♫ | ms. grayson
She doesn’t blame him when he lets out a disparaging remark about the city. Gotham wasn’t exactly renowned for the very best of society. Central City would likely be the good-hearted town boys like this were looking for. His nerves are apparent regardless of his lack of rebuttal. Even as he sinks into the chair, she knows that look that crinkles his features. It isn’t a fear of self, and after all, his family had been on that list too. Riley licks her lips briefly as she mulls over it. She’s halfway prepared to speak to him about intervention plans for his family – particularly now that metahumans were snapped up on the daily by all sides of the global chess game. However, the inkling of a glare garners her full attention once more.
So maybe her playful attempts of broaching the subject weren’t exactly charming? Her brow furrows faintly as he tries to string together his response. Had she not already noticed the waning levels of self-control that bubbled in his jitteriness, Riley might have teased him more. Ah well, she thinks, at least he hasn’t attempted to run yet. Not that he would get very far. She’d already had most of his stuff bugged.
“Most people can’t control their abilities at first,” Riley attempts to explain, keeping her place as he jolts up again to seemingly put space between the two. She wondered offhand if this was what a surprise intervention looked like. Folding her arms across her stomach, she watched him intently before continuing on. “Depending on the catalyst for the metahuman development, it can be something that takes years to master. It’s difficult to become highly disciplined but not impossible, you just have to know the right people,” Riley takes another step towards him, trying to unconciously get him to stand still for just a moment to hear her out.
Sure, the man wasn’t another Superman. Maybe he didn’t have cosmic powers or rigorous disciplines to become a hero, but that didn’t mean he had to go through life and the bazaar without help. “I’m guessing if you got the nickname early, you’ve been dealing with this for a while?” She prompts, pushing her hair back behind her shoulder as she turns her face just slightly so she could hear what was just outside the door. “Have you ever seen someone about it? Professionally?”
“YOU COME ACROSS as incredibly patronising, has anyone ever told you that?” For all his anxiety about a complete - and very influential - stranger pinning him into a corner, he’s dealt with the fact that he’s a freak for well over half of his life and he’s not about to let the aforementioned stranger explain to him something he’s well aware of without pulling her up sharp. He’s not some naive child, he’s not some stupid teenager running around shooting beams of light at people. Hell, he’s older than her by what he suspects to be a fair margin. And god knows what an heiress is doing poking her nose into the murky waters surrounding metahumans, especially when he’s tried his hardest to keep himself out of those same waters.
When she takes a step forward, he takes a step back to maintain the distance. He doesn’t need her to box him in order to maintain his attention, she’s got it whether he likes it or not. “Yeah I’m gonna needs you to not.” The tips of his fingers glow and, despite the distance between them, he draws a glowing pink line that floats in the air roughly six inches from where she’s standing. His version of drawing a line in the sand. “Distance. Personal space. I’m a big fan of it.” Especially when he fan feel his control slipping simply because of the delicate subject matter they were on. Besides, it’s not as if there’s much point in hiding it now he’s been outed and he can dismiss the glowing air graffiti in a blink should someone else turn up.
“I got the nickname because I had clicky joints as a kid, nothin’ more.” Of course, it turned out to be rather fitting in the end, but that’s beside the point. He paces the back wall, feeling trapped in both a physical and metaphorical sense. It’s like she’s snapped a collar around his neck without him realising it; there’s absolutely no way he’s going to be able to go out into that warehouse and play at this rate but somehow he gets the impression she’s got that covered as well. Even with the distance between them he feels crowded, boxed into a corner with very few options left - the fact that when he turns his attention to where he’s rubbing his left palm unconsciously, he can see the threads of light under the skin which causes him to curse under his breath.
He really doesn’t have anywhere to go.
“Look, I’ve been dealing with this for nearly twenty years. I know enough to keep myself in check and off the radar.” A pause as he gestures in her direction, shoulder sagged in something that hints at defeat. “Or I thought I did, until a billionaire showed up in my dressin’ room giving me the third degree.” She still hasn’t stated her intent because he really doesn’t believe her when she says she wants nothing from him. “The only professional I saw was a doctor after one of my bike crashes that stopped just short of callin’ me a freak.” A pause. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way but what is it that you really want? Because this has gone a bit further than stoppin’ mobsters drainin’ my bank account.”