"I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss. I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy. I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence. It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known."
—Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
Those Who Know
Bruce Wayne
Around four am, before early risers slam their alarm clocks off and after drunks pass out: Gotham hums. Singing to the tune of water passing through sewers and the clicking of televisions: Good Morning Gotham, this is Channel 7 Action News!
Bruce sits on the top of a building. His cowl resting in his lap. His eyes closed. This moment of meditation keeps him in balance. Reminding himself why. Because after maiming three men, no matter what they were doing, they might have children at home. They might have parents they are trying to take care of. He knows the distinctive pain that comes with dislocation. How the breaking of a hand (27 bones, not including the sesamoid) is just as crippling as a the breaking of a leg. As the night bleeds into the day, he needs to remember these men, husbands, fathers, sons, are not the enemy.
His suit is tight on his back because it is swollen from a fall two nights ago. "It's starting to go too far, Bruce," Alfred scolds, applying ice to the worst of the areas. He takes to crying in the kitchen with vegetables prepped to be turned into a power juice. Bruce wants to cry with him because as a child his butler, friend, caretaker, father, never allowed him to cry alone, no matter how embarrassed the boy was.
Bruce looks up. A few stars are visible. The brightest of them shining down through the orange smog of light pollution. Standing, he locks the cowl back into place, rolls his shoulders, and steps off the roof. A second of freefall, that's all he allows himself. A moment of just dropping away and disappearing. (But that won't do anything, help anyone.) The cape snaps into shape and he glides down to where his vehicle awaits.
He admits to Selena this, one morning at four am, about how he wished, so often, to fade away. Beside him, on the nightstand in their flat in Croatia, are knee braces and his cane. The pain wakes him more often than the nightmares, now.
She kisses the scar on his triceps where a dog got him and she murmurs across the plains of his back, "You're too real to disappear Mr. Wayne."
No clock glows in their room or ticks on the bedside. There is no room amongst the pill bottles, the empty water glasses, and the heat compresses. Bruce hears the humming of the city, telling him what time it is.
"Do you regret it?" he whispers. They are at the local playhouse, the lights focused on stage. The room smells like melting chocolate.
Selena scoffs at him. "Musicals really aren't my thing, but hey, my nights are free, now."
"Mostly," he corrects, with a sly smile. He passed the pad of his thumb under her wrist. He feels the tendons and the blood vessels.
"Mostly," she agrees.
"But, um, that wasn't what I meant." In the darkness, he can only see the glassy glint of her eyes and his mother's pearls on her neck.
"Bruce—"
The people behind them tap his shoulder and asks for them to keep their comments until intermission, but even then, with people rushing to the restrooms, neither he nor she broaches the subject. She kisses his cheek before the beginning of the second act and whispers, "Don't ever ask me that question again."
It's the gritting teeth, how dare you, and one nostril raised type of voice. He holds her hand the whole time, swiping his thumb on the underside of her wrist. She digs her nails into his skin. Her tears glisten as the audience around them laughs. As the actors bow one more time and the lights rise up, her face is dry, eyes clear, and she smiles.
"Ready?"
"What do have you got in mind?" He uses the seat in front of him to push up before balancing against his cane.
"Oh, just a full night, mostly." She is checking her phone.
"Mostly full," he says. His hair is longer and slicked back into a low pony tail. He wanted to grow a beard but Selena hides his pain medication when she thinks it's getting too long. Inversely, Selena cut her hair short. Her white neck graceful and exposed as she tips her head up, one thin eye brow raised just so.
At four am, she kisses each half-moon bruise on the back of his hand.
Author: I found this difficult to write. Not only because this is my final installment for this series, but because of the complicated psyche that is Bruce Wayne. For all those who've reviewed, thank you for taking the time. And for all those who have read, thank you, also, for taking the time.
Fish Wishes, over and out.
