"A business visit, huh." Dry, as he makes his way over. Careful in his movements, not faking anything, but not yet off the clock long enough to fully bleed into his thoughtless, predatory grace. Bruce comes up alongside him and reaches out with one hand, capturing Constantine's jaw and pushing him back into the chair, head tipped back. His other hand snags that cigarette, and a flick sends it soaring away out a window. Impressive, until you realize he could probably hit a bird with it from twenty yards away, and then it's just petty.
That done, he releases him and steps away, circling back towards the kitchen, undoing cufflinks, tie bar, buttons. Always so made-up, like he can't conceive of not wearing armor.
"Was it very bad this time, or are you just very bored?"
Sometimes it's awful. I have to forget. Sometimes it's just because there's no one else who can fill the right gap. Bruce understands both. There's no alcohol anywhere in the penthouse, but he finds himself checking anyway, a tedious buzz starting in the back of his head. Withdrawal from alcohol dependency was only half as bad as recovering from some of the poisons and toxins he's got an immunity for, not it's been frustratingly long-reaching. Sometimes when he's agitated, his mind reaches out for it without his permission.
Sugar-free ginger ale it is. (Goddamnit, Alfred.) He twists the cap on it, closes the sleek refrigerator with his foot, and mentally maps out what he has immediately at hand. Out here, or in the bedroom, or in the bath. Takes stock of the other man's gaze and just how much of a frayed edge he seems to have (or not) as he returns, moving a little more like himself.
no subject
That done, he releases him and steps away, circling back towards the kitchen, undoing cufflinks, tie bar, buttons. Always so made-up, like he can't conceive of not wearing armor.
"Was it very bad this time, or are you just very bored?"
Sometimes it's awful. I have to forget. Sometimes it's just because there's no one else who can fill the right gap. Bruce understands both. There's no alcohol anywhere in the penthouse, but he finds himself checking anyway, a tedious buzz starting in the back of his head. Withdrawal from alcohol dependency was only half as bad as recovering from some of the poisons and toxins he's got an immunity for, not it's been frustratingly long-reaching. Sometimes when he's agitated, his mind reaches out for it without his permission.
Sugar-free ginger ale it is. (Goddamnit, Alfred.) He twists the cap on it, closes the sleek refrigerator with his foot, and mentally maps out what he has immediately at hand. Out here, or in the bedroom, or in the bath. Takes stock of the other man's gaze and just how much of a frayed edge he seems to have (or not) as he returns, moving a little more like himself.