multiversallogs | someone's mouth said, "paint them all red"

Who: ~~Bruce Wayne~~ "Tom" and you?
What: Some new stuff and some old stuff; there are a couple of thread starters but otherwise it's totally open.
Where: Various places - default starter is Bonetown, but if you'd like to bump into Kermit elsewhere, ping me to wrangle an idea, the world is our oyster.
Notes: I want your CR and I want your revenge. Tho I apologize ahead of time - Bruce is not really proactive socially so if you want to hurl your character at him you might have to be the one to poke him with a stick. Also his permissions post has been updated, so if you haven't interacted with him before it's worth a read. I'M SORRY THIS CHARACTER IS SO DIFFICULT.
Warnings: TBA.

Bonetown, despite all political hardships and polarized status compared to other cantons - hell, much of the city - has managed to carry on relatively securely. Bruce appreciates the population of paranoid hermits, nonpowered nonEarthlings, and scientists and alchemists working to fail-safe their material, locked in a bubble free of interference. The salves and bandages he can pick up near his flat, made from all natural products originating from planets he's heard of and ones he hasn't, fill his medicine cabinet to overflowing; sometimes these old mothers look at him over the rims of their glasses and inspect the bruises on his hands with something like skeptical judgment, and he doesn't begrudge them that. He doesn't look like a hippie and never will, feelings deep in his heart aside.

Today's a mystery tea day. He can't pronounce what he got (yet), but the donut in the accompanying bag is laughably mundane (rainbow jimmies). The riverbank that overlooks the three-way split is good for the view, and also scoping out chaos at the arena across the way. He'll sit there for a while, then melt back into the crowds.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

“That bad, huh?” Revising his theory even now to include the possibility that he's dated this guy's sister; bone structure, colouring, height, all of these things factor in as he briefly but efficiently takes a stroll down memory lane to see if anyone jumps out at him.

(No, no, definitely an only child, met her brothers, maybe, no, maybe--)

He's not pressing it too hard, but-- he's curious, and he's got a bit of time to kill this morning, and if he's honest he is interested to know if it is him that this man is recognizing. His face is not necessarily a unique one, he already knows that, which means there's no guarantee...

...but it could be interesting.

Bruce is not good at having friends, he's even worse at reconciling losing them; that this is not a real loss and just something strange (something that everyone else has gone through, it was bound to be his turn sooner or later, and this is harder than Penelope for numerous reasons) just irritates him. "Sorry," he says, lamely, not a real apology. "You look like the sheriff in Mafaton."

Not even Bruce's horse is buying that one, but he's trying to edge out of here anyway.

“I've been taken for a lot of things,” Sol says, after a moment, mild and not unkind (which is the worst thing, probably; he's not different in any of the ways that really matter, he just isn't married and Bruce was never in his wedding and he doesn't know either of his names), “but I'm gonna say cop is a first for me.”

After considering it (and whether or not he wants to push any harder), he offers his hand-- “Sol Koenig. I thought for a minute there I might've dated your sister.”

He's quiet for a bit, going through his own consideration - he's not sure if he wants to deal with this, if it's worth it, if it's just going to give him a headache. He tries not to look at Sol's hand like it's going to bite him (and to his credit, Bruce does a bit better with that sort of thing nowadays), and for a while, it seems like he might just leave anyway.

Grudgingly, Bruce shakes his hand. His grip his strong, palms rough, and he still seems wary and a bit resigned.

"Tom."

There are already differences. Names hardly matter.

"It'd be more likely the other way around." Dryly. So, yes. He does know you, in some way, Mr. Koenig.

“I can already tell I'd like you better than my brother-in-law,” Sol says, blithely, as they shake hands; he's not wearing a wedding ring, but a Roman signet that's unlikely to ring any bells. In no universe does he particularly like Richard Winchester, a quiet and long-suffering blond highschool administrator who bears an uncanny similarity to not one but two different men in Hellsing's employ, and frankly it's probably really only that 'Richard is married to his sister' that really offends him about the other man.

(Richard has married her twice, at this point; he's probably not going away.)

"He seemed fine." Mild, that same reluctance. There's a sense that, somewhere, Sol had to work at this guy, and it's more than halfway reset now that the other man doesn't remember him. Bruce isn't surprised Sol isn't immediately weirded out and still insufferably friendly, but it's still. Strange. For him.

"You have a daughter." It's almost a question.

“Liesl,” he says, glancing reflexively back towards the school he just dropped her off at, exhaling the smoke that he tries to avoid doing around her too much. (Partly because she parrots all of Calista and Velma's complaints about his smoking at him.) “Yeah, that's my girl. Cohort?”

--which is less Sol creeping than it is an assumption of Bruce having done so; it's not that he doesn't, it's just that he's more of a casual weekender network asshole and Bruce is insane about his fake-internet privacy.

He declines to answer about the cohort - either that, or he decides to interpret the question as Did you notice that from the cohort? specifically versus the more broad Are you on my cohort?, both of which are information he chooses to skirt around with most people. 'Most people', of which this Sol still is.

"You didn't, when I knew you." Have Liesl. Bruce doesn't sound judgmental or like he thinks it's a problematic difference. Just an explanation. Sort of.

The way Sol sees it - already, because of course - what he's getting here is a concession and he's willing to respect that, and now that Bruce has made it, he's not going to demand more than he's willing to give. He lets aside the question unanswered because it isn't like it's hard to find out in a lot of ways that he has a child; for one thing, he could easily have just been seen dropping her off. The importance of the distinction makes sense with the explanation he does get, and-- it doesn't bother him, not immediately:

“I was probably married, then,” he says, thoughtfully, twitching his cigarette absently between his fingers. (The stress-tension in him is not necessarily unfamiliar; he's working through something, but he's doing it quietly and in his own time, respectful of his own feelings as of anyone else's, even when his feelings are 'annoyed at having feelings'.) “I adopted Liesl as a baby, after my wife left.”

(How he thinks of their divorce and how he describes it - and it was a mutual decision - often depends on how he's feeling about his family in general.)

All right, so, Bruce already knew this Solomon was different, but that seals it; he's not going to comment on marriage of any kind, because, uh. Well it's not really relevant. This man has his own life. (Part of him admires how his not-friend is handling this, underlying tension or not; he's never had anything like that, without acting.)

"Okay." Behind him, his horse makes an impatient noise. Maybe she's complaining. (But about what?) Bruce half-turns and raises a hand at Sol, in parting. In the tone of someone saying something far more normal, "Well, it's been awkward."

“Yeah,” he concedes, with a huff of amusement that never makes it to being a laugh, hands sliding back into the pockets of his jacket as he takes that cue with good grace and folds his curiosity back out of sight where it came from. The idea of 'different Solomons' fascinates him, conceptually; he's lived so many lifetimes already, but they are all part of him, it's not the same thing, and it makes him inescapably curious about the alternative.

It's just not actually his business, because it's not actually his life.

“Yeah, it has. Take care of yourself.” --reflexive, by way of farewell.

It'll be different now that they've actually spoken, Bruce knows. He doesn't think Sol will be able to not be curious and for himself - he's himself. He shoots the other man a look in parting that's almost apologetic (no one wants to be an alternate, least of all him) before carrying on the way he came. When he reaches the end of the paved street, Bruce pulls himself up into the saddle easily, and with one soft noise and the clatter of horseshoes, he's gone.

someone's mouth said, "paint them all red"

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