It would have been a great idea to leave the country in a private jet, but unfortunately Bastian hadn’t thought enough to put that plan into action. Or even come up with that plan. Or even a plan. No, he had no plans. His plan had been ruined. It was simple, should have been anyway: 1) drink enough to stay hazy, 2) ignore the world, 3) profit. It was a plan that had worked for him before to great effect, it could definitely work again.
Except his dumb ass had chugged down fucking super soldier serum and now he was painfully sober despite his best efforts not to be. He’d tried very hard to get even the faintest buzz again, tried to find a limit to what the serum would counteract, how much liquor it could take before it reached a breaking point and couldn’t offset what he was throwing at it. The limit didn’t exist, or at least he hadn’t found it — and he’d tried. The evidence of his experiments were strewn across the kitchen counter, table, the floor, anywhere and everywhere. His cleaning service had been by, he’d shouted them out of the house, and that was probably why the door wasn’t locked. Probably. He had no idea. He didn’t care.
It was too much, he wasn’t made to deal with shit like this. He wasn’t made to deal with a lot of what he’d gone through in his life and he’d persevered, but this? It was too much. Being Batman had been a lot to deal with even on its face, even without having Bat-things appearing in his life. That shit showing up, taunting him, reminding him that even if he pretended it wasn’t happening, it was. He was. He wasn’t only himself, he was Bruce fucking Wayne, the rich asshole who decided to shoulder the wellbeing of an entire city like that was something that could rationally be handled by one person. Or even one person and his army of mini-me’s.
And he knew all about that shit now, because his head was swimming with Bruce’s memories. He couldn’t get them to stop, to shut up, to leave him alone, because he was awake and sober and nothing could change that. Sleep wasn’t possible, he couldn’t get his brain to stop or quiet enough for that. Bastian hadn’t slept in days, which was probably obvious when he came out from the depths of the house enough to see who was there, having heard his name. Dimitri wasn’t a reassuring person to see, though to be fair he didn’t know who might have been.
He felt uncomfortable, someone else being there in what had been a place only for him. Kind of like it made it real — as long as he’d been by himself, maybe it was a dream, hallucination, some altered state of reality that could disappear and he’d be back to normal. It all felt so much heavier and palpable now. He hated it.
“I’m not really in the mood,” was all he offered before turning and going the way he came, back further into the house, away from the outside.
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