house song
A creak from down the hall. Bruce’s breath stills in his throat. The hallway light flickers on as the footsteps move. Bruce has enough wits about him to know the noise is purposeful. Damian always carries himself like a specter, but when he deigns to make noise, you can hear the way his feet drag across the floor. The brownstone, old as she is, makes enough noise for the two of them if you know how to listen. A shadow, ever so slowly, drags itself before Bruce’s door. It hovers there for a long moment. Bruce wills himself to turn the knob, an easy flick of his wrist, but finds himself stationary. A minute passes. Maybe two. Then the shadow moves back in the direction it came. Damian slinks back to his room much more quietly than he’d approached. “Fuck,” says Bruce, miserably. He leans his forehead against the door for the same amount of time Damian had hovered on the other side, then turns around, and subjects himself to bed.
Or, Damian and Bruce: on coming home, on family, on death. How do you talk to someone you hardly know?
