Part 8
by Darklady
Location: DC Universe... 'Bird' AU.
Rated: PG (Also B for Busted )
PS: Standard Disclaimer. DC owns the characters. I do not. Damn shame, that.
(Dinah's POV)
^^V^^ ^BC^ ^^V^^ ^BC^ ^^V^^ ^BC^]
Bruce is asleep. Snoring slightly. I find it charming.
All that thick dark hair has fallen out of its severe cut. He looks so sweet. So gentle. So innocent. So exhausted.
I brush back a few tickling curls and drop a kiss onto one sharpened cheekbone. He turns, his cheek tucking against my breasts.
The last few days have been hard him.
Not that you could tell from his smile. That was still dazzling. Or from his speech. Still as witty and charming. Or from the way he made love to me. That was every bit as fabulous as I remembered. It was only afterwards, with the bright flame of his eyes veiled, that I noticed the dark patches below them.
My eyes follow the line of fresh bruises on his shoulders. Apparently some of the Queen's minions in Gotham assaulted the Wayne building. They took out the lobby and trashed the glass on the executive levels. Hurt dozens of people, and put ten of them in the hospital. Nothing fatal, thank God. Still, it must have been terrifying up there in the suites.
My poor Brucester.
I make a note to have a word with Miss 'Lock and Load'. If he has bruises like this she is *not* doing her job. Perhaps I should check around and see if anyone competent is available. David Cain, maybe. I hear he's looking for a legit gig.
Lucius Fox may say that woman is working for Bruce, but she's really there for Fox. To make sure that Fox's block of stocks doesn't get kidnapped or waylaid or wander off into his own life when Fox wants him in the office signing papers. Bruce needs someone to take care of him for himself. Someone who understands that he is just *not* the MBA type. Not that Bruce isn't bright enough. He is. But it's a different sort of intelligence, warmer and more personal. More people-centered. More intuitive. Bruce needs someone who understands that. Someone who respects and admires him for what he is, rather then demanding that he change into whatever suits their needs.
Bruce is much too tolerant of such demands. Perhaps it comes from being orphaned so young. He told me how his parents died, and how he was raised all alone in that big house. No friends. No family. Just the butler and his father's medical partner. The very thought twists my heart. Such a sad, lonely life for a child. Most people would have come out of it bitter or self centered. Not Bruce. It just made him gentler with other peoples needs.
Bruce is so *giving*. Sometimes too much for his own good. And I don''t mean in just material ways. In *every* way. Bruce was willing to take me out on the town, even as tired as he was. Now I understand where the playboy image comes from. It's not that Bruce uses women. It's that ambitious women make use of him.
And he's so understanding. Especially of his son. Richard is a police officer in the next town. Such a risky profession. I *know* Bruce worries. I can hear it in his voice. But he never complains. It's what Dick wants. To Bruce, that is more important that what Bruce wants for Dick.
He's always putting others first. Being there for them. Taking care of their needs, their dreams. But who is there to take care of Bruce?
He has actually visited every one of the Wayne Industries employees injured when the Fables forces attacked his building. Even so, he feels guilty that they were hurt. As if he somehow should have stopped her.
Dear Bruce. He did his best. More then anyone else would have even tried.
I bend down to kiss the furrows forming on his forehead. He mutters something. Restless. Even in his dreams he worries.
He has a scratch on one cheek. Claw marks of a vicious fey. And his cheeks are wind burned. Not enough to see, but I can feel the slight roughness on his skin. I trace the line up from his chin and across the bridge of his nose. However did he get a burn like that?
He turns, one long arm reaching out to pull me closer. Long fingers brush my face, and a new roughness scratches my lips.
I glance down. Nasty cut. Healing now, but still... I follow it from his elbow to where is ends abruptly in mid-forearm as if cut off by a glove. A glove???
Flipping on the light, I peer closely at the faintest of lines. Yes. There it is. A faint tan dividing his face like a phantom mask. A mask. Or a cowl. A....?
BASTARD!