Work Text:
"You know they said," you murmur mostly to yourself, smoothing over the block of marble with your palm, "that you're to be my greatest masterpiece. What do you think, hm? Will you live up to it?" Your hand raises, hammer held tightly in your palm as your other hand presses a chisel against the solid stone.
And then you let your arm swing down. The chisel chips away fragments of marble in flying flashes. The project begins.
It will be a gargoyle, one day, much like all of your other pieces. That is the name that you've carved for yourself in this city - that is the fame that you've sculpted. You're commissioned quite often to build these creatures, to twist them and warp them into something akin to art, having them placed on top of buildings like solitary statues of the night. Monsters twisted out of blocks of stone.
"You know," you continue on as you carve, your breath coming out in a heavy sigh as you sniff and tip your head back, your arms already beginning to feel the weight of the chisel in your hand. "The Mayor, when he asked me for this, I mean - he asked why I choose to do this."
You readjust your grip, running a thumb over the work that you've done. You'd never carved out of marble before. Other stones, yes - limestone, mainly. It's cheaper and softer - easier to break, easier to bend to your will. But marble? Marble seems to take on a life of its own.
And you will have to break it, you know. You will have to bend nature to your impossible will.
"I told him," you continue, your voice echoing through your studio as you stare at the block of marble, at the creation to be. "But I don't think he listened. They never really do, do they?"
Gargoyles, you'd reminded the Mayor as he'd signed your cheque, are purveyors of evil, creatures that drip malice and violence onto the darkened city below. However, it has also been believed that gargoyles are protectors against evil, that they act as great guardians that watch over cities and towns to keep the evil away. It's been thought that they hold curses at bay.
It's always seemed to be a bit of a mystery, then, that Gotham has so many gargoyles dotted along its rooftops and lining its skyline. Because Gotham is where curses are born. It's where they fester and breed.
"Sometimes," you continue on, stepping back to stare at one of your sketches and chewing on your lip in thought. "I think that you just… Well, it's that you sort of just catch all of the evil in this world. Someone has to shoulder it. Someone has to swallow it." You glance around, then, at the various sketches and designs and photographs of old pieces that are scattered around the studio. Every gargoyle, every face - they all have their mouths open, snarling and snapping.
"That's why I make you," you say easily, raising the hammer again. "Someone has to be the villain. Someone has to take the fall."
But it's not quite fair, you think, for Gotham to swallow all of the evil in this world. It's not quite fair, you consider, for you to be the one cursed with creating that evil. It's not quite right, you feel, to create these creatures over and over as they swallow endlessly, a hunger living within them that cannot be satiated.
"You're going to be alone, though, you know," you point out, running your hand along the veins of the marble. "That makes you different, I suppose. City Hall only wants one ." But maybe you get it, you think, as you stand back and stare.
It's to be your greatest masterpiece, they told you. One creature, alone, looming on the rooftop and looking out onto the city.
It's to be your greatest masterpiece, they'd reminded you as you'd taken the cheque, folding it and tucking it into your pocket. It's to be the city's pride and joy.
"May I ask?" you'd said at the time. "Why me? There are plenty of artists in this place who'd kill for something like this."
"I'm sure you know why," the Mayor had huffed. "And this is important, so don't blow it."
"That's why I'm asking," you'd pressed. "Why me, to create something so holy?" The Mayor rolls his eyes at the question, crossing his arms over his chest and grumbling, but he humours you nonetheless.
"People talk about your work," he explains, like the words are being pulled from him against his better judgement. "They love to say that… well, I'm sure you've heard it. People say that your statues come to life at night."
"It's just a figure of speech," you soothe, but your grin makes him scowl.
"Of course it is," he snaps. "They're not real , they're not alive. But… but…" he begins to search for the words, struggling as you laugh.
"It's the soul, of course," you murmur to the block of marble, brushing away stray debris and dust. "You have to carve a soul into things to make people feel for them. And I… want that. I need that." Your chisel chips away more of the stone and you grip onto it tighter. You need it, you think. You need to make people swear that your creatures stand and stretch their wings and come alive by the light of the moon.
The days begin to feel endless after that, and the work continues on and on and on . There are much smaller carvings, busts and faces and hands - little elements of practice and failure scattered around countless tables that sit in your studio. But the floor has a large spot cleared in the centre, now, for the huge, looming block of marble to sit.
The work is hard . It makes your arms ache and your muscles burn as you spend neverending days chipping away at the stone. It takes much longer than it had for any of your other carvings for this one to begin to finally become something. It feels like time stretches endlessly before the figure of a man is finally apparent, rough and undetailed and jagged, with two shapes that will soon be huge wings sprouting from his back.
But that's how you leave him, one night, a white sheet thrown over him. You pause on your way out of the studio, one of your hands rubbing at your shoulder as it aches under the constant work. The calluses on your palms have begun to throb, the skin ripping and bleeding in places. Your head pounds, as well, the tension in your arms and shoulders twisting and clenching your muscles until the pain radiates through you.
He'll be worth it, you tell yourself. He'll be your greatest masterpiece .
You find yourself more than slightly unprepared, however, for your return to your studio in the morning. You find yourself more than a bit taken aback by the sight that awaits you. You're just pushing open the door, rubbing at your forehead and grumbling about your poor night's sleep to yourself when you step on something just inside the doorway of the great room.
When you lift your foot, you realize that it's a small piece of stone, broken and jagged and crumbling.
Something, you think immediately, is wrong . Your skin pricks in alarm as your heartbeat hammers in your ears and you look to your sides, finally seeing the state that your studio is in.
The entire room has been turned in on itself. Faces and busts have been smashed and the pieces are strewn across the floor. Sketches that you'd made painstakingly in preparation and had pinned up are torn and shredded. A table by the window has been knocked over and crumpled pieces of stone are strewn around.
And then there's the marble. In the barest shape of a man, he's not in the crouching position that he'd been in when you'd left him. He's not in the shape that you'd designed him to be. He's caught, instead, lunging toward the door of your studio with the white sheet that had been draped over him now tangled around his torso and legs. There's a desperation in his unmoving form, as if he was trying to escape , to flee this place that's brought him into creation. The breath leaves your lungs in one freezing gasp at the sight, and your eyes widen as your hands tremble and your mind begins to spin.
There's a crumpled piece of paper clenched in his closed fist, you realize, as you take the smallest step forward. Your legs are beginning to feel numb, waves of shock rolling over you in painful rhythms as you take in the sight before you. It takes a fair bit of slow stepping and trembling before you finally pry the scrunched-up paper from his stiff marble hand and unravel it, smoothing it out so that you can see what it is.
It's him . It's the finalized sketch that you'd done of the piece. It's the face that you're going to give him, snarling and violent and cruel, fangs bared like a bat while he spreads his wings out behind him. Your thumb smooths over the writing at the bottom of the page and you breathe out a heavy sigh.
You always name them, of course. Every gargoyle that you've carved, you've given a name. You've breathed life into them in that way. In this finalized sketch, you have his name written across the bottom of the design in scrawling, messy writing.
Bruce .
But he shouldn't be alive , you think desperately as you shove the sketch into your pocket and begin to circle the statue, tapping your knuckles against the solid marble. He's not , you think. He's not, he's not, he's not . He's unmoving, unbreathing, unwaking. He's not alive. He's not alive. He's not alive.
But he was , you suppose, breathing deeply as an eerie sort of calm begins to wash over you. Morning's light begins to stream in through the tall, narrow windows of your studio. The rays of the early sun shine down in beams to shimmer against the cold stone and dance across the rough, half-finished surface.
This is to be your greatest creation, they'd told you. This is to be a curse unmatched.
The Mayor comes to visit eventually, curious to see how it's taking shape - curious to see how the city's money is being spent. Your studio is in disarray, although if it's again or still , you're not quite sure at this point. You'd cleaned and tidied it at first, putting everything back in its rightful place and sweeping up the debris.
But when you'd come in the next morning, the space had been destroyed again. Bruce , the gargoyle, had been twisted into a new position once more. You'd cleaned up again, admittedly less so than the first time, and then moved along.
The next day, when you flicked the lights on and were greeted by shredded paper and smashed limestone once more, you'd mostly given up on trying to wrangle it into anything other than the mess that it has now become.
The Mayor steps over small piles of rubble, eyeing you and the way that you roll your shoulders and wince. By now, Bruce has moved again, of course . He's turned his back to the door and is reaching endlessly up toward the light streaming in from the windows, the white sheet clutched tightly in his other hand as if he's ripped it off of himself.
It's like he doesn't know, you think, that gargoyles cannot live in the light of day. It's like he's trying desperately to become something that he is not.
"I'm not sure this is quite what we had discussed," the Mayor grumbles, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the figure. You peek your head around the marble torso to look at him, shrugging in an unbothered sort of way.
"It's art, Mr. Mayor," you say slowly, like you're explaining it for the first time. "It takes on a life of its own. That's sort of the whole idea."
"Don't get smug," he snaps back. "If you were only half as talented as this, you wouldn't be getting away with speaking to any of us in this way." You laugh at his words, leaning closer to the gargoyle to work on his face and neck, carving the veins and tendons into his smooth, stone skin.
One of his massive hands is curled near your waist as you work, his claws brushing against you as you step closer. It's a coincidence, of course, the way that his fingers are nearly wrapped around your waist. It's serendipitous fate, the way that it seems like he's pulling you closer. He's not alive , after all.
"You never know," you say easily, glancing at the Mayor past Bruce's cold, defined bicep. "Maybe it will turn into something completely different again before the end."
"I don't want that," he says shortly. You pout a bit mockingly and put your hand on the gargoyle's chest as you lean up to examine the work that you'd just done on his neck. "I want what I paid for."
"You paid for me ," you snap back, a wild sort of grin flashing across your face. "This is exactly that." The Mayor shuffles on his feet, muttering and grumbling as he stares up at the towering figure of marble and the stepladders that you've left scattered around as you've begun to need the height to reach his face.
"What's his name?" he asks eventually.
"Hm?"
"I know you always name them," the Mayor says stiffly. "What's his name?"
"…Bruce," you say eventually, and as you step back one of his claws catches on the fabric of your shirt, momentarily making you stumble as if he's tugged you closer to him.
"Why name him a thing like that?" the Mayor huffs. You roll your eyes and untangle your shirt from the gargoyle's grip, patting his bicep as you step away from him fully to face the Mayor.
"The name Bruce," you explain with a laborious sigh, "is connected to the willow tree."
"So?"
" So ," you continue, exasperation seeping into your tone, "the willow tree symbolizes life . New life, rebirth, morphing into something different."
"It's just a statue," the Mayor says dully. "There's no need to act like it's anything more."
"If he's just a statue," you challenge, and when you stand in front of Bruce, his wings spread out behind you like some kind of omen, "then why do you want him so badly?"
There's no response to that, you suppose, as the Mayor just huffs and grumbles and says something about upcoming meetings as he makes a hasty departure. Not that you care much, too preoccupied with staring up at the gargoyle's face and watching him take shape.
It's to be your greatest masterpiece, right? You may as well make it something grand then, right?
It takes months for the creation to be completed enough for it to be transferred to the rooftop of City Hall. The weather has begun to turn by now, your breath coming out in foggy clouds and your fingers freezing in your pockets as you watch the movers gently adjust the giant sculpture into his new home.
It's here that you're supposed to do the final touches on him, smooth him out and polish him and perfect him. It's here that your art is meant to come to life. As the movers are bickering back and forth about the weight of the thing and how to make sure that it's placed safely, you begin to ignore them and choose to look out toward the city, instead. From here, you can see glimpses of everything - every statue, every carving. You can see every part of Gotham that you've left your mark on, every crack and crevice where you've carved yourself into the lifeblood of the city.
When you look beside you once more, your newest creation stands tall and proud, his marble glimmering under the sun and shining through the everlasting fog of the frantic city. He's to be your greatest masterpiece, you remember as you pull off your gloves and smooth your hand over him. He's to be the protector that bears the weight of the entire city on his shoulders.
What a burden, you think, as you're handed your kit and you begin to dig around for your tools. What a burden to be built as such a thing.
What a burden , you think, to be the thing that always builds this.
But it is on this day, nonetheless, that he's finished. With a chisel and a hammer, you carve life into marble. You mould and sculpt, like something holy creating something damned. The day wears on until the sun begins to dip below the horizon once more and the two of you are bathed in hues of pink and violet and deep, deep blue.
It's when the sun finally drops low enough that darkness reigns that you finally drop your chisel, your hands throbbing and your head pounding and your face frozen from the cold. You wonder, as you stare up at the gargoyle's looming form and feel a panic start to fester within you, what on earth you're supposed to do, now that you've fulfilled your only purpose.
That hollowness, you find, sort of sticks with you, clinging to your soul and wrapping around you as you make your way home in the depths of the night. The buildings of Gotham tower around you, your own statues leering down at you from rooftops with vicious snarls, as if they're mocking you for your own hubris… as if they're cackling at the sick karma of it all.
Like Icarus falling from the sun, you wander through the twisting, winding streets and back roads, the darkness blanketing over you and crushing you under the weight of it all, under the curse of this city.
A shadow flickers overhead and you keep your eyes trained on the ground, almost afraid to look up. It's as if you've become afraid of your own creations, terrified of them outgrowing you and leaving you behind.
You can't even bring yourself to return home , you realize, turning instead to head to your studio and sit in the silence of the now-empty room. There's a large, empty patch of floor in the middle where Bruce had stood for so long, and as you walk through the space, crumbled stone and torn-up paper crunch under your shoes and you feel something hollow eating at you from the inside out.
That was to be your greatest masterpiece , you think. And now he's gone .
When you wake the next morning, it's on the floor of your studio, your jacket rolled up under your head as a makeshift sort of pillow and light streaming in from the windows. The notifications on your phone, though, as you grumble and rub at your sore neck and check the news, have you shooting upright to a stumbling stand.
News has broken out all over the city of destruction , some kind of vandalism having taken place overnight. Gargoyles all across the city have been destroyed, smashed and battered and knocked from their posts.
You scroll through the news feeds frantically, something akin to dread curling in your gut as you sift through photographs of your creations, crumbled and attacked and lying in pieces across rooftops.
There are rumours spreading across the news outlets of people having seen a dark, flying shape swooping over the city. Some, mainly a few of the rather less reputable news sources, claim that it was the Mothman.
But you just shake your head and scoff at that. People will believe anything these days, you think. No one knows who could've done it. No one knows how it really could've happened.
But as you stare at the wall of your studio, finished photographs of Bruce on the night before he was transported out of this space hang on the wall and mock you. You stare at them and something settles deep in your gut, a knowing sort of pain stabbing into you there.
You know what happened. You're sure of it.
It doesn't take long to weasel your way into getting roof access at City Hall - something about needing to make final touches on the gargoyle and how you're sure the Mayor wouldn't be happy if you weren't allowed to work. You just claim that you need to see the carving again - you need to fix something, need to put your hands on it one more time.
Sure enough, when you get up there you're faced with the evidence of it all. There are chips and gouges in Bruce's fingers, his claws dulled and broken - like he had spent the night clawing and breaking and destroying across the city.
He looks… like a protector, you suppose, with his scars and his dents and his looming wings spread wide. And you… you are his creator, after all. So you sit in front of him, trying to rub the cold from your fingers before taking his huge, freezing hands in yours so that you can polish and smooth and repair the damage that he's done to himself and you.
You're trying to rub the feeling back into your fingers, your hands trembling from the cold and the pressure of your work, when the sun finally begins to dip below the horizon. You'd finished your fixing and your polishing hours ago, leaving Bruce to, instead, sit by the edge of the roof and simply wait . You sit with your back to him, staring out toward the endless, cursed city and you wonder if this is what it's like to be one of your creations - if this is what it's like to wait for something holy to happen.
When the sun finally does disappear beyond the skyline, the impossible wall of fog hazing the colours of dusk, you begin to hear him behind you. It's a creaking sort of noise, marble grinding and crunching against itself as he begins to move , as he begins to breathe life into himself.
So it's true , you think weakly, standing ever so slowly and keeping your back to him. He's alive, he's alive, he's alive .
Still, knowing it in theory and seeing it with your waking eyes are two different things, and when you turn to face him it's like all of the air has been punched out of your lungs. Bruce stands in front of you now, huge and powerful and terrifying , with razor-sharp claws that gleam in the darkness and wings that spread so far that they black out the horizon behind him and around you.
You stand frozen and you watch him and you wonder in a dizzying, endless sort of way what sort of a thing you are for creating a creature like him. It's a bit like staring god in the face, you think nauseously, when he stares down at you with his towering, imposing gaze.
And you can't really help it - it just makes you wonder… are you anything like a god for making him? Or is it all… him? Can you claim responsibility for bringing something like this to life?
You're beginning to spiral, your heart hammering so loudly in your chest that if you had a bit of rational thinking left, perhaps you'd be concerned about it bursting from you. But then Bruce reaches for you, wrapping one giant, clawed hand around your waist and lifting you up as you shriek and he spreads his wings to bring the two of you into the sky.
He soars up and up and up , keeping you in a firm grip with one hand and pressing your back against his chest to keep you steady. Not that that comforts you much as you cling onto his bicep and forearm, digging your nails impossibly into the marble as the tangled, twisting streets of Gotham flash by underneath the two of you.
He brings you to the clock tower eventually, dropping you ever so gently and letting you steady yourself with gasping breaths and shaking knees. It's the tallest building in the city, and your head spins as you look out and can see the whole of Gotham sprawling out at your feet.
"Oh my god…" you murmur as you stare out with wide eyes, able to see, from this vantage point, all of the destruction that he'd caused the night before. "Bruce… what have you done?"
"What have you done?" he says in response, his voice rumbling from behind you in a deep bass. "You are what made me, after all."
"No!" you shout as you whirl on him, glaring up at him with panicked eyes. "I didn't make you into this . I didn't make you do this."
"You created a monster," he responds calmly, reaching for you. You let him, your breath held as you tremble. But he's gentle , brushing a stone knuckle across your cheek and wiping away a tear that you hadn't realized had fallen. "You cannot be upset when monstrous things follow."
"You were… you were supposed to protect the city," you respond quietly, your brows furrowing as you look up at him. "That's what you were made for. I… I gave you life, perhaps, yes. But - why use it for this?"
"You are my creator," Bruce responds simply, and his massive hand trails down to wrap around your throat with a delicate, barely-there touch. "I am made of you . My weight is on your shoulders."
"No!" you shout again, pulling away from him and stepping back. "I have made you, yes, but I've… I've released you out into the world. You've taken on a life of your own, have you not? You are made of yourself now, aren't you? You… you brought yourself to life… didn't you?"
"Did I?" he muses, but there's an uncertainty in the stone rumble of his voice. "I'd always thought that it was you. You drew me, after all. Carved me from a block of stone."
"You… I - what?" you ask desperately. "Bruce, I… you remember all of that?"
"Of course," he says simply, and when you clutch your chest and make a panicked sort of noise, he steps toward you. "I was there when you built me. I was there when you carved me out of nothing and turned me into this. And I have to wonder…" He steps further, still, until you have to crane your head back to look up at him, at his stormy eyes and furrowed brows and snarling face. "I wonder… if you made me, why… why turn me into something evil?"
"I didn't," you say weakly, stepping away from him and glancing back as the edge of the roof gets precariously close. "I didn't… who brought you to life, really, Bruce? Are you sure it was me? Are you sure it wasn't you?"
"Are you saying that you didn't ?" he questions, stepping toward you for every step that you take back.
"I'm saying that I don't know ," you answer desperately, an edge to your voice. "I'm saying that maybe - it's… it doesn't matter, Bruce."
"What?"
"It doesn't matter who built you. Can you not just belong to yourself now? You belong to yourself, don't you?" He frowns at your words, stepping closer still. When you step back this time, your heel catches the edge of the roof and your heart lurches painfully in terror at the drop behind you.
"You made me," he says, pressing further.
"You belong to yourself," you repeat. "Learn… learn to live for yourself, Bruce. You are not mine anymore. You belong to yourself." He snarls a bit more at that, taking another step forward. This time, though, you have nowhere left to go, and when you step back there's only open air and the crisp fog of night to catch you.
So you fall… from the impossible height of the clock tower and toward the city that writhes with malice, you fall. And you think, as you feel the air rush past your ears, that perhaps this is the only way that it should be - death by your own creation, by your greatest masterpiece, thrown off of the highest point in a city that you helped to build. Perhaps this is how it feels to really, truly take a fall.
But it's not the ground that meets you. It's the feeling of cold, solid marble, instead, that wraps around you and hauls you up and up and up again. It's Bruce, with his arms keeping you pressed against his chest until he has you safely back on the top of the clock tower, this time with him standing between you and the edge of the roof.
"You… saved me," you say slowly, your words coming out in halting gasps as your teeth chatter from the cold and the shock of it all.
"How could I not?" he responds easily, and he reaches forward to smooth a large palm over your cheek gently. "How could I not come for you? How could I not follow wherever you go?"
"You don't have to," you say quietly.
"But I will," he responds in that sturdy, solid way of his. You lean against the solid wall of the large clock face and sigh, your knees buckling slightly at the weight of it all as you look up at him with anguish.
"Is that what it was all about?" you whisper. "The… the studio, the… the things you did there?" You think back to it all, to the destruction of your space, to the ripping up of the sketches and the smashing of the practice busts. You think back to him, frozen mid-movement, always clawing at himself, trying to rip himself from your grasp.
A tear rolls down your cheek and your bottom lip trembles. Bruce just shushes you gently, brushing his clawed thumb against the frozen, bluish tint of your lip and stroking your cheek.
"You created me," he says lowly. "So why did you turn me into something evil?"
"I didn't…" you say, your voice catching and warbling. "I didn't know. I didn't know I could create anything that wasn't that. I didn't know that my hands could shape anything other than malice."
"How foolish," Bruce murmurs gently, cupping your face in both of his hands now so that he can wipe away the tears that have started streaming down your cheeks, "to think such a thing when you made me with this love. How foolish to think… when you made me love you like this." His face is close to yours now, so close that your noses brush together and his eyes bore into yours.
"Can you?" you say quietly. "Can you really love someone like me? Can you fall in love with the thing that made you?"
"That depends," he responds simply, so close to you now that your lips brush against his. "Can you ever really love me back?" The way he kisses you, then, probably proves that you both can . He presses you against the clock face, hard marble leaning against you and keeping you steady as your head spins and you grab onto his biceps. Around you, the city rages on, swirling and moving and tangling in on itself as night blankets the two of you and he wraps his wings around you, shielding you from the outside world.
"Bruce," you say quietly, parting from him just enough to speak. "Why did you destroy all of the others? They aren't - they weren't even alive. Not like you. You're… you're the only one like this. Why did you do it?"
"Because," he offers honestly, trailing his lips across your cheek and down the side of your neck. "I didn't want you to ever love them more than you love me."
"How foolish," you quip back, but its effect is dimmed by the breathless quality of your voice as Bruce presses further against you and tightens his grip on your waist, "to think that I could ever love anything more than I love my greatest masterpiece." Bruce laughs at that, an action so carefree that it feels almost holy as he throws his head back and lets his wings spread wide.
You look past him as he moves, staring back out towards the endless, mangled streets of Gotham and the curses that fester within them. Bruce smoothes a hand over your back and sobers as you look out with furrowed brows, glancing over the rooftops and the crumbled remains of your work. The past spirals endlessly before you and behind you and a need takes hold, a burning drive to move forward, to reach further.
"Have I…" you begin quietly, still looking past him. "Have I been protecting it? Or have I just been… feeding it?" You look up at Bruce again, then, something desperate and imploring in your gaze. "You belong to yourself, now, Bruce. You have to move forward. I - we both do."
"What am I supposed to do?" he asks somberly. "What am I supposed to do with a life that I did not choose?"
"Anything," you answer simply, spreading your arms wide with the city at your back now. "You own the night, Bruce. You own Gotham City. You can do anything."
"But," he begins, frowning. You just shake your head and continue, the freezing night air making your breath fog between the two of you.
"It doesn't matter, Bruce… It doesn't matter how you were created. It doesn't matter what you were made to be. It only matters what you choose."
"What…" he begins slowly. "What am I to choose?"
" Anything ," you stress. "The night belongs to you, Bruce. Choose what you want to do with it." He blinks, then, rolling his shoulders back and he stares past you and out toward the shining city.
"It's beautiful, you know," he says, his voice a smooth, pleasant rumble.
"What?" you respond, a bit distracted as you try to rub warmth back into your fingers. He looks down at you rather fondly, then, before he gestures to you with one of his massive hands. And that's all that it takes, really, to have you closing the distance between the two of you. He wraps his giant arm around you, tucking you into the safety of his side as he wraps a wing around you, blocking the frigid wind and letting you shiver.
"Gotham," he clarifies, and you look up at him while he looks out, his eyes shining with something that looks suspiciously close to love as he stares at the city. "It's beautiful."
"You know," you muse, letting one of your hands rest against his chest as the other searches for his own hand so that you can curl your fingers around his, "I'd never really… I don't know. I guess I've just never really looked at it that way."
"How could you not?" he questions, but there's no bite to his voice and when you look up with your nose wrinkled, he laughs once more.
"It's easy, I think," you explain with a shrug. "It's easy to just… get lost in it. All these years I spent being paid to build this city into something more , I… I guess I never really stopped to look at it." Bruce hums in confirmation, rubbing his hand up and down your arm as he continues to shield you from the cold.
"You know," you continue thoughtfully. "Someone really does need to look out for the city."
"What?"
"Gotham… Gotham needs a protector. I'm - I'm not saying you have to. It's… it's your life, Bruce, it's your choice. But I just - I don't know, you…"
"Go on," Bruce says gently, tearing his eyes away from the city to look down at you just as fondly. "Say it."
"I… I made you," you say slowly, a heaviness to your words. "I breathed life into you - I didn't know that I was doing it at the time but - I did. And I can't take that back. You were built to be Gotham's protector, to keep it safe and watch over it through the night. I want you to do that - if you want to. I think… I think you're good at what you're made to be. I think that, maybe, we both are." Bruce sighs at your words, a contented sort of thing as he reaches to smooth a thumb between your furrowed, anxious brows.
"So I was right," he says easily. "We really are just the things that we were made to be, at the end of it all."
"Maybe it's just… not so bad?" you offer waveringly. He smiles down at you, a monster making peace with the malice that drips from his bared teeth, and something feels like it sort of just… settles into place.
"It doesn't have to be bad at all, I don't think," he offers gently. You sigh and let your forehead thump forward against the cool marble of his chest.
"Where would I be without you?" you murmur. A laugh rumbles through him, jostling you as you lean against him.
"Victim of the Mayor's wrath, no doubt," he jokes. You lift your head to glare up at him, flicking his solid marble chest.
"The Mayor loves me," you say haughtily.
"He does not," Bruce responds easily, but when you begin to splutter out protests he's quick to silence you with another kiss, bringing you closer to him with a tight grip.
"What will you do now?" he whispers against your lips. Something in you lurches painfully, a panic stirring.
"Oh," you say hollowly. "Right. I…" But then you look out toward the city, toward the ruin and the failure. Your greatest masterpiece having already outgrown you, you can feel yourself begin to spiral endlessly, your hands itching to bring life to something, to do something that makes you worth it.
But then your fingers twitch, the calluses on your palms burning from the cold air, and you feel a sort of calmness overtake you as you look out toward the crumbling statues with new light.
"I think," you say carefully, "that I have some things to rebuild. I think I have a new life to make for myself." Bruce hums in understanding, a hand stroking over the back of your head. "But," you continue, tipping your head back to look up at him with big, round eyes. "I certainly wouldn't mind working more often at night now. What do you say?"
"How could I say anything but yes," he rumbles back, "to my creator?"
"You're an awful distraction," you murmur as you work, chisel in hand as you feel a razor-sharp claw trace delicately up the length of your spine underneath your shirt. You're on the rooftop of the Bank of Gotham, night wrapping around you and Bruce as you work at recarving and smoothing out the mistakes of the past, buffing them out with new stone and new hope. If only there wasn't a slinking, skulking gargoyle who doesn't know how to keep his hands to himself.
"I'm not sure what you mean," Bruce muses as he curls around you, his wings churning the night air. It's warmer these days, the cold front having passed months ago to make way for hotter, stickier nights.
"Yes you do," you quip back, but your smile gives away your lack of real annoyance. He's an awful distraction, yes, but it's so worth it to be intertwined with him, you think. The artist and the muse, tangled endlessly just like the city that created them.
"I'm helping," Bruce murmurs stubbornly, burying his head in your shoulder and wrapping his arms tightly around your waist.
"You've already helped plenty," you say slyly, but the way that he hums in confirmation and presses closer has heat rising to your cheeks.
"I could always help again -"
"No," you splutter out. "Bruce, the sun is going to come up soon. You need to be back at City Hall before the night is over."
"I'll make it in time," he says distractedly, training his lips over your neck and slipping his massive, clawed hands under your shirt.
"You will ," you laugh at him as you squirm away from him, standing and teetering on the edge of the rooftop. Bruce frowns and reaches for you, wrapping a secure arm around your waist to keep you steady. "You will," you repeat calmly, "because you're going to leave now . I'll come up and sit with you in the morning if you'd like. I have some sketches to work on."
"It's not the same," he says, a frown still tugging at his lips.
"I know," you soothe. "But it's only during the day."
"Promise me something, then," he whispers as he draws you in to wrap around you one last time before daybreak.
"Anything," you respond honestly.
"Come back for me," he says lowly, pressing a final kiss to your lips. "Come back to put your hands on me again when night falls. Come back to turn me into something good."
"You've already done most of that for yourself, you know," you murmur back, your lips brushing against his. "But… always. I'll always come back for you." And you mean it, of course, as you reach for him one last time before he has to flee. You'll always stand next to him while he moulds himself into something new, day after day after day. Just as he will always do the same for you.
Morning really has begun by the time you're making your way out of the bank, trying yet again to roll the everlasting tension out of your shoulders as you walk outside. The sun is cresting over the city, making the buildings shimmer as the newer gargoyles shine with flecked limestone on top of the towering rooftops.
But there's still only one of them that's made of marble, and he stands, now, on top of City Hall. You stop outside of the bank to look up at Bruce, staring at the way that his wings splay out as he snarls. The sun is rising up from behind him and it begins to bathe the gargoyle in a holy, glowing halo of endless golden light that fights through the constant fog of Gotham.
He looks sort of like an angel , you think as you giggle to yourself, the calluses on your palms burning with the memory of carving him. He looks like something holy.
But really, you know… you know that you did not tell him to stand like that - that you did not carve him in that pose. You know that you did not lift the sun to shine down onto him. He did that for himself.
As the sun crests even further, shining past him and onto your face, breaking through the murky, polluted air just enough to breathe warmth onto your skin, you know that you've done it for yourself, too.