[And if that's her idea of turning on the charm, he essentially ignores it. Instead, he snags a flower off a nearby vendor's cart (flipping the bored-looking child tending it) and holds it out for her. It's the Konryu equivalent of an amaryllis, a deep, rich red with white edging. Symbolically speaking, the amaryllis stands for pride, determination and beauty, success through adversity. But it could well just be the first thing he grabbed off the cart.]
Being remote is often the same thing as being lonely, Monet. Or do you not have rich orphaned philanthropist playboys in your world?
[It's a gentle enough statement not to be wholly on the offensive, and as a blade it's double-edged, giving her something personal of his at the same time. Of course, for all that he'd claim that the idea of loneliness belongs only to his mask, the truth is it's equally ingrained in each of his identities in turn. The Bat, the father. The hero. He surrounds himself by people in the hopes of chipping away at the yawning chasm left by his parents, but nothing is ever quite the right fit. And nothing ever filled those endless, empty halls in the Manor, of which there is a brief flash in his mind, the furniture all draped in sheets like towering ghosts, the dust in all the places Alfred left alone - and there weren't many, he was always a thorough man.]
no subject
Being remote is often the same thing as being lonely, Monet. Or do you not have rich orphaned philanthropist playboys in your world?
[It's a gentle enough statement not to be wholly on the offensive, and as a blade it's double-edged, giving her something personal of his at the same time. Of course, for all that he'd claim that the idea of loneliness belongs only to his mask, the truth is it's equally ingrained in each of his identities in turn. The Bat, the father. The hero. He surrounds himself by people in the hopes of chipping away at the yawning chasm left by his parents, but nothing is ever quite the right fit. And nothing ever filled those endless, empty halls in the Manor, of which there is a brief flash in his mind, the furniture all draped in sheets like towering ghosts, the dust in all the places Alfred left alone - and there weren't many, he was always a thorough man.]