[Verbal banter is something he's familiar with- not because there's an absence of physicality in Bruce's life, but because that physicality hasn't been playful. When he was younger these moments were ones of affection and support, his father would tousle his hair, his mother would lay beside him, his father would carry him, his mother would rub one fingertip against the space between his brows. Alfred too had been a pillar, once he'd lost them. But after that the expressions of this language narrowed; they became firm handshakes of blocked punches.
He can recognize the play for what it is by Riku's breathy gee, thanks! But the finger that loops in the fabric behind him brings his chin up reflexively- a visual telegraph that he's been caught by surprise in a small way, but also that it's. New. He thinks that Riku is going to make his way to the table, especially with the casual directive he throws Vanitas's way- but he doesn't. He doubles back instead. The attention on the strings of his apron tug, not enough to draw him off balance. And yet more than enough for goosebumps to tighten the skin from the base of his spine to the back of his neck. Clever, he says.
Riku's voice arrives on his hearing side and Bruce's face turns to meet him; for just a moment they're so close that the tip of his nose grazes soft, pale hair. And then he's moving away again. Bruce has not frozen in place because he's been training himself out of the response he hates so much- but he has stopped stirring. Momentarily transfixed.
Until Vanitas breaks the spell. He looks every inch as caught red handed as Bruce feels, strangely out of his own skin and out of places to hide. Like a wild animal with its haunches up, Vanitas's shoulder bunch around his ears and he sets about the room in a way that suggests he might be angry but that Bruce suspects is mostly bravado. A desire to avoid scrutiny by overcompensation.
no subject
He can recognize the play for what it is by Riku's breathy gee, thanks! But the finger that loops in the fabric behind him brings his chin up reflexively- a visual telegraph that he's been caught by surprise in a small way, but also that it's. New. He thinks that Riku is going to make his way to the table, especially with the casual directive he throws Vanitas's way- but he doesn't. He doubles back instead. The attention on the strings of his apron tug, not enough to draw him off balance. And yet more than enough for goosebumps to tighten the skin from the base of his spine to the back of his neck. Clever, he says.
Riku's voice arrives on his hearing side and Bruce's face turns to meet him; for just a moment they're so close that the tip of his nose grazes soft, pale hair. And then he's moving away again. Bruce has not frozen in place because he's been training himself out of the response he hates so much- but he has stopped stirring. Momentarily transfixed.
Until Vanitas breaks the spell. He looks every inch as caught red handed as Bruce feels, strangely out of his own skin and out of places to hide. Like a wild animal with its haunches up, Vanitas's shoulder bunch around his ears and he sets about the room in a way that suggests he might be angry but that Bruce suspects is mostly bravado. A desire to avoid scrutiny by overcompensation.
He can relate. ]
I appreciate the help. Thank you Vanitas.