He had carried Riku back from the forest, and between his unconscious figure and Vanitas, in and out of hungover nausea, Bruce has a surfeit of time on his hands.
That is to say- nothing about Bruce's schedule for the day has changed apart from the company he's keeping, and now that Riku's arms have been secured to support beams in two opposite directions, now that his eyes are covered and now that Vanitas has fallen asleep with a bowl curled into his arm- his habits can resume.
Bruce lingers in the quiet at the top of the stairs- and then he descends.
There are several wings within the museum and Bruce had taken his time exploring the space- mapping which areas might be best suited to which purpose. There are few people that make any attempt to travel out to this place and the privacy is ideal. Once he would have wished to find an empty wing to use the way he'd used their conservatory- to learn to fight. To box, primarily. But he's evolved beyond that now. Bruce isn't a child anymore and the passage of time has allowed him to sharpen his focus- it's allowed for clarity around his goals and by extension, an understanding of what he needs to do to achieve them.
The museum is a place for him to turn inward. There are poles and lines that have been extended from the ceiling, bolted into the curved beams and appearing almost incidental from an architectural standpoint. Bruce dedicates several hours to training these days, and it's become more varied as necessity arose. Selina had given him adequate fundamentals for developing his sense of balance and helping him to look at Gotham's landscape and see more- unconventional avenues to walk. Likewise, Alfred had helped him develop an understanding of how to land and take a blow, how to process the experience and wait through pain, to conserve his energy.
He climbs the columns inside the foyer. Bruce attaches weights to his body and scales the walls. He balances himself along narrower and narrower ledges, he leaps further and increases his stride. He walks himself into handstands until he's able to balance on one palm. He suspends himself from the ceiling in pieces at a time- holding on with an elbow or an ankle, and learning how to pull himself back up even when his body begins to shake. He does pullups and curls, he slings both legs over the bars to do situps while dangling upside down and it gives him time to consider his latest preoccupation. He has been studying the work of Harry Houdini, not as a magician, but as an escape artist- and while Bruce is able to get out of shackles and cuffs and jackets these days, he knows that panic can cause the mind to make leaps in otherwise sound judgment. He should practice inside a dunk tank.
There are bandages that map out the base of his torso, where his lantern has left what will become an interesting pattern of scars. He is still experiencing nerve troubles in his right hand after the debacle with the ferry. Bruce's face is swollen in some places. He'd stitched a gash over his eyebrow and used glue to seal the gap over his nose, he reset the bone.
In between these tasks he checks on his wards. At times Vanitas will make small noises in his sleep and some small, inky creature will appear- wary and wild in the room. Riku's head bobs now and again. Bruce brings him water to drink and is gentle when he lifts his chin. He checks his temperature and looks beneath his clothes for anything that might need stitching or setting. He cleans out cuts and scrapes. He redresses him and brings cool cloths for the worst of his bruises, to reduce the swelling. He's pale. Bruce wonders how long it's been since Riku showered, or slept.
The first time Bruce had been concussed it took forty-four days for his brain scans to return to normal. Alfred told him the average was even longer in people who refused to rest, that it could take a hundred, depending on the severity of the injury- and that even thinking could exacerbate it.
Nothing really changes until the sound breaks the air. A gasp. Bruce doesn't come running, but he does come. His head lifts in Riku's direction and he climbs the stairs, a series of quiet footfalls.
no subject
That is to say- nothing about Bruce's schedule for the day has changed apart from the company he's keeping, and now that Riku's arms have been secured to support beams in two opposite directions, now that his eyes are covered and now that Vanitas has fallen asleep with a bowl curled into his arm- his habits can resume.
Bruce lingers in the quiet at the top of the stairs- and then he descends.
There are several wings within the museum and Bruce had taken his time exploring the space- mapping which areas might be best suited to which purpose. There are few people that make any attempt to travel out to this place and the privacy is ideal. Once he would have wished to find an empty wing to use the way he'd used their conservatory- to learn to fight. To box, primarily. But he's evolved beyond that now. Bruce isn't a child anymore and the passage of time has allowed him to sharpen his focus- it's allowed for clarity around his goals and by extension, an understanding of what he needs to do to achieve them.
The museum is a place for him to turn inward. There are poles and lines that have been extended from the ceiling, bolted into the curved beams and appearing almost incidental from an architectural standpoint. Bruce dedicates several hours to training these days, and it's become more varied as necessity arose. Selina had given him adequate fundamentals for developing his sense of balance and helping him to look at Gotham's landscape and see more- unconventional avenues to walk. Likewise, Alfred had helped him develop an understanding of how to land and take a blow, how to process the experience and wait through pain, to conserve his energy.
He climbs the columns inside the foyer. Bruce attaches weights to his body and scales the walls. He balances himself along narrower and narrower ledges, he leaps further and increases his stride. He walks himself into handstands until he's able to balance on one palm. He suspends himself from the ceiling in pieces at a time- holding on with an elbow or an ankle, and learning how to pull himself back up even when his body begins to shake. He does pullups and curls, he slings both legs over the bars to do situps while dangling upside down and it gives him time to consider his latest preoccupation. He has been studying the work of Harry Houdini, not as a magician, but as an escape artist- and while Bruce is able to get out of shackles and cuffs and jackets these days, he knows that panic can cause the mind to make leaps in otherwise sound judgment. He should practice inside a dunk tank.
There are bandages that map out the base of his torso, where his lantern has left what will become an interesting pattern of scars. He is still experiencing nerve troubles in his right hand after the debacle with the ferry. Bruce's face is swollen in some places. He'd stitched a gash over his eyebrow and used glue to seal the gap over his nose, he reset the bone.
In between these tasks he checks on his wards. At times Vanitas will make small noises in his sleep and some small, inky creature will appear- wary and wild in the room. Riku's head bobs now and again. Bruce brings him water to drink and is gentle when he lifts his chin. He checks his temperature and looks beneath his clothes for anything that might need stitching or setting. He cleans out cuts and scrapes. He redresses him and brings cool cloths for the worst of his bruises, to reduce the swelling. He's pale. Bruce wonders how long it's been since Riku showered, or slept.
The first time Bruce had been concussed it took forty-four days for his brain scans to return to normal. Alfred told him the average was even longer in people who refused to rest, that it could take a hundred, depending on the severity of the injury- and that even thinking could exacerbate it.
Nothing really changes until the sound breaks the air. A gasp.
Bruce doesn't come running, but he does come. His head lifts in Riku's direction and he climbs the stairs, a series of quiet footfalls.