and just maybe i'm to blame for all i've heard

[caballero]

Who: Tom and Wolfgang.
What: Months later, Bruce properly checks in on the young man whose video he released to the network - after he confirms what the younger man's been up to lately.
Where: Badside.
When: Presently.
Warnings: References to violence.

Bruce Wayne doesn't like guns. Batman doesn't use guns. It's one of those things - a fine line that's sometimes the edge of a storm, torn between emotional reaction and calculated tactic. Bullets can be traced (bullets kill people without the shooter having to even think about it), guns are imperfect and leave too wide of a margin for error once it leaves a person's hands (guns absolutely kill people, the NRA). In Baedal, Bruce disdains them with even more impertinence, because if he can track down a person from one fragmented, damaged bullet, all the way back in Gotham, there's certainly half a million magicians in this place who can do it with an enchanted thought.

Just because he's not loading up for the wild west, however, doesn't mean he can go on not knowing for sure what can and can't be traced, and what all is available at any given time in the city; what he's up against, what the Militia's up against, who's supplying what. Trying to track down whatever massive engines of economic momentum power the Militia's seemingly endless resources is difficult - in the process, he obtains and releases a number of things, as experiments, as tokens of good faith. The skittish knots of people making their own private stands are a sign. A good one.

So even though he's never going to fire a gun, Bruce purchases a wooden box filled with rounds lined up to be packed into magazines of machines that are as rare as politicians at home wish they were. He watches where they go and who does what with them and how fast they're expended (or saved). And after a little while, he goes back to the curator. From a distance.

Wolfgang being who he is now - recognizable, restricted - Bruce has to take care trying to meet him. Even if their connection ends up being a brief hello-goodbye, no one can know. It'd be too critical of a link. Fortunately, Tom is somewhat practiced at this whole sneaking around thing, and by the time he ends up at this kid's door, equipped with a few amulets to keep him obscured from anyone tracking him or trying to pry into his head from afar, he's sure it's a perfect moment in which they are truly alone.

Comments

[gramarye]

Most houses, if you hear an animal respond to someone at the door, it's the excited barking of dogs — maybe aggressive yowling from a particularly vocal cat. This one, it's the clop clop clop of tiny hooves against hardwood floor, and then two somethings crying baa-aa-aaa. A moment later, the padding of human feet and a voice saying in Hebrew, "You get away from that door or I'm going to make soup out of you, I swear to—"

The door opens to the foyer, with Wolfgang holding two baby goats back with his slipper-clad foot — presumably he was threatening the animals, not Bruce — and holding a screwdriver in one hand. He looks surprised and a little alarmed, his gaze sweeping the street behind him to see if anyone else is there to see this (no, of course) before he looks back at him. He didn't hear him coming. That's kind of weird — maybe that means he's getting better at this not picking up random thoughts thing.

He only ever maintains eye contact for a few moments before he can't keep it up. Longer than usual this time, though, because it takes him a moment to place this man — he knows him, he's been here before. "Ah, hello. Tom, right?" He hesitates for the predictable reasons someone on the police's radar might be paranoid, but he does step back, scooping up the headbuttier of the two goats to keep her from bravely attacking his ankles, and opens the door wider. Most of his visitors nowadays, it's not a good idea to keep them standing outside where people can see.

[caballero]

He's not really an intrusive person, but he can't verywell hang out on the welcome mat to socialize, for every rightfully paranoid reason Wolfgang has. Tom slips inside, helpfully quick about it so that neither of his ... pet goats ... flee. For a moment he seems distracted by them. Kinda cute.

"That's right," he says, after the delay of entering - not deliberately mysterious, but his own natural social awkwardness making an appearance and helpfully missing the appropriate timing. It's banished a heartbeat later and he's businesslike, but not unkind; he looks at Wolfgang and doesn't stray from what might otherwise be eye contact, used to meeting people without any hesitation.

"I'd like to talk to you about something that's going to be dangerously forward."

--Well.

[gramarye]

Wolfgang cruelly banishes the babies to the bathroom, door closed on them to keep them out of the way. Carnivorous jellyfish are the only reason they're indoors at all, getting underfoot.

He pauses after having closed the door, just for a moment before he turns around. His furniture situation still being non-existent, he doesn't have a seat to offer him, but... that's fine, they can stand. He leans against a wall, his hands hooked into the pockets of his jeans. 'Dangerously forward' piques his interest and worries him at the same time, so, cautiously: "I'm listening."

[caballero]

(The jellyfish are - well. Bruce tries not to think too hard about some of the things here. Dodging works just fine.)

Caution is a smart reaction. There's too much recklessness going around lately, and even if Wolfgang is frightened, he's in too deep to do anything about it now. In that way, maybe it's not the nicest thing for him to be here, imposing. But this is never the nicest line of work.

"I'd like you to tell me if anyone looks like they're doing significantly more than arming themselves with what you're trafficking."

A bold favor. He doesn't continue, but there's no demanding look about him; he's apparently giving him space to react to that, versus barreling through or expecting him to agree on a dime.

[gramarye]

"Why?" Wolfgang asks, immediately, and it's the instant, uncertain suspicion in his voice that is more damning than anything else he's doing here. It sounds like he's protecting them, as it occurs to him maybe a little too late that Tom could be a plainclothes officer, and that he is a big stupid idiot for not considering that possibility right off the bat, you big stupid idiot, and then he feels himself rapidly plunging into the worst kind of anxiety spiral and his eyes flick towards the kitchen where his pills are and —

— and he's being ridiculous because if the police wanted to bust him for this they wouldn't bother trying to trick him into admitting any guilt, they'd just knock the door down and drag him back to jail. Weirdly, that isn't a very reassuring thought.