contritumella | [ open post ]

Like so much else this evening, the hug, however brief, is a surprise. He manages to squeeze her shoulder before she pulls away to stride toward his bike.

This will work. He'll figure it out.

And, honestly, his life could use a little saying something too forward at a stuffy dinner.

There's a short detour on their way out, closer to the water, where he lets go with one hand long enough to pitch a tiny package into the water--the remnants of her tracker, the suture kit, the alcohol swabs, all the evidence of them being in the warehouse tonight.

Then it's back on the road, through the outskirts of the city, then beyond. Quiet residential streets give way to quiet wooded roads. Eventually he turns onto a dirt road, little more than path through the trees. It comes out near a rock outcropping, a small cave mouth visible.

The entrance to the cave held in his mind, the one she glimpsed earlier.

They ride down and down and down and then there's a door, an archway hewn in the rough rock. He slows the bike as they roll out into a cavernous room, a natural cave buried far below the ground.

"Ah, you're back," calls out a voice from the interior. "How did-- what on earth?"

A man steps closer, a man with a stern face and confusion writ large across his features in this moment. He looks old enough to be Bruce's father. He may as well be even if he isn't in blood.

"What have you done?"

Bruce holds up a hand. "I had to. Alfred, I can explain, just give me a minute."

It takes a lot of self-control not to lean back as Bruce drives, not to throw her arms open wide and feel the freedom of the night air whip between her fingers. Simon would be proud of her, she thinks, flexing her fingers into the material of his jacket. She made a friend, found a safe refuge, escaped.

He wouldn't be thrilled that she killed a man to do it, but. It is what it is.

So instead of doing something unsafe and dangerous, she shuts her eyes during the ride, listening to thoughts and heartbeats and wondering about the future, ignoring the drop of drugs in her bloodstream or the way her vision doubles when she does open her eyes, once Bruce has stopped. Her self-control hits its limit, there, once the bike has stopped; River gets off and opens her arms, twirling in space.

"It isn't what you think," she intones as she comes to a stop, looking Alfred dead in the eye. "No. No. Closer. Yes."

Alfred does not look pleased or amused, honestly.

"She was sent to kill me."

Alfred just about loses his composure, but it at least gets his attention refocused on Bruce, which was his intent. He needs to explain this.

"She didn't, obviously."

"Master Bruce, your deductive powers grow more impressive by the day."

"Alfred." Bruce climbs off the bike with a sigh. "She killed her handler. I pulled a tracking device out of her leg--I smashed it but I took photos that I can study later to try to find out what the hell is going on here.

She had nowhere else to go. What was I going to do, leave her out there to be found and dragged back?"

At that, at least, Alfred's expression softens. A degree or two.

"She's good at keeping secrets and keeping quiet and keeping. You're worried that he needs more friends, more people to care for; she can be perfect for that."

Alfred gives River a look, takes a breath, and intones: "It would do the young lady well to stay out of my head."

"That's the problem," River responds. "She can't."

Bruce shoots Alfred a look, half you really think I need more friends? and half you see why I couldn't just leave her?

It does raise another question, though.

"I gather you've figured out who I am?"

River bites her lip in apology. "Always known the names others call you, wanted to know what you wanted her to call you. Zhihao is a good name!" They're both going to be upset, now, she can tell but she can't help it.

"She had a real name once too."

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