It's a question he'd been asked once, after an arched brow; feeling vulnerable? But then he has the answer without needing to vocalize it in the first place. There's a strange place between hungover and still drunk where the world and it's details lose their easy irrelevance. They edges of everything are too sharp and the entire body feels wretched. Reactions are clumsy and too slow. Light hurts. Cold hurts. The heat is unbearable and every smell is dangerous.
Vanitas, criss-crossed with scars and naked to the waist inside their put-together kitchen- reminds him of a book he read once about snakes. They aren't inherently dangerous on their own, they're reactionary. They hunt, they have desires of their own, but it's provocation that makes them deadly. The way someone or something responds to them, crowds their space, comes too close. Bruce does not miss the way that Vanitas keeps his eyes on him, two sharp gold shards in the dark, and the careful way that he navigates around him despite the unsteady shifting of his weight.
"It's a secret."
The pan settles ontop of a burner and the power clicks as it's turned on. Bruce bends down and reaches for his canteen, filled with water. When he sits back up it's to reach with only his hand, not the rest of his body- for the drink Vanitas is nursing. To offer a trade. Water for alcohol.
"But I'll tell you if you drink this instead."
It isn't something he lingers over because there's no heavy, demanding stare that comes along with it. No stubborn insistence. Bruce broaches it as if they've made a habit of small exchanges already, with a tone that implies that this isn't any different than a stove, or pancakes, or introducing him to the drink in the first place. No part of their interactions have been one-sided and that has been carefully cultivated. It's beneficial for Vanitas to learn that Bruce is clear about his expectations and that they go in both directions. The difference between a dialogue and a demand.
"You have to take a break from it anyway, otherwise it won't feel good, the way it did last night."
no subject
Vanitas, criss-crossed with scars and naked to the waist inside their put-together kitchen- reminds him of a book he read once about snakes. They aren't inherently dangerous on their own, they're reactionary. They hunt, they have desires of their own, but it's provocation that makes them deadly. The way someone or something responds to them, crowds their space, comes too close. Bruce does not miss the way that Vanitas keeps his eyes on him, two sharp gold shards in the dark, and the careful way that he navigates around him despite the unsteady shifting of his weight.
"It's a secret."
The pan settles ontop of a burner and the power clicks as it's turned on. Bruce bends down and reaches for his canteen, filled with water. When he sits back up it's to reach with only his hand, not the rest of his body- for the drink Vanitas is nursing. To offer a trade. Water for alcohol.
"But I'll tell you if you drink this instead."
It isn't something he lingers over because there's no heavy, demanding stare that comes along with it. No stubborn insistence. Bruce broaches it as if they've made a habit of small exchanges already, with a tone that implies that this isn't any different than a stove, or pancakes, or introducing him to the drink in the first place. No part of their interactions have been one-sided and that has been carefully cultivated. It's beneficial for Vanitas to learn that Bruce is clear about his expectations and that they go in both directions. The difference between a dialogue and a demand.
"You have to take a break from it anyway, otherwise it won't feel good, the way it did last night."