He barely thinks about the scars he's earned in the line of duty. Each proverbial pound of flesh a necessary sacrifice.

He closes his eyes under the water, raises one hand to press his palm against the wall, fingers curled under. Not quite a fist, but... tense.]

If you plan on getting every one, we'll be here-- a while.

[His voice is a little rough, tho.]

[She smooths herself against his back to reach a mark on his neck.] Do you have somewhere else to go?

[Not demanding, not teasing. A promise. I'm not going anywhere if you don't want me to. Murphy slips her empty hand around his waist and holds herself against him, lightly enough to not put pressure on ribs she recognizes as being at least cracked, based on the bruises. The water gathers in the dip where their bodies meet and crests over her shoulders, tickling in a fresh wave down her back.]

[He breathes.]

Wayne boardroom meeting at one. Besides that, I'm yours.

[He's honestly not sure how much he means that.]

[She kisses him between the shoulder blades, resting her face against him, eyes closed. She wants what he says to be true. For it to be more than just the words.

How she does this to herself is a mystery - loving so much so quickly. It happened with Kincaid. It happened with Harry, despite the time it took her to see and accept it. It's as true and as honest with Bruce as it was with either of the other two.

Murphy wrings the cloth clean and retrieves the soap again, cleaning a fresh scrape until tiny ribbons of blood chase the ugly scabs down the drain.

She won't say it - it's too potent and too threatening a word, at least for her. Love has never been simple or easy, and it's always been dangerous.]

[It barely registers. Bruce isn't necessarily immune to pain, but it takes a great deal more than that to ping on his radar. Instead, he's quiet, pensive. When he speaks it's abrupt enough to surprise even him.]

Karrin--

[No. He stops, steps away from her and turns to face her. It's always strange, when he realizes how small she is. She projects beyond her space.]

I'm sorry I brought you into this. You deserve better.

[She does smile this time.] You know, I punched a guy your size in the side of the head for trying to keep me out of a life like this, once. That was before I arrested him.

[She reaches up to touch the scratch the knife left in his chest with one fingertip.] This is my life. You're a part of it. You didn't bring me into it, Bruce. A bridge troll did that when I was barely twenty. My dad did it when I was just a kid. Would being ignorant be better?

You could reach his head?

[Gentle teasing. He reaches to push his fingers through her wet hair, and from there to the back of her neck. When he is walking that line between Bruce Wayne and Batman, every move he makes is like a tensile wire pulled taut. There's a sense of... restraint beneath every motion. It's as if gentleness in a learned thing for him, rather than innate.

Once upon a time, the reverse was true. But that little boy is dead.

He tugs her forward into a kiss under the spray of the shower.]

I'm not implying you can't handle it, Karrin. Putting people I care about in danger is always difficult for me.

[She tenses at the kiss, in pleasure rather than upset. Quietly:]

You haven't put me anywhere. I choose to be here. It's my choice. [She pulls him down into another kiss.] I'll say it as many times as it takes for you to hear me, Wayne.

Call me Bruce.

[It's... not quite a plea. More an entreaty, quiet but sure.]

[The request startles her a little. She gives him a tilted look. Curiosity without a question.]

Bruce. [One hand against the cut on his chest, one hand laid up gently against the bruises on his ribs again.] Whatever risks I take, Bruce. They're mine. I know you understand that.

I don't like hearing it from others.

[He manages to murmur that to the top of her head. Never let it be said that Bruce is unaware of his own psychological issues - among them martyrdom. He wishes he were the only person who ever needed to put himself in the path of danger.

But he knows that's impossible. A pipe dream. He's stood shoulder to shoulder with other people on the front lines of this war for most of his life. Dick, Jason, Tim, Cassandra-- Barbara, Stephanie. Helena.

Even the Justice League. Even Gordon. Bullock. Montoya. Essex.

He doesn't want to add Murphy to that list. But she's right. It isn't his choice. All he can do is give her the same training he's bestowed upon so many others, and trust her.

He bends a little, bites at her neck, the gesture more possessive than painful. His hands are at her hips, thumbs dipped into the hollow of her iliac crest.]

[She holds her breath, then lets it go in a slow exhalation. It's hard not to stack up the differences between Bruce and her former loves and lovers.

Kincaid may have been possessive, but never gentle about it. Not that she minded. The few times she and Harry kissed, it was either magical intoxication or with a fragility that a single word could shatter.

Bruce has his own kind of fragility. Mostly in moments like this, little admissions of humanity. But he's also... solid. A hero with both feet planted in the world she knows. However skilled Bruce might be, when she's with him, she never feels left behind.

Murphy turns her face up toward the shower spray, shifting her grip around his hips. This. It feels right. There's a warmth in her that has nothing to do with his teeth on her neck or the heat of the water. She's happy. Simple, deep-down happy. She'd almost forgotten something like that could be easy.]

We do what we do because others have died for it. We keep doing it so others don't have to. [She follows a stream of water down his chest with her fingertip.] Nobody's at their strongest alone.

[He laughs. It's a low, soft rumble, a bare exhalation against her neck. It's obviously not something he does very often. Bruce Wayne: public idol laughs frequently, but never genuinely and never like this.

How much of his life did he spend thinking he was alone? Ignoring Alfred, ignoring Dick and Jason and Tim's presences in his life all for the sake of clinging to his parent's memory and that knot of guilt and pain that had settled in his gut and stayed there as he knelt in their blood?

Too long. Too many years.

And it took being thrown into time, spending a year without his support network and his family, to see the truth.

He never has been.

On the day that he stood in his parent's bedroom, touching their things and missing them both so bad it was like a physical pain, when he looked up at Alfred and said I'm all alone now, Alfred, even then, he wasn't alone. Alfred had been with him since he was a baby. He doesn't want to think of what that statement might have done to his oldest friend, what he must have thought--

No. Not alone.

He tugs Karrin closer and kisses her damp hair. Appreciating her nearness.]

You're a remarkable woman, Lieutenant.

[She can feel her cheeks and ears burning. She would never admit it, but she likes this part, too - being held. It's rare she feels safe in someone else's company. It's rare that she feels safe, but Bruce gives her that.]

Damn straight I am.

NINJAMEME MASTERPOST 8|

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