insurgents | OPEN POST.

You claim not to be frightening, then pretty much threaten me on your next sentence. Very convincing. Absolutely not frightening at all.

That's good. I'm sure you grade their work fairly. You were always really good at reviewing my work, I remember.

[ It gets a little chillier the farther up north he goes. He doesn't have a lot of really warm clothes, but the Spring brings along some sun and he finds that it's only at the end of the day, when it starts to get dark, or early in the morning, when there's barely even any light out, that he needs a few extra layers, and he buys a thick sweater and a jacket on the way for that reason exactly.

Going by bus is tiring and it takes a while, but he doesn't have enough money for a car, and he's not about to steal one. He's also not going to get on a plane. So, hopping from one bus to the next, hitchhiking where he can manage to get someone willing to drive him a little farther up north, sleeping in dingy little motels by the side of the road, finally, eventually, he makes it there.

And then, he... stalls. He tracks down her address first, easy enough. Goes to the college where she works now. He's definitely in full creepy stalker ex mode at this point, but he doesn't really care.

He's absolutely delaying approaching her at all because he's a coward, and he has no idea how to. Now that he's so close, the distance between them feels like a gaping abyss, and how is he even supposed to cross that? ]

I am just saying that I have a small army of well-fed young adults at my beck and call and you should watch your step. And keep telling me how good at grading I am because I just held my office hours and I could use the testimonials.

[Betty's days are packed. She's looser now with the passage of time, more accustomed to the reality where Leonard is an absence and Bruce is a few lines of text at irregular intervals, also an absence. There are fewer challahs, more fruit cakes, because she doesn't need to punch things quite as much anymore and then she just fills the new void with sugar. She patrons the student-run shows and tries a Latin dance class and wears sandals through the icy mud because open-toed shoes are a revelation.

Even to someone who knows her, it could look a lot like happiness. If her walls are still half-painted and most of her effects buried under greenery, that just means things are in progress, that there's still some place to go. She desperately needs to believe that, because the truth is... The truth is she's not present for most of it. Sometimes she's eighteen years old again and her feelings aren't real. Sometimes, a stray thought will send her spiraling down a pit of helplessness, and this isn't her first rodeo, she's worked through these episodes before, but they come when she's in company and when she's alone, and the truth is that emotional hijacking is the least of it. When she can feel anything at all, it isn't happiness.

But she can still work, teach, nurture, bake, dance, and pack her days to the brim with sugar.]

Edited 2016-03-22 07:02 (UTC)

[ The last email goes unanswered. He reads it, he smiles a little, but he offers nothing as a reply. She shouldn't find it weird; he sometimes takes days or even weeks to get back to her, so it's no different this time. At least to her, it isn't. To him, those three days that follow are more complicated than all the months he spent hopping around from place to place, never settling down.

He spends hours in the room he rented in the outskirts of the city, when he goes out his feet always end up taking him to her work. He sees her once— his heart all but leaps from his chest, and the urge to rush to her and the instinct to turn around and run war inside him, and he ends up doing nothing at all.

He doesn't think he can do it. But her gravity is still tugging at his heart, and his feet follow, drag behind, defeated in a battle of wills that, in the end, was no battle at all. The moment he stepped into the city where Betty is, he knew it was a lost battle, trying to keep his distance.

It's a little later in the day, close to dinner time. A nice neighbor opens the front door of the building for him, and he steps inside, makes his way to her door. He stands there for a good while, backpack slung over a shoulder, his hair a long curly mess, his beard short but there nonetheless (he should've shaved, at the very least; anyway), worn jeans and a plaid shirt underneath a warm coat. There's still that urge to flee, to just leave and leave her to keep living her life, but his hand works of its own accord, reaching for the doorbell and ringing; the sound echoing loudly in his head.

Maybe she's not home, the thought crosses his mind. For the flicker of a second he thinks that might just be for the best, until he realizes that if she's not home, if he leaves now, he probably won't come back. He won't try again. ]

Edited (spotted a typo a million hours later) 2016-03-23 01:19 (UTC)

[It's not the safest, but since the building itself is always locked, Betty hasn't been making a habit of checking the front door before she opens it for whichever neighbor is stopping by this time. From the hallway, there's the sound of pounding feet approaching, and then the door swings open with a sudden crack.

And there's a moment where she doesn't know him, where she only sees a strange man at her door, a strange middle-aged white civilian man she wasn't expecting and her still in only her bathrobe and pajamas. But some part of her must be faster than the rest because before she can really react to any of that, she's already dragging him inside, glancing anxiously up and down the deserted hallway as she all but slams the door shut behind them and shakily engages all four locks. And by the time she's doing that, the rest of her has caught up.]

Bruce. Oh, god, Bruce. It's you! I thought you were in South America! Are you okay? Are you in trouble?

[Bruce is always in trouble, it's a pretty good bet. Her hands flutter over him, ineffectively searching for injuries, more effectively convincing her that he's real and really there, really him. When she's inexpertly ascertained that nothing is broken, she throws herself into his arms like giving in to free fall.]

(ooc: i have never seen you make an edit before)

[ Nothing in Bruce knows what to do when she opens that door; his heart winds up into a pace that almost seems beyond his control, his mind runs with a thousand thoughts at once and yet none at all, his body kind of freezes where it is, and his mouth doesn't seem to work. Lips part but no words come out, and all he manages in the end is a smile, weak and tired, almost distant, like he's not even sure this is real.

She seems to have a better presence of mind than he does, even if it's only by a little. He lets out a huff of surprise when he's dragged into the house, barely managing not to stumble over his own two feet, his backpack falling off his shoulder as he finally regains his balance. ]

I was in South America. [ Past tense. Evidently. He watches her frantically lock the doors, his smile turning both amused and almost nostalgic when she starts checking for injuries or just for that tangible presence of solid matter at her fingertips. He ducks his head a little, tries to look at her. ] I'm not in trouble, I'm—

[ Words are cut short when she flings herself at him, his brain lagging for the second it takes him to return the embrace, his backpack dropped to the floor so he can wrap his arms tightly around her. Somewhere at the back of his mind he was laughing at the part of him that thought he could have ever made this reunion a casual thing. There's literally nothing casual about them, there never will be, and years apart come to prove just that. Right now, she feels just the same in his arms. Same warmth, same feeling, same scent— save for the added smell of some strange plant, a trace of paint too. But mostly, it feels like home, and he could drown in that. He is. ]

I'm alright. I'm fine. Betty... [ Her name leaves him like a quiet prayer, the immeasurable relief of being away from himself for lifetimes, only to come back and find the part of himself he thought long lost. He closes his eyes, lets himself bury his head into the curve of her neck, and it feels like home. ] It's alright.

( ooc: mostly because I rarely ever spot mistakes or typos that bother me. but when I did, I had to. )

[She can't feel her face, so there's no way to tell if she's crying, and there's a dull thud by their feet, and he looks terrible, he looked so upset to see her. He looks really really bad and she just needs to keep him here for a while, at least until the chill from the outdoors bleeds out of him and into her apartment and into her bones through four layers of material and until his arms finally come up and he's holding her too and they're crushed together like this. And then her arms are malfunctioning, she can't actually let him go ever again, so they're all just going to have to get used to living this way with no arms and four legs and her chin digging into his shoulder and his beard scratching softly against her neck.]

You're always in trouble, Bruce. [And, okay, with the way her voice sounds, she's definitely crying. She can't do that now, she needs to take care of this, she needs to get things sorted and then she can start hyperventilating. This is really not a good time for it.] No one's... No one's coming after you? You're safe? I have [to take a moment to accept that I'm just going to be disgustingly liquid on you ~~or let go~~ so you're just going to have to deal with it too] a bag. Some stuff. A c-car. We can get out of here.

[ He could learn to live like this. It's better than the alternative, when the alternative is not being here at all, when it means being someplace where he can't see her smile, smell her hair or hear her voice— even when it sounds sad and broken and carries the sobs and the tears she's crying, like now.

He shakes his head, doesn't let go of her but leans his head back still, turns it just enough that he can press his lips to her temple, then tries to look at her face. She's crying and he doesn't like that, but that's not even what hurts the most. What hurts the most is what she says next.

It's not what he wants to hear. It hurts like a stab to the chest, twenty seconds into this meeting and she's already talking about escape routes, about fleeing plans, about just dropping her whole life to run wherever she has to with him, just so he can be safe. (He can never be safe.) This isn't why he came here, and God, maybe this is the reason why he shouldn't have come in the first place. He still smiles but it's impossible not to see the misery behind it, the ache, his breath hitching and his voice wavering when he barely manages to stop himself from crying too. ]

I'm fine, Betty. No one's coming for me. It's just me. It's just— you think I'd have come here if I had to run? You know I wouldn't do that to you.

Of course you wouldn't. Of course you wouldn't c- c- [come back, but she's hiccuping now, hollow and sharp.

'Why are you even here, Bruce?' but she can't ask it, can't even get the words to come together and couldn't stand to hear whatever he'd have to say if she could. All the fears and emotions she could tidy out of text are seizing up her diaphragm in pulses and waves, boiling up through her and carrying her with them because he's here and she has no defenses. There's nothing in her to protect him from herself. She's hurting him and she can't stop, can only hang onto him more tightly and wail.

You know how this whole situation could have been avoided? If you'd written ahead. Left some sort of note. Sent those photographs. There's no processing anything approaching the idea that Bruce might be here for her and to stay when she's spent months and months, years and years, reminding herself how that can never be again, sleeping beside the truth that he'd be a planet away for the rest of her natural life, and then his unnatural one.

He'd run from her in Harlem. He'd avoided her when he'd resurfaced in New York. After she'd reached him again, he moved without warning, written, then stopped, then started but never really gave himself to her again. That he's safe - she can take that. Whether or not she believes him, she can at least swallow it, what it means:

She doesn't need to act. They can stay like this for a while. And there is no other option because she won't let him escape while she's still caught up in this storm.]

Edited 2016-03-23 20:43 (UTC)

[ It's fine. She's crying now, she's heaving loudly with every choked breath, and that in itself makes Bruce's eyes well up with tears, but it's fine because he can hear her cry, he can feel her shake and sob against him, and that's the tangible proof he needs that she's here, and he's here, and he's alive again. Sure, he still feels like an ass for making her cry like this, but he's setting that self-appointed guilt trip aside for just a moment now.

He should have written ahead, let her know, even just a quick email. But he also couldn't. He spent the last few weeks hesitating, going back and forth on his decision, and even to the very last second before she opened that door, he was still debating on whether he should be there, or if he should just turn around and leave again. And that, he thinks, would have been even worse. Telling her he'd be there one moment, giving up and breaking her again the next— and he's hurt Betty so much already, he just couldn't bear doing that again. He'd kill himself; even though technically, he can't.

There's not much he can say right now. 'I'm sorry' doesn't quite cover it, and even if it did, when he opens his mouth all that comes out is a quiet little sob, tears rolling down his cheeks when he blinks his eyes. Every sob she lets out digs into him like a sharp knife, the hot blade searing his insides, but at least he cries quietly, a soft sound that drowns in the midst of hers, and could go by unnoticed if not by the way he shakes a little, and his chest rises and falls in odd spasms. ]

It's okay. [ No it's not, or it is but it doesn't entirely feel like it, not yet. He pulls away a little more, moves a hand to her face in a futile attempt to wipe the tears from her cheeks, his expression a strange mix of pained and overjoyed. ] I'm not going. I don't need to go. We don't— we're fine here. God, Betty... I've missed you so much.

[Looking at him is really hard. His face is still the face she knows so well. He looks sad and happy - he looks torn - the way she (remembers) usually pictures him. He's so much like how she usually pictures him, so deceptively familiar and perfect and strange that it skips past comforting and goes right back to distressing. It's a projection of who he was over the person he's become, this new Bruce. And he's crying. Bruce never cries (she doesn't know that/that isn't true), and it's wrong, it's probably her fault, and it makes looking at him even harder.

Nothing could stop her looking, even if it is through a blur of leftover tears that missed the memo about how she's cried herself out already and they should stop at any time. Her face is blotchy and red where he touches it, and she scrubs at it more roughly than him, blows snot into the sleeve of her bathrobe. Her voice jerks when she speaks, interrupted by sniffs and soggy hiccups.]

Stay for the night. The weekend. The week. Just stay. [Get it together, Ross. Oh, god, he's in her house.] Don't leave again. Promise me. I know you can't promise me that, but promise me anyway. That you're staying. I can't- I can't- [Shuddering breath.]

I won't.

[She could and she would, and by now they both know it, but she's a little more solid for having said it. Not solid enough give him an additional inch of personal space, but solid enough to believe that she could. If he needed her to.]

[ Bruce is only now realizing that he really didn't think this through at all. He just prepared himself up to showing up at her door and not talking himself out of ringing the bell, but he didn't really think of how it would affect him, it would affect her. For a genius he feels pretty stupid right now, because right now it seems like Betty's breaking apart in front of him, and he should have seen it, he should have known it would (or could) happen, and he should be able to do more than just stand there, hopelessly trying to pick up the tiny pieces of her that keep breaking off and falling all around them.

Even when she wipes her snot on her sleeve it's a sad thing, and Bruce lets out a sharp, pained chuckle, the flicker of amusement making him ache right at the center of his chest. His heart clenches, again for what feels like the hundredth time in mere seconds. He could just die right here, he feels that if not for the fact that he can't, this pain could kill him right now. ]

I will, I'll stay. I'll stay. [ He blurts out the words without thinking twice of it, without needing to. He really had no plans when he came here, he didn't know if he'd stay or just leave again, and honestly? A lot of it would boil down to how he would come to find Betty when he got here. But Betty's asking him to stay, and she's always had that hold on him, always, a single word from her and he would sink to the depths of the ocean, he would jump off a cliff; he would set down his bags and take off his shoes and sit with her until time itself caught up to them, until they held each other close enough and for long enough that he would just disappear into her. And he would be alright with that.

He brushes the base of his thumbs across her cheeks softly, cradling her face in his hands as he leans in and rests their foreheads together. ]

I'm not going anywhere. I promise.

[Her eyes search his face, over and over, memorizing him as he is, how he's luminous now with his wet cheeks and pained eyes. Some of that, she put that there. She'll need to draw it back out. He's close enough that her eyes cross when she looks into them, and the breath from his words ghosts across her mouth. His hands on her face are still cool and she brings up her own to hold them in place, like she can warm them by touching.]

If you're lying, they'll never find the body. [In a wobbly murmur, but she's starting to smile at last because his words are enough, that he wants to and that he's here are enough. They shouldn't be - god, she knows this - but she's tired, she's old, she doesn't want to fight it. Relief unfurls between her shoulder-blades when she lets go, just lets all the poisoned and curdled emptiness go, and there'll be time to work through the rest of it - he promised.

As the rest of her catches up to speed, she settles back into awareness of her body, remembers time and space. That he's been just standing since she dragged him in. That she's a mess, the apartment is a mess. That elation is still energy and exhaustion is lead, and charge doesn't hold indefinitely. She should offer him a drink, a seat, a hot shower, ~~his hands back~~. She should kiss him; he's right there. Instead, she blinks furiously, and her eyes cut to the side. Still with a splinter of accusation,] You didn't tell me you were coming. If I'd known, I'd have...

[Tidied sooner? Set up more space? Not melted down like catastrophic coolant malfunction was an action plan? She's still smiling, hasn't stopped; she can't help that any more than she could the tears. It's Bruce and they've seen each other through worse than this.]

[ He can't help letting out a laugh when she speaks up, though it's soft and quiet. His hands show no sign of wanting to leave her face, and when she settles her hands over them, then he feels even less like letting go. They have time anyway, they're in no rush. He hopes they're not, anyway. He's lived enough months in the recent past like that, and he really doesn't want this moment to be like that too.

He wants to linger, he wants this to last. For however long it might— even if not that long at all. An eternity in the span of a few minutes. ]

I don't doubt you for one second.

[ Even if it's said warmly, sweetly. He knows Betty would never hurt him, even if she could; unless he asked her to. But that's a whole other matter entirely.

He's so very close to leaning in and bridging that distance, pressing his lips to hers then. The taste of her breath lures him in terribly, and he's equal parts grateful and regretful of the way that she glances sideways and away from him. ]

You'd have what? Set up the couch for me? [ Said somewhat amusedly, some sarcasm tainting the words. A particular thought comes to mind then, and he tenses just so, his chest tightening painfully when his gaze scans what he can see of the room, his tone cautious when he asks. ] Where's Leonard?

[ He's not even sure he wants to hear the answer to that, but he knows he needs to hear it anyway. ]

[No, there isn't a rush, but she doesn't want to linger either. This moment will lead into another, and into another, and if he won't slip away between any of them, she still wants to pin them in place before they can scatter into almosts.]

Leonard... [Her smile dims, first from confusion and then in memory, although it still won't leave entirely.] Bruce, Len doesn't live here. He's never lived here. We broke up last summer, I mean, for good. I think... I think we both knew I wasn't being fair to him. [She hopes he knows what she means.

It had been less than a year ago but the time was already faded from her memory, and she hadn't tried very hard to keep it. When she thinks back, there's was no chance she could have told Bruce, no reason for him to have known except it had been so significant, losing Leonard, losing Bruce again, all spun together. If they'd still been writing she might have mentioned it, but once she'd been okay again... it would have felt too much like asking him to come home just because she was sad. She's not sure how it follows, that he'd come back anyway.

She drops her hands, opens just that bit of extra space.] I'm sorry, I thought you knew. You know that's not why I'm happy to see you, don't you?

[ Her confusion's mirrored in his face when she says his name. It's an almost distant sound, detached, and until she explains, he can't quite figure out why. It still takes him a few seconds to make sense of it, even after she does, like his brain lags when trying to process that information.

He's never lived here. She moved... because she moved out. She's right, he had no idea, and he had no way of knowing. He did cut off all communication with her for a while there, and even when he got back in touch, it was just short and inane messages, things with little substance or meaning. Trying to distance himself while being unable to completely let go.

That's been his pattern with her for years now. A whole decade, and then some. And the farther away he's been from her, the more he realizes he can't truly leave, and she can't truly leave his heart or his mind.

He's silent for a moment, her question going unanswered for a couple of seconds until he finally nods. ]

Yes. Yes, I... I know. I know. [ A pause, ] Betty... I'm sorry.

[ No, he's not. That's a lie and he's always been horrible at lying to her, so she probably can tell. He is sorry if she suffered during that breakup, but he's not sorry that she's not with him anymore. He's not sorry that he didn't come back to find her and Leonard settling into a new life together, in a new home, painting their walls together in new colors, smiling and laughing while getting each other covered in blotches of begonia or baby blue.

In fact, he's immensely relieved. He'd been feeling a constant tightness in his chest ever since he started on his journey home, and he almost buckles when that pressure is gone in but an instant. It's selfish of him and he knows it, but he's never claimed to be perfect. Far from it, really. ]

Are you alright?

[Well, she knew that about him. She likes to think he could move on too, that he could find someone new that he could learn to care for and who would take care of him in her stead. She doesn't like to think that she'd ruined him if she can't even have him herself. But even if that were to happen, she knows he'd always love her, and it's not something she would change even if it would make his life easier. Because she's the same way, and he knows... if he hadn't known then, if he still doesn't know now, how deeply seated he is in her heart, she would just keep showing it to him through the trajectory of her life because there isn't anything else she can do.

She accepted that, oh, years ago, maybe before she'd even lost him: him as her weakness for the rest of her life. It sounds sweet when you're young. But like a weakness, she'd guarded it from everyone, and maybe that's part of why Bruce always seems so surprised whenever she chooses him. Like she failed him, like he doesn't know she's just as helpless when it comes to him. She'd loved Leonard - she still loves Leonard - but Bruce had been it for her.]

I'm fine. I'm- I was going to be fine. [Don't lie. Let him catch you. For the majority of their correspondence, she'd been more concerned with reassuring him than with being honest, but now he's here, and now she can't.] But I'm glad you're here, Bruce. I'm really really glad. That's why- That's why I'm going to kill you if you leave me again. My therapist will probably testify for me. The campus papers will have a field day.

[They're both.. yeah, she's going absently grab his bag and start pulling him toward the couches. They're both really spent. The living room space is a contained disaster like much of the rest of the apartment, and pretty much what you'd expect. Cluttered, half-painted, covered with plants, with the occasional plastic dinosaur or spare pen lurking between the few stacks of books or papers she never got around to putting away. There won't be any photographs or mementos anywhere beside what he sent her for Christmas, but there will still be some leftover boxes.]

[ 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. ]

[ She's gotten so used to keeping her secrets alone that it's reflexive, trying to hold things back when they're tied into him, even from him, or sometimes with the idea that it's for him. But she does want him to have everything, to be her full partner again like she hasn't had since he left, and some time she'll figure out that if she wants to know him again, she'll need to let him know her too. And it's like there was a part of herself that was left behind in that coma, and she's been missing it all this time, and now it's awake, she's awake again. It's like he makes her whole, the one person who knew her completely. ]

You said that. In your emails. You said you thought it looked nice. Great, actually. [She's basically got those memorized, oops.] You said that about my hair too. It's... a little annoying now but it'll grow back out. It's only been a year.

[She's just making words now because it's too good to be speaking to him, to hear him speaking. She thinks he's the same. She could fall into him now and she's not sure why she doesn't. Maybe she's just savouring it, light chatter with Bruce while she recenters and doesn't touch his face all over like a creeper.] You look... [so beautiful. also terrible.] exhausted, actually. Are you hungry? Do you want to take a shower or anything?

[ He can't help but smile at the string of thoughts spilling out of Betty's mouth, like she can't even filter her words properly, but he finds it sweet more than anything. Relaxing too, soothing, like the first wave of relief in years, water given to a man just coming out of a desert. It's how he feels seeing her now, hearing her, getting to be this close even if they're not touching anymore.

Part of him wishes they were, part of him worries if that's too much— for him, her, or them both. They never really had boundaries set between them but now he's not so sure if that's still how things are. ]

It does. Perfect. [ But then that's how he's always seen Betty, how he always will. She could be bald for all he cares and she would still be perfect to him.

He lifts a hand up to his own hair when she mentions a shower, looking somewhat apologetic for showing up here looking like crap. Even if he doesn't feel like crap, honest. ] I'm... a shower would be nice, actually. I need to shave, anyway. And probably trim my hair. [ It's a mess of curls right now, too long and untamed, since he hasn't really cut it for a while now. ] Don't suppose you have a pair of hair shears lying around, do you?

[Her cheeks still feel hot and blotchy. He isn't the only one who looks like he went through a wringer right now. She does feel like crap, though, but distantly.]

I don't know, I don't think so. I threw away so much. I'll have to look. [Murmuring, not quite able to take her eyes off him, the shots of silver all through his hair, the tiredness around his eyes she wants to lift away. Oh my god, Bruce, stop touching yourself the way she wants to be touching you.] I can pick one up tomorrow. There should be some new razors in the bathroom, though.

[Somehow, in the course of saying that, her hands have found their way to his face, brushing along the fuzz of his jaw. She doesn't really remember moving, or leaning closer, but she swallows and finds she can't move back, either. It's not really a sense of boundaries on her part, or even any particular awareness of the space that was and is no longer between then. It just feels like things happening, and her letting them happen, and him letting them happen like the steps of a dance. Slow, slow, quick-, quick-, slow.]

I should probably wash my face, too. Is this okay, Bruce? I don't want to hold back. [Two separate thought processes running in parallel and spilling together, neither particularly controlled.]

[ Bruce's view might be a little biased, but he thinks Betty looks wonderful always, he just doesn't like it when she's sad, when the pain shows in her features. So maybe her face is a little red and blotchy but she's not crying anymore, and there's little or none of the worry, the urgency or the pain from before, and that's all he could ask for. He'd hate to (yet again) be the cause of her suffering. ]

That's alright. Just a razor is fine, thanks.

[ At least he'll manage to get rid of the mess of a beard covering his jaw and cheeks, even a little of his neck. He probably thinks he looks worse than he does, honestly. He also doesn't realize that scratching along his bearded jaw or running his fingers through his air is in any way a temptation to her.

But when she reaches out and touches him, the last thing on his mind is to pull away from her, even if his heart leaps at just feeling her hands on him, her fingers brushing across his jaw, his cheeks. He blinks more slowly, and leans in a little closer to her instead. ]

It's okay. You don't have to. [ One hand reaches out to hers, and he holds it in place, tips his head just enough to let his cheek rub along the inside of her fingers and palm. ] You never have to hold back with me.

[A bark of a laugh, slightly hysterical, because that's exactly what she wants to hear and so far from being true. She wouldn't be showing him that, doubting him, hurting him, trapping him with her fears, if she could help it but she's already done that plenty tonight.]

I miss you. [Not, 'I've missed you,' even with him in her house, his face between her hands.] And. I'm scared.

[And somehow this translates into leaning in the rest of the way and kissing him, softly, just lips pressed tentatively to lips in light pecks, almost holding her breath. Her hands rub against his cheeks and eventually bury into the curls of his too-long hair.]

[ It's not as far from being true as she might think —as they might think— but that's something for them to figure out over time. Right now he just cares that they have that time, that they won't part, that he's not just passing by before he disappears into the world again. Whatever they do now, what matters is that they have the time to figure it out, together. ]

I'm right here. [ But he knows what she means, he knows because he feels it too. Betty's right here and he misses her still, misses a myriad of things they're not doing right now, things they haven't done in a long time. He misses even the sound of her laughter, when it comes unbidden and light and full of joy.

Some of that is soothed the next moment, when she leans in and kisses him. He doesn't need to think at all to return it, only a soft gasp of surprise leaving him before he's tipping his head and his lips are pressing more presently against hers. His hand settles on her side, rounds her waist and comes to rest on her back, pulling her a little closer to him. ]

I miss you too. [ But he's not quite as scared. Then again, Betty's always had that effect on him. He only wishes he could do the same for her. ]

[There's a suggestion of urgency, a part of her that wants to rush them against some undefined deadline, but there isn't one. Every time she reminds herself that there isn't one is a pleasure, a stuttering revelation in loop. She'll keep him forever, for real this time.

She closes her eyes and licks at his lips, letting the soft pressure of them push her worries out of her mind. When he pulls her closer, she leans in too until she's pressing him slightly into the back of the couch and the very few inches she has on him mean he would have to be tilting his head up slightly. The warmth in his voice makes her fingers tighten, and she doesn't bother replying, only deepens their kiss, gradually, too slowly.

It's like holding back, but it isn't. She wants him to have time to stop her and tries to trust that he will, but it's more than that. Because not getting what she wants... sometimes that's what she wants. Longing for Bruce while she has him and can have him fulfills something too.]

[ There's urgency on his end too, but it has nothing to do with feeling like he has to go. He doesn't have to, and he remembers that, he can almost feel it in his bones. Betty's presence is like an anchor keeping him there, and there's nothing else, no reason to leave, no place to go to, nothing to run away from. It's terrifying but freeing in a way.

He's safe here, in her house, in her arms. The only reason he rushes is because he's missed her so much, and now that she's closed that distance between them, literal and otherwise, taking things slow seems almost impossible to him.

His lips part thoughtlessly when he feels her tongue, instantly willing and eager to deepen the kiss, his own tongue darting out to taste her lips, trace the edge of her teeth. The sound he lets out is near an urgent hum when he dips into her mouth, arms curling tighter around her, as if he's physically incapable of letting go right now. ]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

god I need some Betty before I die from the withdrawal symptoms

that sounds unpleasant; don't die

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject