[He's never done well with inactivity or idleness; his mind moves too quickly, picks over new details and old ideas and when it runs out of track to run it turns over on itself. There is no undoing what he's done. There is no hiding the space he'd been working on for each of them- these pieces he'd moved and crafted and moved again. Is he feeling nervous? It wouldn't be out of place, he thinks. Fear of rejection is common, he's felt a far more acute version when he and Selina had been alone, nearly nose to nose. When he knew he'd been asking for an answer she wasn't ready or willing to give.
That's why he'd done something different here. Now. He can't find the right words to say- he doesn't know how to line them up to say what he means without also worrying about the burden he's placing on their shoulders- the thought that they might feel obligated to respond one way or another. To reply.
Bruce lets them leave him behind and he lingers, for just a moment, at the foot of the stairs. It's always a strange liminal space, when he finds himself in the gap between past and future, new and old, change and same. He wants to make it clear to them that he has no expectations. They each have other living arrangements this isn't a detail or a discussion that has gone unaddressed. Bruce isn't asking them to give anything up either. He only-
He inhales. And unbuttons the cuff of each sleeve before he makes his way towards their surrogate kitchen- to the stove there, and dinner preparations. The soup is a small thing because the ingredients here have never been plentiful and Bruce, ever the stoic, is reserved about how much he's willing to use and how much he'd prefer to stockpile, just in case. His sleeves come up to his elbows and gets to work- eyes lifting only once, to look at the bracer he'd been gifted that rests silently on the table opposite.
And then a second time, when something rubs up against his leg. Spoon in hand, Bruce looks down briefly.
no subject
That's why he'd done something different here. Now. He can't find the right words to say- he doesn't know how to line them up to say what he means without also worrying about the burden he's placing on their shoulders- the thought that they might feel obligated to respond one way or another. To reply.
Bruce lets them leave him behind and he lingers, for just a moment, at the foot of the stairs. It's always a strange liminal space, when he finds himself in the gap between past and future, new and old, change and same. He wants to make it clear to them that he has no expectations. They each have other living arrangements this isn't a detail or a discussion that has gone unaddressed. Bruce isn't asking them to give anything up either. He only-
He inhales. And unbuttons the cuff of each sleeve before he makes his way towards their surrogate kitchen- to the stove there, and dinner preparations. The soup is a small thing because the ingredients here have never been plentiful and Bruce, ever the stoic, is reserved about how much he's willing to use and how much he'd prefer to stockpile, just in case. His sleeves come up to his elbows and gets to work- eyes lifting only once, to look at the bracer he'd been gifted that rests silently on the table opposite.
And then a second time, when something rubs up against his leg. Spoon in hand, Bruce looks down briefly.
A cat.
That shape is new.]