multiversallogs | ( citizens should not fear their government. this will be enforced. )

Despite being only sort of good company, Tom has no intention of telling Seoraj to get out; and despite (or perhaps in spite of) himself, he doesn't hate the momentary companionship. Even-tempered people rarely have the patience to put up with him in any context. So this is interesting.

There's also the fact that the other man hasn't fussed over Bruce obviously having been in a fist fight recently.

(...Yet?)

Bruce shoves the last piece of furniture - a sofa - across the last meter of space and then ... sits down on the floor, instead of on it. Okay. He glances at Seoraj.

"Does it look like someone lives here?"

Edited 2011-11-25 10:37 (UTC)

Since Bruce is on the floor, Seoraj does take the sofa - well, he leans against the side of it, more, arms comfortably folded as he assesses the room very seriously. It's not a bad space, just interestingly impersonal, which is why he doesn't think the bruise on his face (or hands) is the result of, for instance, some kind of argument that got out of hand.

"Aye. I don't reckon you want to ask me who it looks like lives here, mind."

Personal items are not high on his list of priorities; even in Wayne Manor before the fire, the volume of stuff was ever things that remained from his parents. Now, it's even more so that way - he replaced their things, and not his. ... Style, he's just plain lost on.

At that, he gives him a bit of a look - call the police, it's a facial expression - and manages something of a smile. Yes, he knows, he's a crazy person.

"Thanks." For helping, and not just speculating anyway, maybe.

With a tip of his hand, "Saves me finding some way to amuse myself. My cousin, Owera, always says there's nothing worse than a man with nothing to do with his hands."

After a moment, reflectively, "She's usually looking at me when she says it, too."

A beat.

"So you're a troublemaker."

.. He says, peeking backwards over the top of the sofa.

"Says you and every damn woman I'm related to," he says, amiably, and just by that one might presume there are more than a few of them. (Big family.) "I like to think of myself as enthusiastic in my life."

...so he's a troublemaker. Is what we're saying.

"Women are usually right." Not the tiniest shred of insecurity about being compared to a bunch of ~girls~ either, mind. Bruce might actually look fairly entertained, if you squint.

And then he rises, one hand on the sofa's arm, moving in that strange deliberately slow-graceful way he has, like he's making sure he's pacing himself correctly. Why, who knows. "Are you interested in..." he trails off, making a gesture because he's not sure what time it is, realizing halfway through that Seoraj isn't going to recognize any kind of 'I don't have a watch' mime. So- "Lunch?"

Seoraj shrugs on the subject of women being usually right - by way of agreement, because, well, as far as he can tell they usually are and it's only irritating when it's his sister or cousins (everything they do is annoying, because they're family and he loves them, and that makes perfect sense) - and moves off the edge of the sofa, loosening himself out. "It's getting to be about that time, isn't it-- I wouldn't say no."

Look at him, he never says no to food.

"All right. Let me-" another half-aborted gesture; he is going to grab a sweater. At least his fragmented speech patterns don't seem awkward, just absent. Which is a little weird next to the tangible awareness he seems to have otherwise, but he's ... pleasant. Enough.

Bruce pulls a gray sweater completely devoid of personality on over his head and closes the door to his bedroom with his heel at the same time. Then: "Dietary restrictions?"

Seoraj is replacing his own sweater, temporarily abandoned for the grunt work, when Bruce emerges; he shrugs it the rest of the way on and half-assedly tugs the hem of it less askew, but they're approximately equal in their total sartorial indifference and it's still not sitting quite right when he thinks that one over for a moment.

"If it won't kill me, I'll eat it," he settles on.

For a second, Bruce looks at him fully, with an appraising sort of clarity - and then he just looks pleased.

"Good." He's tired of being a picky eater by necessity. If he's going to be stuck here, he wants to know everything that's here; every color and texture of it, every corner. ... And he's a terrible cook, who the hell wants to eat sandwiches all the time when there's alien barbecue out there? Awesome.

"There's a couple places down here I haven't tried yet, I can't figure out where they're from." He leads the way out the door, and doesn't sound at all dismayed by that thought.

Don't worry, Bruce; Seoraj straightens his jersey the rest of the way as he follows him out the door, scratching the back of his neck absently in thought when it's done. "Always seems to be the thing I like most on the menu is everything I can't pronounce," he remarks, mock-mournful, which may at least indicate he has similar tendencies as far as this is going.

That's probably not far off the impression his obsession with everything being interesting gives, generally.

It's... strange, that Bruce finds Seoraj's company as agreeable as he does; he doesn't quite understand why the other man hasn't become frustrated with him and left, yet, as that's generally what happens, but it's not bad. He thinks back to being in college, and the unsteady attempts he made to be social, and how terribly that went. Maybe he was still that teenager, this wouldn't inevitably crash and burn.

Until then, though: food.

There's pavement outside his flat, mixed rocks and hardened tar, and the gravel it kicks up crunches under his boots. Mostly foot traffic in Bonetown, it's a sleepy area, filled with confused baseline beings and those wishing to be left alone - for a wide variety of reasons. Bruce doesn't pry. (...Openly.) At first it surprised him how few humans there are, percentage-wise, but after a while, it made sense. Humans are curious and power-hungry, of course they're out indulging.

"How's your - apprentice, you said?"

Bonetown isn't somewhere that Seoraj has spent a lot of time, but it doesn't much disturb him; he's curious as he is everywhere, without being disrespectful, and there's that quiet patience about him with it that probably accounts for some of why he hasn't just left Bruce to his own devices.

"Jones," he supplies said apprentice's name. "Girl's holding her own well enough-- I don't think she fancies the slow pace of things, but she's young." At thirty-ish, Seoraj isn't that old, either, but Arum is a different world and Seoraj himself has some extra miles on him. "Think they know everything at that age and everything they can't have right now's out to spite and inconvenience 'em."

He sounds mildly amused, kind of fond-- "I tell you what's inconvenient, it's doing yourself an injury with molten steel."

Edited 2011-11-26 02:54 (UTC)

As he speaks, Bruce looks over and smiles a bit, crossing his arms over his chest as he does - it's not a standoffish pose, with him, more like he's actually relaxed somewhat. "At that age," he echoes. Seriously, Seoraj, you might be gigantic but Bruce is older than you.

"Yeah that'd do it." Not that he works too often with molten steel. But he has. (...Seoraj doesn't need to know what; let it sound like speculation over something probably very painful.)

Seoraj gives him a sidelong look, half-wry, because he can in fact pick out what that's about. "You spend your life in battle, you'll feel old, too," he says, mildly, and...in fairness, nothing about his interaction with Bruce thus far indicates that he wouldn't perfectly understand the sentiment. The awareness of that is there in his tone, too, amused but accepting that they're all in on the joke, here. (The horrible joke, but you deal with your life however you can, and this is one way Seoraj uses.)

"I'll let you know when I get there."

Someone else might have tacked on a nervous laugh to a statement like that, but Bruce Fucking Wayne has the balls to go through with blatant, bald-faced lies like it's nothing, so. He's just going to breeze right on by the fact that Seoraj has certainly picked up on certain elements of his person, by now.

And hey, there's that restaurant.

Bruce should be appropriately grateful for the fact that Seoraj opts not to call him on that, but maybe not that grateful since it's less tact than it is laughing, outright, and clapping him solidly on the shoulder as they come in through the restaurant doors. Go on with yourself, Bruce, he's been paying attention.

The atmosphere inside suits him immediately, at least, and curiosity about foreign cuisine and a smaller, warmer kind of dining situation to some of the more open and middle of the road options available in Baedal releases some tension in his shoulders that he probably hadn't noticed was even there.

That reaction is more strange and alarming than being called on it, and though Bruce doesn't flinch, he does go tense for a moment - it's pretty damn rare for anyone to surprise Batman, but no, he was not expecting that. His expression is momentarily one of a cat being scooped up and tossed, wide-eyed and internally reeling for purchase, but he recovers in a heartbeat and tolerates it impressively - even laughs a little, though it's with a self-depreciating wince to it.

(His body language isn't displaying discomfort; he's fine. Just. Not used to being anyone's comrade.)

When they're seated - wooden table in a semi-circle of a booth, seats covered in the hide of some creature he can't actually identify, low-slung oil lamps - he immediately orders tea, whatever the waitress is fond of pending it isn't deadly to humans. His period of silent grudging behavior over tea that isn't made by Alfred has passed.

As good as Seoraj is at reading people, he's not so good he can read past someone who's quite so in control of his own body language that way and he misses any real alarm -- surprise, he registers that in the tension, but Tom strikes him as the sort and he thinks not much of it, just that his new friend is perhaps not the most social of creatures. He'd figured that one out on his own already, and he's not holding it against him.

He orders a different tea blend, just for the sake of variety (he's not going to ask to taste Bruce's drink, he's just, you know, going to appreciate the varied smells), and settles into his seat here on this strange leather with these low lamps in a way that's more comfortable than he often is, found in Baedal's more acceptably modern/human environs. It's still alien, but it's oddly more familiar, too, and he takes what he can get that way.

When he starts to go over the menu, he takes his time about it carefully-- sounding words out under his breath, reading with his lips moving.

Bruce observes this without anything even near judgment; they're clearly the mannerisms of someone who isn't terribly practiced at reading, but that's not wholly surprising given what Seoraj professes to be his profession and lifestyle. It is interesting though, someone that curious about life - maybe books aren't as captivating as actually experiencing things, or maybe they're just in short supply.

"Is it different?"

The letters, the language, the existence of menus in general - Seoraj can interpret the inquiry however he likes. Bruce himself is lingering over the menu in what he hopes is a convincingly appropriate pace; he's got a bad (...) habit of reading and processing mass amounts of text in a heartbeat. It can look a little weird if he forgets to pretend to do otherwise.

Books are something he associates with a kind of education that he doesn't have; it's not that he wouldn't be interested so much as it's not something it ever occurs to him to pursue, and so most of the time this is the kind of thing he uses his literacy for, reading signs and menus and keeping records at the forge. (He has names and addresses for some interesting people, written down in a ledger he keeps aside.) "Some of the words mean nothing to me," he admits candidly, glancing up, "but the lettering isn't so different to what I learned." Some of the differences are just handwriting quirks, he thinks.

He nods, as that about makes sense. Not for the first time, he wonders if what he's hearing - English with something uncannily like a Scottish accent - has any kind of similarity beyond the audible ones to Earth's languages. "That alphabet seems to be the standard here," he observes. It's pretty lucky, really; well done universe, at least something manages to tie most things together.

Their tea arrives and Bruce holds his cup between his hands despite the heat, liking the feel of it against his palms, which might border on discomfort for someone without callouses and soreness like he's got. (Someday much sooner than he should, he'll have awful arthritis.) He smiles faintly at their server, and orders a plate that, close as he can figure, has something dead and protein-like in it.

Seoraj's order takes a few minutes - he has a quick back and forth with the server, ruling out dishes that contain substances toxic to humans and comparing and contrasting a few things with what he knows until he settles on a spiced dish that's mostly vegetables and a type of eel he hasn't heard of before. He was previously unaware eels came in types, and very clearly has to resist the impulse to ask about the fishing locally before they're finally left to their own devices with tea to wait.

He's like this with everybody, apparently, consummate people-person; he just doesn't always get attached.

On the subject of the alphabet, though-- "Seems like just luck, knowing something close enough, with all the variety around here." Learning another one altogether, that'd be a damned thing.

It's nice; Bruce likes watching people interact like that more than he likes participating in it himself - and as creepily voyeuristic as that sounds (... is), in this case it has more to do with finding Seoraj interesting. He likes hearing him talk, sue him. (Remember this for the future, it's going to look a lot worse in a few tags.)

"I like it." A quiet remark, about the variety. Language specifically, this time. There's enough around from Earth that he speaks that he can flit through and mix and match and pull a whole host of new things from the library. He did the same thing in Xanadu, when he had the chance. He's got a lot more free time, in Baedal.

"There's something appealing about something that is what it is," he says, maybe a little bit obscurely; he doesn't mean to be, he's just thoughtful sometimes and not so much accustomed to articulating his thoughts (on a subject like this, at least) to anyone else. People tend not to have these conversations with him, and it bothers him less now than it did when he was a little younger, but mostly it means even when the idea is solid, sharing it with someone else is still new and fluid. "Something you learn on its own terms."

"I've always thought language was like mathematics." Well that's... an odd sort of statement to go with his equally reflective tone. But he continues: "Not the romanticism of speaking," obviously, Bruce, "but that it's remembering patterns and which variables to put in those patterns."

He sips his tea.

"People say that math is universal and constant and languages are too big and changing and easy to manipulate, but..." he shrugs a bit. "That's just how you use it."

Seoraj thinks about this for a short while, steam rising from his cup where he's holding it with both hands; eventually he says, feeling out an idea, "Two ways to say something, sound like they mean the same, and don't."

Underlying patterns, meaning, conversations within conversations.

It's skirting some serious issues of laughable denial when Bruce speaks of the easy duplicity of communication when he's up to his neck in it at all times, particularly sitting across the table from someone who - unlike anyone else he's met in Baedal - sees through so many without any effort. Bruce still hasn't sorted out exactly why he's continuing to play along with this; he is rarely prone to morbid curiosity. Then again, he's never prone to taking white collar jobs while picking at fight clubs in nothing but jeans and a t-shirt, so maybe he's just ... blending in.

Unhelpfully: "Homophones."

"I don't know what a one of them is," Seoraj says, unconcerned by his own ignorance on this point, "but I know 'what can I do for you' and 'what would you like from me here' don't tell a person the same thing."

It's better that Seoraj doesn't know what it means; Bruce's utter inability to be funny can go unnoticed. (For now.)

Still, he looks vaguely sheepish about it, both for making a crack about wordplay and making it in the face of Seoraj being otherwise quite apt. It's all right, he doesn't mind looking like that.

"We think we can fool people, all the same."

... Indeed.

"Sometimes we can." Some people don't think about it so much; they don't think about the things they broadcast about themselves in the words they choose in conversation, either. "Other times-" A laugh, here, quiet over his tea; a low sound, like he draws the listener in to hear it. "We think we can do a lot of things, people."

"Sometimes we get away with it, too."

People are capable of anything. Anything. It's both beautiful and terrifying; from the smallest gesture to the broadest atrocity.

... The little things seem more relevant, at the moment. He rubs his thumb over the rim of his cup, refraining from curiously chipping at the edge of the glaze against the clay with his fingernail.

They could be talking about anything.

"Sometimes we don't." The way Seoraj says it, it's like both of these possibilities are just interesting to him; there's no value judgement, no edge, nothing like a warning. It's just an observation, thoughtful-- you learn nothing if you never extend yourself, if you never overextend yourself, if you never let yourself make a mistake.

He's made some fun mistakes over the course of his life, too.

Some men can't afford to make mistakes, no mater how overextended they might be.

(It's rare that Bruce's instincts don't agree with his head.)

For a while it looks like he's going to say something, both in the companionably quiet heartbeats, and the time it takes for him to down some more of his tea. But then their food shows up and whatever hung on an edge there has dissipated by the time the waiter leaves them again, and all he's doing is peering curiously at his plate.

Food diverts Seoraj's attention-- he doesn't peer so much as dive right into, spearing a few things with his fork and tasting, rolling the unfamiliar textures over his tongue and trying, despite knowing the pointlessness, to identify some of the tastes. The spices are alien, but he likes the effect, and he's wondering if the crispness of the cooked vegetables (contrast with tender meat that almost falls apart) is about the method or the plant structure.

The portions are generous enough he'll probably end up taking some of this home with him in a box, which suits him fine. Leftovers are perfectly good, and his own cooking skills are a little more basic. (He does make good bread.)

"That's the one downside of all Baedal's variety," he says, reflectively, after swallowing. "Can't try everything." ...some of it is poisonous to humans.

Leftovers are for other people. (Other people who don't have the kinds of metabolisms that support the insanity of Batman.) Bruce eats with the sort of precision that suggests long-ingrained manners training, even if the finite edges and fiddly details have been worn away. He has a handy ability to inhale food at an alarming rate but not actually appear to be doing any such thing.

"Food allergies are a mundane thing anywhere," is his observation in response as he picks apart something on his plate to inspect the individual components. Some people just don't do well with certain things, no matter how normal they are. Shellfish, processed food... NyQuil.

"Like my sister and cheese," Seoraj observes, popping something in his mouth and adding after he swallows, "mind you, it's the rest of the house as suffers that."

...the man is all class, with his fart jokes at his sister's expense. (He loves her dearly.)

It takes Bruce a second to get that - not because he is so high brow but because he's just bad at expecting conversation to go anywhere whimsical. He's bad at it. So when it does congeal in his head he just gives a lofty look like he is so above that joke.

(He's not. He's plainly trying not to laugh when he takes another pull from his tea.)

( citizens should not fear their government. this will be enforced. )

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

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

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