Disclaimer: I do not own and am not, in any way, affiliated with the Dark Knight franchise.
"she scoffs at the idea of becoming god
and I am tumbled over with her cynicism -
perhaps she doesn't see. perhaps I will never let
her know."
― Patricia Camille Antony, "Ramona"
Interlude – II
He was confused when he woke up in the unusual room he had come to call home. Pale light cast a shadow on the floor that was sporadically broken up by the fierce flurry happening outside. Barsad didn't remember falling asleep, but the night's events slowly came back to him and he groaned.
It had not been his intention to tell his life's story that evening- or any evening, for that matter. To say he kept his cards close to his chest was a gross understatement. After all, a man didn't get into his position by telling every Joe Bloggs the sordid details of his life. Even Bane was in the dark on some of the select details he had chosen to disclose earlier.
Leave it to Audrey to have gone and cocked it all up again.
He glanced at the figure next to him, her outline visible in the cold light that filtered in through the bare balcony window. The comforter and sheets were a twisted mess around her body, a scowl on her face from whatever was troubling her dreams. Even in sleep she was restless and wild.
It wasn't entirely fair to lay the blame on her, he knew. He could have shut the conversation down. Except the idea of… what, confessing? Is that what he had done? Confessed his sins. That was absurd, wasn't it?
Abso-bloody-lutely.
Regardless, she hadn't told him to sod off or fled in terror. She'd handled it much better than he'd thought she would and it had been a relief. As the walls of mortality closed in further around him, he found he wanted someone else to know him, to know his story.
It was pathetically romantic, in a way that William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, or any of those old, dead writer blokes would have probably appreciated.
"You're losing your marbles, mate," he whispered to himself.
Audrey stirred next to him and shifted so that the top of her head was nearly in his armpit. He checked the clock next to the bed and groaned again. Careful not to wake her, Barsad guided her back to a more comfortable position and had to stifle a laugh as she mumbled her way through a tirade about macaroni. He pressed a kiss against the side of her head before rolling away from her.
He could wax poetic all he wanted about the woman in his bed, but there was still work to be done. No rest for the wicked, as the saying went.