[ It's a complicated thing, moving on. One has to want it, Bruce thinks; really want it, not just think it's something that would be for the best. He's been countries and continents and seas apart from her, but it didn't matter. Here he is again, back where he was before, back where they started. Home. Because that's what she is to him, among a myriad of other things: she's home. And the road is long and often treacherous but sooner or later he always ends up here, at her doorstep.

Quite literally too, this time around.

But it's alright, he never minded not being able to move on. If anything she's always kept monsters and nightmares at bay, even when she's nothing but a memory or a feeling somewhere deep inside. If not for her, he probably wouldn't have made it all these years, even if they were years mostly spent apart.

He's glad she doesn't lie, or at least tries not to. She doesn't need to— doesn't need to sacrifice her own worries or build a wall around her own feeble state of mind for his sake. He's not here just so she can worry about him and tend to his own problems; he wants her to lean on him too, if she needs it, to break apart and not worry that it might be too much for him. It wouldn't be. ]

Then let's just be sure you never have cause to try to kill me, alright? [ 'Try' being keyword there. He knows she's not being serious, anyway, his smile says as much.

When she tugs him farther into the living room, he follows along easily, no will, strength or reason to resist as she takes him towards the couches. He takes the silent invitation and sits down, scratching the short beard covering his jaw as he looks around curiously, taking in the little details, smiling when he spots one or two of the things he sent her. ]

The place looks nice. [ He looks back to her, eyes scanning her features, going on to add another comment just as casual and pointless as that first. ] Your hair's still a little short. [ Shorter than he remembers it, anyway. ]