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[biologia]

[ It feels like she has a lot of time to think during that wait.

After the first few checks of her watch, Betty decides that she's really in this for the long haul. He doesn't get to shift forms and bound away again. Not this time. She understood his reasoning, somewhat, when he left after Harlem: her dad is an overprotective pain in the ass, and just generally a pain in the ass, especially when convinced he's in the right. Morally or otherwise.

That stubbornness is a trait she inherited. It's a trait she plans to exploit, if Bruce is there and if he wants to talk. Maybe even if he doesn't. But she's not leaving until they come to some sort of bottom over where things are. She drops her bag next to the reception desk, staking a claim on the entire building, and settles in to watch the news feed. After a while, the images take on an almost hypnotic quality, and background noises become just that.

It's not until the elevator dings behind her, and the receptionist frowns over her shoulder, that Betty drags her attention away from various interviews and turns around.

To stare at Bruce, every single one of the clever things she thought up on the way to New York just flying out of her head.

He looks older, flecks of silver in his hair. He looks more careworn, but there's a light in his eyes, something she hasn't seen in years. He looks -- absolutely wonderful, and it takes more self-control than it should to remain where she is instead of throwing herself into his arms and not letting go.

But that restraint is only restricted to movement. Betty lets herself stare, mentally comparing his state of health then and now, delighted (and trying not to let it show) that he's taking care of himself, at least a little. Clothes that almost fit, a sturdier build, and a sliver of the confidence he used to display.

And when she does finally speak, it's not what she wanted to say at all. ]

Is that a purple shirt?

[hyperkinesia]

[ Bruce realizes, a little belatedly, that he should've thought of what to tell her once he got to the ground floor. The elevator ride wasn't nearly long enough for a solid plan, but he could have had some ideas at least. What to say, where to even begin. What comes after 'hi'? How are you? Weather's nice? Hardly the most fitting start to this particular conversation.

So, after Betty, there's nothing else. His mind is a blank, his tongue seems to tie itself into a tight knot. His mouth opens, closes again, his eyes fixed on her, watching her just as much as she does him.

She looks the same, somehow. Maybe a little tired, some of her worries bleeding through in her expression, but otherwise unchanged, as if the years haven't touched her. He can only imagine what he looks like to her. Old, probably. But he is glad that at least he looks a little healthier now, clean and in presentable clothes too.

Not that it makes this any easier. What does help is what she says when she opens her mouth, so thoughtless, but so natural. His eyebrows raise, and he can't fight back a smile stretching across his face. ]

Well, you... look great, too.

[ Humor doesn't do much right now, but it comes a little more naturally to him than anything else he could've said. ]

[biologia]

[ She smacks a hand over her own mouth in belated horror, aghast at saying something so ... so banal, instead of a riff of something poetic and flowery to express everything she's feeling at the moment.

He must think she's an idiot. (He wouldn't be wrong.)

It takes a moment to compose herself, shoving seelf-recrimination and insecurities down into the pit of her stomach where they can't possibly do any more damage in this moment. She takes a breath, counts mentally to ten, and then opens her mouth.

Because talking is clearly the best course of action. ]

And you're smiling. Purple shirts and smiles, I can't believe it.

[ Which, you know, isn't bordering on rude or obnoxious at all. There's a smile trying to escape the neutrality of her expression, able to see the possibility of humor in this meeting. ]

In a good way, I mean. You look ... [ 'good' won't do. or 'great', even if both fit the bill. ] happy. And beautiful.

[ Her tone drops on the last word, softening along with everything else. Betty reaches up and wipes an unexpected tear from her cheek. Things are spiraling out of control, verbally and emotionally, so she gives in and does what she wanted to do the moment he spoke her name.

Elizabeth Ross simply launches herself, without regard to decorum, towards his arms. (Hint: please catch her, genius.) ]

Oh, Bruce.

[hyperkinesia]

[ No, he doesn't think she's an idiot. Her remark, casual and banal as it might seem, does more to diffuse the tension and ease conversation between them than anything Bruce could have possibly imagined in his head, let alone managed to say out loud. He doesn't mind that she adds even more to it either, his head tipping to look down at himself briefly.

He doesn't even remember when he started liking purple. Funny thing. ]

Trying something new. It's important, they say.

[ Who's 'they'? No idea. He's kind of just spouting whatever answers he can think of, and when she says he looks happy, he barely manages to keep back the remark that that's only because she's here now.

Her spontaneous reaction grabs his attention entirely, and any words he could have said - thank you, you look wonderful too - get practically tossed aside, as he instinctively wraps his arms around her when she flings herself at him. Palms press warmly against her back, hands sliding and arms curling tighter around her torso, pulling her closer, his head tipping so he can bury his face in the curve of her neck.

His eyes close, and he inhales deeply. He could just drown in her scent, her voice, her... just her. ]

God, i've missed you so much.

[ He only realizes belatedly that he didn't just say that in his head. ]