Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Moscow

“You almost fooled me,” Anton says, interrupting Bruce while he’s reading and causing him to glance up. “For a second there I thought you’d actually kiss me.”

Anton's mouth is twisted in a smirk, his slender hands buried in his pockets in lazy casualness as he leans on the doorframe of Bruce’s room and his voice is neutral, light, as if he’s commenting on nothing more interesting than the weather.

Bruce knows better by now, than to fall for that act. 

He's not gotten much better at figuring out what goes under it, though. 

And that's the difference between him and Anton. Because while they're evenly matched on almost every discipline they've trained on so far, Bruce is still an awful liar, and Anton– isn't.

Anton wears different masks like it's easy, like they're single sheets of paper he can fold into any shape he wants then discard. 

Bruce, well, Bruce isn't sure how he can put on a mask without it eventually molding onto his skin. 

It scares him. 

“That was the idea,” Bruce points out, for lack of an answer. It's the next best thing, as half truths go. 

It’s the third time he reads the same paragraph on military theories since Anton appeared, so Bruce stops pretending he can focus with the boy staring at him and closes the book, resting it over one of his crossed knees.

“Kissing me?” At Antons raised eyebrow, Bruce has to fight against the startled rush of blood making its way up his neck. Before he can sputter something to embarrass himself, Anton kicks away from the doorframe and into Bruce’s room while raising his hands in a ‘peace’ gesture. “Kidding, I knew you wouldn’t have the guts to go through with it.” 

If Bruce had just a bit less control over his face right now, his eye would twitch. 

“Except for that second,” he reminds him, dry.

Anton shrugs. “Split-second lapse of judgment,” he says before dropping down –somehow gracefully, which grates Bruce incredibly– onto Bruce’s bed.

Bruce glares. “You have your own bed, in your own room.”

He gets an eyeroll for his troubles. “Please, it’s not like we haven’t shared before.” Then he reaches out and plucks the closed book out of Bruce’s lap. “What are you reading? Ah, The Wubei Zhi.”

“You’ve read it before?”

“Twice, in the original Chinese.” he says, dropping the book on the bedside table. Bruce resists rolling his eyes. Of course. “You know what I could be reading right now?”

“You’re still on about that?”

It’s weird to see Anton pout. “I bet the fishes are enjoying it right now.”

Bruce snorts. “You’re not mad at me for throwing it off the bridge, you’re mad at yourself for not noticing I took it.”

Anton clicks his tongue, not agreeing but not refuting him either. 

Then, creeping closer, “Maybe I did notice, maybe I just wanted to see how far you'd go, did you think of that?”

Yeah, sure. “Maybe my distraction worked.”

“Maybe it wasn't meant to be a distraction, maybe you saw the book in my pocket and took the opening when Avery interrupted.”

Bruce's stomach flips. Is he that easy to read, still?

“Maybe you wanted me to kiss you,” he deflects in a jab. 

It doesn't work out for him. 

“Maybe I did,” Anton says, and Bruce can't read the intense look in his eyes. 

He can't tell what the right play here is; if this has all been a long game of chicken, and Anton is daring Bruce to kiss him, assuming he won't; or if it's a seduction, and kissing him is exactly what will make Bruce lose. 

So he thinks back to Paektu Mountain, at sleepless nights looking at constellations, at sharing a quilt and tatami mat far past the excuse of cold weather, and, well, at how the only way he got past Anton's defenses enough to surprise him —to get that book from him— was by being genuine. 

Bruce takes a chance. 

There's a startled laugh against his lips as they crash together, so maybe it was the right move. But Anton is also smiling as he drags him in closer by the front of his shirt, so, then again, maybe it wasn't.

As Bruce is learning rapidly, Anton kisses the same way he fights; elegantly, viciously, not relenting for a single moment. Bruce is dizzy within seconds. 

He smiles back into the kiss, determined to give exactly what he gets.

Canada

They’ve been following the snowy trail for an hour when Anton lets out his fourth sigh.

It's not loud enough to break the peaceful silence of the forest –where the only sounds are the wind and the soft crunch of their careful steps on the snow– yet Bruce sends him a pointed glare, since ignoring the last three didn’t work, and asks in a hushed tone. “What.”

“I’m bored.”

Bruce inhales steadily. “You’re bored,” he repeats tonelessly. Anton nods, the tip of his nose is red from the cold, Bruce doesn't find it cute. “What do you want me to do about that,” Bruce asks, dry.

“I can think of a few things. Mainly me.” 

Bruce resists the urge to roll his eyes at the innuendo and focuses back on the trail in front of him. The deer slots on the snow haven’t yet been covered by the slow-falling flakes. They must be close.

He should know, by now, that ignoring Anton will only egg him on.

(Maybe he’s counting on it, a bit.)

So, it’s not entirely unexpected when Anton only waits a few seconds before he takes a hold of Bruce's shoulder to push him back onto the nearest tree, having at least the forethought to move Bruce's rifle to the side while he does it. 

Bruce releases an ‘oomph’ –Anton isn’t what anyone would call gentle. Not when he knows Bruce can handle it– and doesn’t get to bring air back into his lungs before Anton is sliding a leg between Bruce’s and covering his lips with his own.

Bruce kisses back instinctively, and like always, kissing Anton is a battle for dominance that leaves him feeling dizzy. 

“We’re supposed to be hunting,” Bruce hisses as soon as he's allowed air, the back of his head resting on the rough and cold tree bark. 

“You’re the one who didn’t want Luka to overhear,” Anton says, swiftly undoing Bruce’s scarf now that he has better access. “And I’m no longer bored. Two birds, one stone.”

Bruce tries futilely to squirm away from the hot lips attacking his neck. This only earns him a breathy laugh, that when hitting his skin, makes him shiver more than the cold weather manages. 

(There's a hundred different ways Bruce could get Anton off, if he really wanted to. 

They both know this.)

“I didn’t mean we should neck it in the middle of the woods.”

“Shhh, wouldn’t want to scare the deer away, would you?”

“You absolute–”

Anton swallows his retort by biting into his lower lip, which is Anton's favorite way to shut him up; he knows Bruce won't back away from a fight.  

He doesn't. He kisses back just as ferociously, bringing his hands up to cup Anton's jaw and neck to angle his head for easier access. Bruce wishes he didn't have gloves on so he could feel the softness of the curls at his nape and the scratch of his stubble against his hands, where he could run his nails through it. 

He’s been making fun of Anton’s ridiculous mustache for weeks, refusing to admit he likes the red it leaves behind when Anton's kisses scratch his skin. Meanwhile Anton is also refusing to shave it.

Bruce is pretty sure Anton knows he likes it, anyway.

Anton’s cold hands sneak under the layers of clothes at the small of Bruce’s back, making him jolt and hiss against the boy’s lips, his chuckle and the cold air.

The jolt becomes crucial though, because Bruce’s momentarily open eyes catch the movement of brown fur in the short distance.

He reaches one hand to pat Anton’s arm and one back towards his rifle while he opens his mouth to warn the boy, only to get choked by his tongue trying to explore anything he has access to. 

Bruce frowns, taking a few seconds to figure out the best way to remove Anton without scaring the deer away and then bites down hard enough to draw blood before he firmly pushes at Anton’s chest. 

Anton dislodges halfway with a slightly bloody smile and a delighted but questioning twinkle in his eyes. He opens his mouth to question Bruce –or complain about the interruption– but Bruce stops him.

“Deer,” Bruce manages to rasp, annoyed, as he nods his head towards the unaware animal.

“Yes, honey?” 

He glares, unimpressed, but Anton has caught on; he's already picking up his rifle and aiming, fully focused on his prey. 

Time seems to slow a little for Bruce. He should check their surroundings, follow the deer's wandering attentively, but he finds he can't move his gaze away from Anton. The way his loose hair moves in the soft wind, the snowflakes clinging and melting on his skin –paler now, after three months of strong winter– and the intense focus gathered in his brown eyes. 

(Sometimes, he can swear it's the same way Anton looks at him.)

A click, breath and BANG; the deer hits the ground in a puff of snow. 

The quiet rings loud in Bruce's ears, until Anton breaks it by clicking the safety back on and smiling smugly at Bruce. 

“I win.”

Tension broken, Bruce huffs. “No you didn't, I saw the deer first.”

“I took the shot. I win.”

“Only because I warned you.”

The boys walk up to the cooling body of the deer while they bicker, no longer worried about not making any sound– the sound of the rifle firing was sure to scare any animal remaining in these woods anyway. 

Anton ignores him. “I'm expecting my prize tonight,” he almost singsongs. 

Bruce’s hand misses the deer’s antler and has to reach for it a second time, clumsily. “I never agreed to that,” he answers a bit too fast. He knows he’s red all over, but he refuses to admit it’s not because of the cold weather.

“Oh, but you wouldn't be complaining if it were you getting the price, would you now, Bruce?”

Bruce looks away, cheeks burning. “Pull the goddamn deer, Anton.”

Anton snickers, but complies. 

They drag the animal onto the tarp so that the walk back to the cabin is smoother with the deer being pulled behind them. 

Then Luka checks their work, and everything goes wrong. 

***

“Anton's a good person,” he says, he begs. His voice shakes where his hands don't, rifle pointed at Luka. “He– He just is.”

“Bruce, he's going to kill me,” Anton says, unnaturally calm. “You have to take the shot, there's no other way.”

Then Luka says, “I'll make it painless, boy. Which is more than you did for–”

And everything slows. 

All he knows is that Luka is pointing a gun at Anton, and that Bruce will never lose someone he– someone he cares about to a gun ever again. 

The bang echoes in Bruce's ears. The bullet passing straight through Luka's wrist, making him drop the gun on the red-spotted snow. 

“I d-didn't– I didn't have a choice, I–”

He gags, the smell of gunpowder and blood in the air is making him nauseous in a way it hasn't in months. 

Luka is talking from where he dropped to his knees on the floor, but blood is rushing too loud in Bruce's ears for him to listen, he's fighting the nausea and tears too hard to pay attention. 

It costs him. 

He sees Luka's hand reach for the gun again too late. Anton reacts before Bruce can even move. 

Another bang cracks loudly in the silent woods. 

There's a hole in Luka's head and his body falls backwards onto the snow, now more red than white. 

Bruce yells, it claws at his throat.

“He would have hunted us down ,” Anton says. “He was already going to kill me, and you shot him.”

He says it like it makes sense, like it was the only way. Bruce heaves, trying to catch his breath.

“You didn't have to– Dammit, Anton! You murdered him!”

“At least it was a headshot,” he says, cold. “I'm not what he said I am.”

“Then… then why are you pointing the gun at me.”

The cold air scratches at Bruce's exposed face. He can't read Anton's eyes anymore. Maybe he never could. 

“We're friends, Bruce…” he clicks his tongue, his hand doesn't waver. “You were a nice distraction. But I'm not going to let you keep me from my mission any longer.”

Bruce breathes heavily. He was so certain Anton would never shoot him. He’s not so sure anymore.

But he’s sure as hell not getting hit first.

He moves fast, gets a kick in and points the firing gun away, before taking it and throwing it away.

They crash into a fight. They kick, they punch, they pull and rip and scratch and bite like little kids fight. They yell and hurt and mock the way only scorned lovers can.

Then Bruce trips, and his head cracks loudly against a tree trunk.

Everything goes dark.

***

When Bruce wakes up, he's surrounded by two cold bodies and the pieces of his shattered heart.

He puts his hands over his face and cries silently.

He’s, once again, alone.

Chapter Text

Scotland

Minhkhoa bangs bruised knuckles against the thick wooden door, hopefully loud enough to be heard against the booming storm.

The fight with The Still took everything out of him, he’s bruised in places he didn’t know could bruise, like his ego. He thought, after all that training, vying to stay one step ahead of Bruce… Well, he got cocky, and it made him reckless. He grits his teeth tightly, more at anger about his own stupidity than at the pain of his most surely cracked ribs, and bangs his fist harder. He’s pretty sure he’s leaving a bloody handprint on the door, but he couldn’t care less.

He’s losing conscience rapidly, and he has to– he has to warn Bruce.

There’s rain and blood running down his body and a yell building in the back of his throat as he raises his fist a third time and– falls through the open doorway.

A warm wall and then the floor meet him less than gracefully.

“Anton?” 

Minhkhoa purses his lips, this is not how he wanted their reunion to go.

“Hello, Bruce,” he manages to push past his bloodied lips, but that’s about it. He has to warn him–

He doesn’t have the strength to push himself up, anymore, his arms tremble with the effort of turning himself around. Minhkhoa has resigned himself to passing out face down on the floor and drowning in the mix of rainwater and blood under him when two warm hands firmly help him towards his mission.

The thanks he wasn’t about to mutter anyway die on his throat at Bruce’s expression and the anger within it.

“Did you do this?! Did you kill them all?!” Bruce yells in Minhkhoa’s face.

Anton blinks against the sudden vertigo. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that,” he tries to say, but isn’t sure how many of those words actually make it through his lips.

“My friends! My family! ” Bruce spits, fisting Minhkhoa’s clothes and jostling his wounds. “First the cut lines, the poison, the sabotage. You had to go after the ones I love?!”

Minhkhoa has no idea what he’s getting at, and would rather Bruce stop yelling so his head could stop spinning. He tries to tell him as much.

“Interesting, and true.” 

It is a testament to Minhkhoa’s decaying condition that he didn’t realize there was another man there until that moment. Bruce's attention snaps to him though, so Minhkhoa takes advantage of the heated discussion going on over him to gather enough energy to finish what he’s here for in the first place.

He grabs at Bruce’s arm to get his attention back.

“He’s out there, Bruce,” he says, then chokes. Bruce’s eyes are running across his face now, and he’s got that cute frown between his eyebrows, looking almost like he’s worried for Minhkhoa.

Minhkhoa would tease him, but he doesn’t have the time.

He’s not sure what information he manages to relay, about The Still following him, setting traps, goading him. About Bruce not being able to fight him alone, maybe, not without weapons.

He bunches his armored cape, the only reason he’s still alive, into Bruce’s hand.

And then Bruce is gone, and Minhkhoa lets the dark take him.

***

Minhkhoa should’ve expected waking up to Bruce’s hand entwined with his, the sentimental idiot. Still, he can’t control the –stupid, irrational– hitch in his breath at the sight of Bruce lightly sleeping at his bedside –tabletop, actually, he notices– soft breath and warm lips tingling the back of Minhkhoa’s hand. Unharmed. It’s been… months since he’s been allowed to see Bruce as vulnerable as this. Before he can think to stop himself, he’s moving his pointer finger to brush lightly against Bruce’s cheek, meeting pale skin too soft to be fair and moving a curl of dark hair to the side. The touch shouldn’t be as electrifying as it is, and Minhkhoa frowns.

Then Bruce stirs, so he has to still his finger back down. The boy returns to full consciousness instantly, the way they’ve both trained themselves to do, and swiftly unlaces their hands as he catches Minhkhoa’s frown.

(His hand twitches, suddenly too cold.)

“I’m sorry I assumed it was you trying to sabotage me,” is the first thing Bruce says.

“You should be,” Minhkhoa answers, throat dry. Bruce takes the excuse and moves away enough to hand him a glass of water. Minhkhoa sits up –swinging his legs down the tabletop– to hold the glass himself, and it strains at the bandages wrapped around his middle –right, he was stabbed as well. “If I wanted you dead I wouldn’t resort to such petty methods as sabotage. I’m classier than that.”

That earns him half an eyeroll and a small smirk, before it drops from the boy’s face and leaves Minhkhoa craving more. 

(Minhkhoa figured out a long time ago he’d do most of anything for one of Bruce’s real smiles. He’s not dared take a good look as to why that is.)

“And I’m sorry I accused you of killing my family,” he says, voice too a bit too practiced.

Minhkhoa tenses, suddenly feeling out of his depth. “Right.” 

He really hopes Bruce isn’t expecting any comfort from him. Isn’t he used to having dead family members, anyway? He should know how to deal with those inconvenient emotions by now. Away from Minhkhoa, that is.

Bruce eyes him, amusement flickering in his eyes for half a second. “They’re not dead, it was a trick. Dr. Captio wanted to see how I would react.” 

His voice goes flat at Captio’s name, Minhkhoa notices. He strains to remember any details from last night’s –he hopes it was last night, actually– foggy memories.

Black, he thinks, bald, maybe? Unfortunate-shaped goatee reminiscent of mutton chops.

Minhkhoa doesn’t think he likes him, no matter the vague memory of being yanked up to this very tabletop and of pressure on his abdomen after Bruce left. Or the fact that the dining room he’s in is most certainly past the doorway he passed out on.

Bruce is already useless enough when the grief of his dead parents catches up to him, and Captio thought it was a good idea to add more to that list?

Yeah, no Minhkhoa doesn’t like him. He’s glad he decided to skip him as he was following Bruce’s list of tutors.

As if reading his mind, Bruce says, “But I still can’t forgive you for the death of our masters.”

Minhkhoa sighs, disappointed and dismissive. “Self defence, Bruce,” he says. “Ouahbi tried to kill me. Like Luka did. They were both killers, and they died. I do wish it had gone another way.” If only to keep that look out of Bruce’s face. He changes the topic. “Where’s Captio?”

Bruce’s eyes narrow. “Tied and unconscious in another room,” he says, tense.

“Relax, I’m not looking to hurt him, just curious. Are we staying here long?”

Bruce inhales. “Depends, are you good to walk?”

Minhkhoa is already moving, sliding off the table to stand up and ignoring the burn in his abdomen as he looks around for his bag and his weapons. “I can walk, I can run, I can do anything.”

“You know what I mean,” Bruce says, guiding Minhkhoa out the dining room and back out the doorway.

“I’m fine. The pain is the price I pay for weakening The Still for you.”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “Sure, Anton.” 

The sunrise’s light catches his face then, and the hint of a smile on his lips.

‘Minhkhoa,’ he surprises himself at the urge to say. ‘My name is Minhkhoa.’

He’s struck suddenly, by the need to hear his name in Bruce’s voice, see those syllables being rolled by his sharp mouth.

“Did you walk here?” he asks instead.

“I did,” Bruce says, unaware of the hard beating of Minhkhoa’s heart. “You?”

“Motorbike, The Still destroyed it, though.”

Bruce smiles then, a mischievous thing. Minhkhoa’s favorite.

“I think I have a solution for that.”

Later, as Bruce drives Captio’s stolen car, Minhkhoa’s name is still on the tip of his tongue.

It never quite makes it past it.

Dubai

And it stays stuck.

Lodged in his throat as he can’t decide whether to keep it back or push it forward. 

Minhkhoa thinks he can taste it as they kiss. Just as real and bitter as the drunk desperation in which they fall into eachother again.

“Anton,” Bruce gasps against his lips. “Anton.”

‘Minhkhoa,’ he can almost convince himself he’s saying. ‘Minhkhoa.’

Abu Dhabi

Until it grows constant.

The need.

Appearing where it never used to do.

“We’re close, Anton, I can feel it.” 

Like at the sight of excitement in Bruce’s eyes and adventure in his smile.

‘Minhkhoa,’ he thinks. ‘Tell him.’

“Ra’s al Ghul won’t know what hit him.”

Nanda Parbat

Even when it’d be unwise to do.

Like when the Head of the Demon is introducing himself and his Lazarus City, and Minhkhoa almost crosses the careful distance Bruce has sensibly put between them.

The need has made him stupid.

Yet it stays.

“Anton,” Bruce snaps in a hiss, urging him out of his thoughts a fraction later than it should.

‘Not my name,’ he grumbles to himself.

***

Even when he starts pulling away.

“Not now, not here. We have to focus.” Bruce says, their lips a breath apart, his hand firmly on Minhkhoa’s chest. “We’re almost done, Anton.”

‘That’s not my name,’ Minhkhoa thinks, annoyed. But Bruce has already walked out of the room.

***

And towards someone else.

Minhkhoa has noticed. Has seen Bruce’s eyes trail after the Demon King’s daughter when she leaves any room.

“I’ll be right back, Anton,” the boy says, standing up. He thinks he’s subtle.

The plate in Minhkhoa’s hands creaks ominously.

‘That’s not my name!’

***

And then it’s too late.

“Mr. Wayne defeated The Still, but only after he was weakened…” Ra’s al Ghul is saying, testing the weight of the sword he’s holding in his right hand. “By Mr. Minhkhoa Khan.” 

It’s the first time in a decade he hears his name out loud. And it wasn’t Bruce’s voice saying it. 

He bites his tongue so hard blood pools in his mouth, and swallows it alongside the scream of frustration he can’t afford to utter. 

He’s had months. Months of tracking down the League of Assassins, of training under Ra’s in Lazarus City. And instead of telling him, claiming him. He’s been following Bruce’s lead, allowing him to set the terms of their partnership, allowing him his distance and sulking in the shadows, because Minhkhoa refuses to fall so low as to fight goddamn Talia al Ghul for his attention.

It takes everything in Minhkhoa to not turn to look towards Bruce at that moment, even though can feel the heat of the boy’s stare on the side of his face. He can’t reveal that weakness, not under Ra’s steady gaze.

Because it’s a weakness, maybe his only one.

“You both have the training. You both have the drive. But can you do what is needed?” Ra’s throws the swords onto the floor between them, and they klang loudly as they settle.

And now he’s going to have to kill Bruce before ever hearing how his name sounds in his lips.

He feels more than he sees Bruce’s focus move away from him. “I won’t play this game, Ra’s,” he says, voice firm. “There’s no need to fight my friend. If you want our help to save the world, just ask.”

A mistake, one Bruce can’t help but make. Because he has faith in Minhkhoa, even after everything. Even though he’s a murderer, and everything Bruce has been fighting him every step of the way to not become.

“Hm. The fascinating hubris of a young man born into wealth...”

Minhkhoa’s mind settles blankly. He tucks his rage under his skin, wrapping himself in it, and dismisses everything else. Minhkhoa bends down silently. Bruce isn’t looking. 

As he said, a mistake.

“But tell me, Mr. Wayne...” 

He raises the sword.

“...Does your friend feel the same way?”

Minhkhoa is staring intensely enough he should catch every microexpression that goes through Bruce’s face before he puts on a blank mask.

And yet…

When did Bruce get hard to read?

***

This time, Bruce defeats him easier than Minhkhoa’s pride allows him to admit.

At least, before he passed out in Bruce’s headlock, he managed to relay the other thing he should have told his friend weeks ago.

“Ra’s has missiles.”

***

It’s not as much as a week later when, in the short distance of where he stands sentry –standing over the unconscious body of the League's actual sentry– Minhkhoa sees Lazarus City go up in flames.

Minhkhoa picks up his –stolen– monocular and skims through the fleeing figures, trying to catch movement of a body as familiar as his own.

He sighs and puts the monocular down.

“That fucking idiot.”

He repeats it to his face, later, as he hauls Bruce’s half-unconscious body back out to the desert, up on a camel, away from the burning ruins.

And then he leaves him by the beach, wounded and alone.

He never did get to hear his name, did he?

Chapter Text

Singapore

Last time they were apart, it wasn't like this. 

Last time, they still saw eachother –from time to time. Like whenever Bruce would catch up to Minhkhoa, and he got to gloat about always being a step ahead of the boy, always up one Master on Bruce's list; whenever Minhkhoa managed to goad him into a fight, all sharp fists and angry words. It was a thrill, and a good way for Minhkhoa to test his newest skills, as no one else has ever been able to keep up with him the way Bruce can. 

Last time, it was a chase, and Minhkhoa was never bored. 

Last time, the loneliness didn't seep into his skin, deep and tacky and impossible to ignore…

Doesn't mean he can't try. 

Minhkhoa finds plenty of distractions. In his work, in people, in keeping one ear open for rumors of a bat from a dying city in New Jersey; in ignoring that feeling even harder whenever nothing keeps turning up yet. 

This is maybe why it takes him so long to figure out he has a shadow. 

Security is abysmal, it's like he isn't even trying to keep him out. 

Minhkhoa does have to dodge a metal bat to the face, though. He does it smiling, a vicious thing with too much teeth that feels more like a grimace. 

(All of him feels out of tune, just slightly off-kilter, since he found out who is following him.

Who shouldn’t be following him.)

“You took longer than I thought you would,” Bruce says. He drops the end of the metal bat and leans it on the wall, seemingly deeming Minhkhoa not a threat, which is sort of insulting. 

He keeps himself from twitching. “You should be in Gotham.”

Bruce blinks slowly, irreproachable, and points out neutrally. “If I only ever did what I should be doing, I wouldn't have left Gotham in the first place.”

“Hilarious,” Minhkhoa says, cocking his head and looking the boy up and down. It's as much of a way to give himself time to plot out his next words as it is the easiest way to get Bruce squirming, usually. Unfortunately, his efforts are diminished by the mask he's wearing. “Did you miss me that much? Is that why you're here?”

He's scrambling to find his usual nonchalance –Bruce shouldn't be here– and the words in his mouth feel forced –he shouldn't be here– awkward, and out of place –Bruce should hate–

“We have unfinished business,” Bruce simply states.

“Unfinished Business? ” Minhkhoa repeats, incredulous. 

“You dragged me out of burning ruins and then left me bleeding in the sand,” Bruce says. “Why?”

“You’re kidding,” Minhkhoa says. “There’s no way that’s why– I could kill you right now. I should kill you right now, actually.”

“And ruin all that effort you spent saving me?” 

“I didn't–”

Shit, he sounds pathetic. Did the world turn upside down during the night? Is this how Bruce always feels around him? 

“I know I was half delirious, but who else would have pulled me out of Lazarus City?”

“Talia?” Minhkhoa doesn't grumble. 

“Talia was the one who stabbed me.”

Minhkhoa blinks. He could’ve sworn it would be Ra’s. “I could still kill you,” he says, but it's meeker that he would have liked. 

“You won’t.”

“You don't know that.”

“You already had your chance, and you didn’t take it. Twice.”

Minhkhoa scoffs. “You weren't awake, it would've been too easy.”

“So do it now.”

“What?”

“Duel me, right here, right now.”

Minhkhoa looks around the apartment he broke into. There's barely any space in the tiny living room. 

It doesn't look lived in, but Minhkhoa can see the small touches of Bruce: The hidden weapons around the room, obvious only to Minhkhoa; the collection of carefully sorted books Bruce likes to read again and again; the traps and security system littered through the apartment –partly disabled, Bruce must have been confident it was Minhkhoa coming in through that window. He's only slightly annoyed about that. 

The fact Bruce had the time to do that…

Minhkhoa is getting sloppy, he can't afford that. 

And yet… 

“There's easier ways to kill yourself than following me around the continent looking for a fight, Bruce.”

Instead of the annoyed reaction he expected, Bruce’s mouth tilts in the hint of a satisfied smile, and Minhkhoa realizes his misstep. 

“If you really wanted me dead, you would have jumped on that chance.”

Minhkhoa hisses. “Maybe I just feel like it's a waste of effort.”

Except that's exactly what Bruce said before. Fuck. 

Whatever. He'll throw himself out a window and into a fight later. 

After Bruce leaves. 

(Minhkhoa doesn't want him to–) 

Amusement twinkles in Bruce's eyes. He knows he's won. 

“Sure, Anton,” he allows. 

And that tugs at him wrong. 

“That's not my name,” Minhkhoa snaps. “You know that now.”

There's a beat before Bruce replies, carefully. “Well, it didn't seem like I had permission to use it, seeing you never told me that yourself.”

He scoffs. “Oh, you need permission now?”

Bruce shrugs. “Maybe I just want to hear you say it.”

Minhkhoa blinks. 

Considerate. Bruce is being considerate. He's allowing Minhkhoa to change the topic, and to set the terms regarding his name. If Minhkhoa didn't want Bruce to use it –which he can admit is an understandable assumption to make– Bruce would respect that. 

It's the kind of consideration Minhkhoa didn't have when Bruce was Jack and Avery told on him. Although the boy never condemned Minhkhoa for the use of it past his initial annoyance of getting found out. 

But… Bruce isn't Minhkhoa. He has people, he has family and friends and an entire city that knows him by his name, knows him because of it, even. Not like Minhkhoa, who has no one –not even Bruce– and whose name is his best kept secret. Kept locked and buried for decades. 

Until now. 

Bruce knows that. Or at least, he can guess at it. 

Which it's why he's standing there, patiently waiting for Minhkhoa's verdict. 

So, looking into Bruce Wayne's earnest eyes, Minhkhoa breathes the words he hasn't said out loud in over a decade. 

“My name is Minhkhoa Khan.”

His voice doesn't shake, doesn't stutter. He sounds… whole, proud. And Bruce exhales as if he's been punched in the gut, then smiles. 

Real and bright and… thankful. 

Beautiful.

(Minhkhoa feels lighter than he's felt in years.)

“Alright,” Bruce amends, then. “Minhkhoa.”

Minhkhoa can't help it, his entire body shudders. Bruce is careful with the enunciation, echoing Minhkhoa's own as well as he can. And yet, Minhkhoa can swear there's a hint of New Jersey in the consonants. 

He immediately needs to hear it again. 

He takes a step forward before he can stop himself, as if drawn to the magnet that is Bruce. Who somehow manages to draw out buried emotions as well, dragging them out to bubble under his skin. It's a confusing mess that leaves Minhkhoa restless, lightheaded. 

Then he thinks, ‘what the hell’, and corners Bruce against the wall. Fuck self restraint, he's been waiting months for this. 

(Years even, if he can admit it to himself.)

Bruce's eyes open unperceivably, but he doesn't seem all that surprised. He swallows before he says. “This is not what I'm here for.” 

But he's allowing Minhkhoa to settle his leg between his, his hands to roam up and down his chest, arms, bunching the collar of Bruce's shirt into his fists, keeping him in place. His own hands are settled on Minhkhoa's shoulders, brushing his neck. 

“You say my name,” Minhkhoa rasps. “Like that , and you don't think there'll be consequences? ”

“I just said it, I didn't do it in any specific way.”

Minhkhoa rests his temple against Bruce’s, breathing deeply. “Exactly.”

Bruce lets out a surprised laugh. Minhkhoa wants to drown in it. 

“Minhkhoa,” he repeats, as if testing it on his tongue. Minhkhoa shivers. “Let me see your eyes.”

He had almost forgotten about the mask he's wearing; the white and black fabric hiding the upper half of his head. But now that he remembers, he wants it off, wants any barrier between them gone.

So he nods, and lets Bruce's hand reach up and pull the fabric away. His other hand buries immediately in Minhkhoa's hair. 

Something settles under Minhkhoa's skin, then. An itch he wasn't entirely aware of until now that he's been freed of it. 

“Say it. Again.”

Bruce doesn't have to be told what. 

“Minhkhoa.”

His breath shudders. “Again.”

And as Bruce's mouth opens, he surges forwards to capture his moving lips, trying to taste the syllables in his tongue. 

“‘Khoa,” Bruce whispers when they break apart, voice broken. 

Minhkhoa melts against Bruce, shivering. 

“Again,” he says, voice just as broken and choked. 

And then it's, “Khoa,” whispered in his ear. “Khoa,” gasped against his mouth. “Khoa,” worshipped on his scarred skin. 

(And all Minhkhoa can think is ‘Bruce, Bruce, Bruce… ’)

***

“Let's travel.”

“Hm?” Bruce asks. He's tracing shapes on Minhkhoa's bare chest with his fingertips. It tickles. Minhkhoa doesn’t stop him. 

“We finished your list, we don't have to follow what it says anymore. So let's travel around, take our time, see the sights.”

Bruce’s fingers still. His deep breath is warm against Minhkhoa's shoulder. 

“I have to go back to Gotham,” he says, carefully. 

Minhkhoa exhales just as carefully, trying not to tense. It will do him no good to start an argument right now. 

(Bruce can’t leave, not now.)

He wishes he could keep Bruce from that stupid idea of revenge. To fully give himself to the art of what they can do. If only he lets go of those preconceived notions and judgments. 

Doesn't he know Gotham is lost, no matter what? Doesn't he know that it won't bring his parents back? 

(Doesn't he know some people can't be reformed, that some people have to die?) 

But Bruce will never listen to that, won't ever give up on his city, on revenge, on his morals, so Minhkhoa takes a different approach. 

“Then let's travel through South America, we'll be closer. We can share all we learned when we were apart, refine our skills, put them to the test. Together.”

He lays his hand over Bruce's and brings it up to his lips, presses him closer with the arm around his waist. 

Bruce shivers slightly in his arms, conflicted look in his blue eyes. He sighs as Minhkhoa presses kisses at the back of his hand, his palm, his wrist, up his forearm. 

“Maybe…” he starts. “I don’t know, I have to get back.”

(Minhkhoa won't let him–)

“We could see Machu Picchu up close,” Minhkhoa says, shifting so he can mouth up Bruce’s clavicle. “Pass through Rio and see the Carnivals.” Up his neck. “Hike to Iguazu Falls in Argentina. On our time.” Finally, his mouth. Minhkhoa kisses him deeply, satisfied and smug when Bruce kisses back just as desperately. He pulls away sucking at his lower lip, and Bruce makes a delicious sound at the back of his throat. 

“Fine,” he says, breathless. “Alright, fine, you win.”

Minhkhoa suppresses a smile, doesn't entirely succeed. “It wasn't a competition.”

“With you? It always is.” The wicked grin grows, and Bruce rolls his eyes. He tugs at Minhkhoa's arm, and frowns when he doesn't move. “C'mon, kiss me again.”

“So demanding.”

“Says you,” Bruce protests. “The most frustrating, insatiable–”

Minhkhoa interrupts him with a kiss. 

It really is his favorite way of shutting Bruce up.  And right now he really wants Bruce to stop talking, to stop thinking so hard.

He… has a feeling that, otherwise, this won't last.

Brazil

They’re lazily making out against the door they should have left through about five minutes ago when Bruce tugs at Minhkhoa’s mask. Seeing how this is usually and indicator they’re about to take a whole while longer –and what is it with Bruce’s insistence on seeing his face while they fuck?– Minhkhoa has to make the unfortunate but sensible decision of taking Bruce’s hand and pulling it away. They are already late, and Bruce will get pouty if they miss the start of the parade.

Bruce raises an eyebrow when he leans back to make some space between them. 

“What, I don't get to see your face now?” he teases, but there’s maybe an undercut of actual doubt in his voice.

Pathetic; Minhkhoa can’t have that. He flashes his most charming grin. “You do.”

“Flirt,” Bruce says, but he looks pleased. “You know, it's not the most inconspicuous thing to walk around with a mask on all the time.”

“It’s the Carnivals. Half the population will be wearing a mask.”

Bruce hums, sceptical. “And your excuse for wearing it the entire four days we were trekking the Inca Trail?”

“Ah, but,” he points out, “we did that in three days.” And then when Bruce keeps staring, unimpressed. “It kept the bugs away from my eyes.” He shrugs. 

“Even inside our tent?”

“I took it off in our tent!”

“Only after triple-checking our surroundings to make sure there was no one around to look inside.” Minhkhoa likes to think, by this point, he’s learned not to dig his own grave, so he says nothing and simply shrugs again. Bruce frowns, takes a full step back. “Is someone following you?”

“No one that wouldn’t be following you as well.” As to not chase the heat, Minhkhoa pats down his clothes so he can remove any wrinkles formed in the last five minutes. Bruce frowns harder. “No one, Bruce. Don’t worry so hard, you’ll get yourself constipated.”

“Then why?”

Minhkhoa sighs. He pushes away from the door and plops down on the least unfortunate mattress of their sketchy room. The other mattress –the one with the suspiciously copper-scented stains– has their limited belongings on top of it, ready to be taken as they leave.

“Does it matter?” he asks.

“Yes. You’re jeopardizing your identity.”

Minhkhoa blinks. 

“I’d think I’m doing literally the exact opposite.”

Bruce makes an impatient sound. “No, listen. If I’m to take up a mask when I return to Gotham– don’t scoff at me, as if Ghost-maker is any better of a name than– no, not going there again.” He inhales, and Minhkhoa snickers. “As I was saying, it will be crucial for my mission to keep both personas separate, so that I can use both of them to better Gotham. For it to work, I couldn’t let the nightlife bleed into my day-to-day like this.”

“And are you here, right now, as Bruce Wayne, prodigal billionaire of Gotham, or are you–” He reaches out and unzips Bruce’s bag, taking the small square out. “Calvin Brown, tourist from Canada.”

Bruce snatches the fake passport from Minhkhoa’s stretched hand. “In Gotham, not here,” he sniffs.

“Then don’t ask me to do it either.” Minhkhoa says, rolling his eyes and letting his arm fall back down. “I have no use for a civilian identity, anyway. It would just slow me down. I’ll need to be able to come and go as I please, never leaving any trace anywhere I go.” Then, just to mess with Bruce, he forces a smirk and adds. “Like a ghost.”

He’s working on a program to take it further –almost like a virus, to corrupt any recording devices that might get close at catching a glimpse of him, and delete any digital evidence.

Bruce only hums, but Minhkhoa can tell he isn’t pleased, so he adds.

“You get to see my face, what does it matter if the rest of the world doesn’t?” Minhkhoa sits up and checks the hidden weapons in his clothes and bag one last time before throwing it over his shoulder and walking straight through the door he slams open. “Let’s go,” he calls behind him. “We’re late for check-out.”

He won’t tell Bruce –he can’t tell– the other reason. That stupid possessive need to have Bruce be the only person to know him, to see him. He can’t do anything about the Demon Head and his daughter knowing his name, having seen his face. But he can keep Bruce in that little bubble of being the only one allowed, the only one he’s let see.

Minhkhoa doesn’t think Bruce would get it.

***

“Ghost-maker, stop!”

The blade is millimeters away from sinking into the man's –if he's even worthy of that– throat. Minhkhoa knows exactly how easy his blades would slice the skin, knows the angle necessary to hit the yugular with minimum pain… and maximum as well. 

But he stops –gritting his teeth and fixing the grip on the handle– because Bruce asked, and Minhkhoa can't lose all these weeks of progress over an impulse. 

Unless he can be convincing enough. 

“He deserves it,” Minhkhoa states. “He's a rapist, and a serial at that, his movements were practiced when he drugged that poor girl in your arms. He's done this before, who knows how many times.”

Bruce isn't blind. He knows. But Minhkhoa points it out anyway. Builds his case. 

“So we turn him over to the authorities,” Bruce says, almost through clenched teeth. He's bracing the girl's head and neck, holding her upright. “We have to get her to a hospital. You can't kill him.’

“Oh, I can.” Minhkhoa relishes a little in the look of fear in the man's face after that. 

“I'm asking you not to, goddammit!”

Minhkhoa grips the handle tighter and hisses, blaring his teeth. But instead of moving his hand downwards, and getting that satisfying sound of metal slicing meat, he brings it up. Minhkhoa bashes the handle against the man’s head hard enough for him to pass out and fall on the dirty floor of the dark alleyway.

“Fine,” he snaps. “You deal with him, then. I’ll take her.” He reaches his hands out, but Bruce doesn’t let go an inch. If anything, he holds the girl tighter. Minhkhoa throws his hands up, “I stopped, didn't I? Do you want me to take her to the hospital or not.”

Bruce glares, even through the mask he’s wearing –a copy of Minhkhoa’s, the colors invented– it burns. But he releases his hold on the girl and drops her carefully into Minhkhoa’s arms.

“We don’t get to decide who lives or dies,” he says.

“Tell that to her,” Minhkhoa retorts. “And the ones who came before her.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything, Minhkhoa is already gone.

Argentina

It’s before their hike when the proverbial cup measuring Bruce’s composure and tolerance reaches its tipping point.

“So this entire time–” Bruce is trembling with concealed rage. “–you’ve just been waiting, vying for me to set aside my morals?

“Oh, as if you haven’t been doing the same,” Minhkhoa snarks.

“There’s a difference, between me not asking you not to kill–”

“You’ve been trying to change me since the moment you met me, Bruce. Trying to get me to follow your rules, your morals, your mission–”

“Please, if it’s been so dreadful, then why have you stayed so long.”

Something raw claws at the back of Minhkhoa’s throat, wanting out. He swallows it back with some difficulty, but the tacky taste clings.

“Let me refresh your memory, Bruce,” he says instead. “You’re the one who came looking for me.”

He can tell the moment Bruce pulls down his mask, becoming a cold, impenetrable wall of a person. Minhkhoa can’t read him anymore, not like this. It makes him twitchy. 

He has to keep himself from reaching out.

“You’re right,” Bruce says. Cold, neutral. “I found you, so our business is finished. There’s no need for me to stay any longer.”

Minhkhoa's blood freezes in his veins. 

No.

(He can’t, he can't, he can’t– Bruce can’t do this to him–)

Bruce is already out the door.

Minhkhoa follows a beat too late, limbs out of sync with his heart.

In the rain, he can’t tell which direction Bruce went.

But he doesn’t have to guess too hard as to where he’ll go.

(Minhkhoa has to get there first.)

***

And then rain is chilling them down to their bones –Bruce is leaving– and Khoa is shouting to be heard over the storm –Bruce is leaving him– about how no one knows Bruce better than him, about how great they could become together –Bruce is leaving him – If they just train a bit longer, if Bruce lets go of his stupid mission, his stupid moral compass.

Bruce keeps walking away –towards the plane, in which he’ll leave–, hands tensed into fists.

“You're a coward!” Minhkhoa yells. “You’re too afraid of becoming what you know you can become!”

Bruce stops, and Minhkhoa thinks that maybe, maybe , he’s gotten through.

He’s wrong.

“I have no interest in not caring about people,” he says, voice firm and ungiving. “I have no interest in giving up the mission I started when I was eight years old.” Minhkhoa’s hope drops, scurries away like the rain running down his robes. His rage grows in its place, boiling under his skin. “Just go, Kho–”

“No!” His shout is a mix of anger and desperation. “You don’t get to say my name again. You don’t get to see my face!”

If Bruce twitches, Minhkhoa is seething too hard to tell.

“Fine. Ghost-maker” Distaste is the only emotion that leaks through Bruce’s voice. “Stay out of Gotham. Or I’ll treat you like any other criminal in my way.”

“As if I have any interest in that cesspool of a city,” Minhkhoa seethes. “But fine. It's a deal. I stay out of your city, you don’t set foot into any I've set up camp in.”

“Good,” Bruce says. “Now get out of my way.” 

Minhkhoa doesn't move, afraid of where his hands might reach –towards his swords, or Bruce’s hands– but he doesn't make a move to block Bruce's way towards the plane. 

A foot on the chairs, Bruce lulls, and Minhkhoa's heart lurches treacherously. Yet… 

Bruce says, “I never want to see you again.”

And Minhkhoa… 

Bruce steps onto the plane without looking back and leaves.

Minhkhoa’s rage keeps him standing up until the plane is out of sight. 

Then it leaves him, all at once, and he drops to his knees onto the wet concrete.

Empty.

Chapter Text

Turkey

“We had an agreement.”

Kho– Ghost-maker hums. He pokes at a batarang with his gloved hand, checking the edge against the material –it cuts, with a little difficulty. Bruce will have to count to make sure none end up missing, later, then figure out how to make them even sharper, to keep up with Ghost-maker’s imminent suit upgrade.

“The agreement was for you to stay out of wherever I’m based at any time, and for me to stay out of Gotham. This isn’t Gotham, Batman, and I’m thinking of relocating. The simit here is to die for, I’ve heard.”

Bruce takes a grounding breath, already expecting the incoming headache.

“I’m not leaving in the middle of a case just because you decided on a whim to–”

He hisses, it’s a mechanic sound. “I don’t do whims.”

‘Oh, I’m sure it was carefully premeditated, like everything you do,’ he doesn’t snap, because he’s not nineteen anymore.

“You were in Singapore yesterday, ” he tries to bite back the annoyed rasp in his voice. He’s not certain he succeeds. 

Ghost-maker luls, but the surprise doesn’t last for more than half a second. 

“Aw, you’ve been keeping tabs on me.”

Bruce doesn’t rise to the jab, even if he wants to point out that, obviously, Kh– Ghost-maker did as well, or else he wouldn’t be here. He hopes it gets across with his glare.

“I’m not leaving.”

“Well, I’m not leaving either.” The man shrugs. “Guess we’re gonna have to work together.”

Absolutely not, he thinks.

I’m not falling for that, he thinks. Not again.

“What’s your plan?” he asks, reluctantly.

***

They fall into a familiar rhythm.

Bruce hates it.

It makes it too easy to fall back on old patterns, old dynamics. 

Like when they're working side by side, and Kho– Ghost-maker guides him by his waist when he's moving around Bruce to reach something –And Bruce stupidly, automatically, lets him. 

Or even worse, Bruce will be the one passing through the workshop, and he'll reach an arm over the sitting figure, sliding his hand over his shoulder, his neck. And K– Ghost-maker will lean into the attention, almost cat-like in the endeavor. 

Or now, with Ghost-maker cornering him against the desk, his hands on Bruce's waist, and Bruce’s own finding themselves on the man’s chest, feeling the deep rise and fall of it– to keep him away, he tells himself. But– Their faces are inches apart, breathing in each other's electric air. They stay like that for what feels like an eternity, but might only be a few minutes.

“Bruce,” the man says, breaking the fragile silence. It's a question, a plea and a warning in the same word. 

Bruce breathes deeply. 

“If we do this, I’m not calling you Ghost-maker,” he whispers. “And you’re not wearing this.” He tugs, softly, at the fabric covering the upper half of the man's head. 

“Gone vanilla, Bruce?”

“Please.”

The man’s exposed mouth clicks shut, opens, closes, then opens again. It’s the first time Bruce has seen him conflicted in… years, maybe ever.

“Anton,” he finally says. “You called me Anton, once.”

Bruce lets out a slightly shaky breath. It’s a compromise; a familiar name, if fake, is better than nothing, he guesses. 

(He ignores the underlying pang of disappointment. If… Anton doesn’t want him to use his real name, Bruce will respect that. Has respected that. He doesn’t have any right to ask for more.)

“Anton,” Bruce repeats. “I want to see your eyes.”

Anton's breath stutters, and Bruce can only guess that –behind the fabric– his eyes are closed.

He makes a false start, then swallows and opens his mouth again. “Not– no. I can't–.”

Something like disappointment –maybe resignation, he should have guessed– simmers in his stomach. But Bruce makes sure to not let it reach his tone as he says, “Alright,” and forces his feet to listen and take a step to the side, away from the man's cornering presence. Kh– Anton's hand twitches, as if he wants to reach out. He doesn't. “Let's get back to the case.”

***

Ghost-maker's glare burns on his skin no matter how much he ignores it. He’s been doing that the entire way back to the base. It's been a while since Bruce has felt this much like prey.

Bruce is halfway through getting out of his suit, only the compression underlining left. He's meticulously folding and organizing every piece of it onto the desk –mask sitting on top, glaring at him from the other direction– just to give his hands something to do. He prays to every god he doesn't believe in that his hands don't tremble a single inch. 

Lest the predator at his back pounce on him. 

Out of anything to stall with, Bruce sighs internally and is about to turn around when he feels Ghost-maker's front press against his back. 

Bruce’s mouth is dry. Yet before he can ask what the man thinks he's doing, a hand sneaks around his side, tracing down the lines of his arm and then pressing a piece of fabric into his hand. 

Bruce doesn't need to look at it to know what it is. His heart lurches. He hopes Anton can't hear it. 

Anton reaches forwards with his other hand towards the lightswitch over the desk. His body presses closer to Bruce's, and the first hand is now sliding around Bruce's waist, brushing at his hip bone. 

The lights on the workshop are turned off. Bruce’s senses hyperfocus on the warmth against his skin, amplifying the feeling. 

Warm breath tickles up his neck. 

“Bruce,” Anton whispers. The hold on his hip bone strengthens.

He might as well be begging with the way Bruce can't refuse him. 

Blinded –aching– he turns around.

Amsterdam

After that, it becomes… routine would be the wrong word– it doesn't happen every time. But it isn’t a surprise anymore, that whenever Batman has a job overseas, Ghost-maker might pay him a visit in, as he calls it, ‘neutral ground.’

The timing still annoys him, sometimes. Bruce is pretty sure he does it on purpose.

Like right now.

“Not today,” he says, deflecting Ghost-maker's attack instead of engaging like he usually would. 

“Oh really? Why’s that?” Ghost-maker tries to goad him with a particularly un-elegant move, kicking towards his shin. Bruce deflects that as well and turns away, deciding he's done with the fight, much to the disappointment of his assailant. 

“I'm busy,” he says, walking up to his new temporary workshop. 

Light steps trail behind him as Ghost-maker groans. With his mask on, it's a mechanical sound. “You always are.”

“I’m here with the Justice League.”

Anton's arms sneak around his waist, expertly finding the seams in his suit, and his voice –not modulated, Bruce didn't miss the click and hiss of the mask mechanism opening– sounds warm and sultry in his ear. “I don't see them here.”

The hands roam further down, but Bruce puts a stop to their wandering before they can slip under his suit by holding them firmly against his hips.

“Ghost-maker,” he warns. 

“Fine.” Anton slips his hands away. “If you're gonna be like that.”

“We have a meeting. They'll be here any minute,” Bruce explains, turning back towards him, even as he tells himself he doesn't have to justify himself to Anton. 

The man hums, somehow skeptically, as if he can hear Bruce's internal monologue. 

“You don't want me to meet your new friends?” he mocks. 

“I don’t want their first impression to be you with your tongue down my throat,” he corrects, deadpan. “Besides, you’re the one dead set on keeping Ghost-maker a myth.”

“I’m sure by then it would be my lips around your–”

“Anton.”

The man makes it pretty obvious that he’s rolling his eyes at Bruce, even if those eyes are still covered by fabric.

He sighs, theatrically. “Not every day a man gets to meet the Justice League.”

“You don't give a shit about the Justice League.”

“I don't,” Anton shrugs, unrepentant. “I give a shit about you, though.”

“No you don't,” Bruce answers a little too fast and cringes internally. Then he adds. “You only care what I can do for you.” Anton hums noncommittally. 

“I care about your body too,” he says. And winks. “The sounds you make when you're trying to be quiet, how your entire body flushes when–”

“Stop,” Bruce says, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that his teammate, who has super-hearing, could walk through the door at any moment. 

And because Anton's either a mind reader,  can somehow still read every microexpression in Bruce's face, or because he was made by God himself to annoy Bruce specifically; he looks directly at the door of the workshop. 

“Oh,” he draws out, making it painfully obvious this isn’t a last minute realization. “This is about your pet alien on a leash, is it?”

“Kal is not–”

“Oh, Kal.”

Bruce’s jaw clicks shut. “Don’t do that. Me not saying your name is your choice.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“I’m sure it isn’t.”

Khoa– Anton sniffs derisively and keeps on like Bruce said nothing. 

“Are you worried about what he'll think of you? Or are you worried I'll tell him you’re in love with him?”

If Bruce had any less control of his body, he'd have stumbled right then and there. 

“I'm not in love with Superman,” he says, stupidly.

“But you’re in love with Kal? ”

Bruce blinks, baffled, and regrets every decision of his life that has ever led him to this moment. 

Anton thinking he's in love with– he can't even think about that right now or his brain will short-circuit. 

“We're coworkers,” he says instead, hoping Kal isn't listening. “Partners, maybe. We're a team.”

Anton's mouth twitches at the word partners. “So were we,” he says, way too lightly. 

Bruce almost gapes. “Are you… are you jealous?”

Immediately, Anton scowls. “Of an alien you've known less than a year? Absolutely not.”

But Bruce hums, an unconvinced sound with an amused undercut. He's finally got the upper hand in this conversation. He won't waste it. 

“Well, It took us little over a year to start–”

“Please, he'll never know you as well as I do,” Anton sniffs. 

Bruce lets a small smile slip past his mask. 

“Sounds like jealousy to me.”

“I don't get jealous.”

Bruce narrows his eyes, he's got a hunch… “You were jealous over Talia.”

Anton scowls even harder. Bingo “You're imagining things.”

“So that one time you methodically sabotaged every single one of her weapons so they'd be just slightly unbalanced…”

“Now you're just making shit up.”

Bruce’s mouth opens, ready to retort with more newly unburied memories –wow, does this put some things in perspective– when the proximity alert rings. 

Trying to ignore the sour taste of disappointment in his mouth, Bruce reaches to turn off the alarm. 

“Now is the time, if you want to–” When Bruce turns around, Ghost-maker is already gone, no evidence he was ever there in the first place. 

Steps enter the workshop while Bruce is still scanning his surroundings. 

“Time to what?” Kal-El asks, all earnest and eager. 

Bruce turns to face him, meeting bright blue eyes and octagonal pupils. 

“Get started with the debrief and set up the meeting, if you want to help with that.”

“Of course,” Kal says.

Rome

For once, Bruce is overseas for an actual important Wayne Enterprises deal, and no Batman-ing at all. 

Bruce didn't want to go –basically begged Lucius to go instead of him, as he has the last three times anything purely WE comes up– but Alfred all but forced him, telling him to ‘Enjoy his vacations.’ He's not even allowed to work on his cases remotely. Because he ‘has a team for that.’ Alfred even revoked his remote access to the Batcomputer.

But now that the meetings are over, Bruce is going insane.

This means that, by the time he notices someone is following his every move around the city, the levels of boredom he had reached almost has him celebrating. 

“This is nice,” Anton says, sliding down on the empty seat beside Bruce. “You seem almost happy to see me.”

Bruce is surprised to notice the lack of Anton’s mask in this public setting; instead, the man is wearing a wide-brim hat –tilted down– to hide his features. It’s not completely out of place here –under the sunlight trickling down between leaves, on the courtyard of the lovely café Bruce has chosen to read in today– but it is a bit of a silly look on the man.

He can’t help the twitch of a smile on his lips as he answers. “In these circumstances, even your presence can be a break.”

“Ouch, glad to know I’m only slightly more amusing than complete boredom,” he says. “Maybe I’ll leave, let you enjoy your vacation alone.”

He makes to stand up. Bruce’s hand snaps to Anton’s wrist. “Don’t.”

A big victorious grin breaks in Anton’s face, he can see from this angle. He doesn’t have to say anything, yet Bruce makes a noise at the back of his throat, annoyed at himself. He goes to let go of Anton’s hand, but the man takes charge and entwines them instead while he drags his chair even closer and sits down. K– Anton sets their joined hands on the table, thumb sliding casually up and down, sparking something under Bruce’s skin that reaches warmly all the way to his chest. 

It’s maybe telling that Bruce doesn’t take his hand back. But it would attract unwanted attention to break the hold now, no other reason. Especially as a waiter makes her way to take their order, and smiles knowingly when she spots their hands. Bruce hasn’t blushed in ten years. He won't do it now.  Even if they look like… a couple.

It’s maybe even more telling that he lets Anton order for the both of them, not very surprised that the man knows his coffee order, yet too busy trying to keep his hearth from speeding up and red from spilling under his cheeks.

“We were overdue for a normal date, don't you think?” 

Bruce involuntarily squeezes Anton’s hand, and the man chuckles.

He breathes in deeply once, twice, before answering. “Is that why you’re not wearing your mask?” Anton only hums. “What are you playing at, Anton?”

Anton sighs. “Always so paranoid.”

“Pays to be, with you.”

Sighing even deeper, Anton asks, “Remember last time we were here?”

Bruce can’t catch the man’s eyes under the wide brim of his stupid hat, can’t gauge his intentions. He answers anyway. “I do.”

Anton hums, “It was simpler back then, but we didn’t get to do this either.” 

Bruce closes his eyes for a moment, Anton hasn’t stopped caressing his hand for a second. 

It was all such a rush, moving from place to place, following lead after lead, name after name. Italy was one of the few times they weren’t under anyone’s tutelage. Just following a case– and in their down time, being infatuated with eachother. But only in the dark, only away from where anyone could see– and break their illusion. Still, when Bruce thinks back on those moments –and he tries to rarely– he considers them precious moments of naive happiness.

His voice is only a bit hoarser than usual when he says, “Don’t toy with me, Anton.” It should come out as a warning, it sounds like a plea.

“Bruce–” The waiter comes back then, and Anton thanks her in Italian as she sets her orders down. They both wait until she’s back inside. His hat tilts up only a little; Bruce starves for any hint of eye contact. “Let’s just be people, yeah? Just for today.”

Something constricts in Bruce’s chest. He stares at the hand in his, unable to know what to feel, what to think. His insides are a whirlwind of suspicion and longing and betrayal and forgiveness. He thought he was over this. 

(He’s spent weeks –months, years– ignoring this.)

Anton doesn’t rush him to answer, even as Bruce takes a sip of his coffee, his free hand thankfully steady, and savours it calmly, trying to buy himself some time. Anton mirrors him calmly, the mug disappearing under the ridiculous hat.

“Just for today,” he repeats, after a bit. It won’t be; whatever Bruce agrees on, it’ll have repercussions. With Anton, it always does; whether it be external, or internal… or both. Bruce will be stuck with the consequences of his accordance far past this day. He still carries the scars of ten years past. It hasn’t made him any more sensible. “Alright.”

This time, when Anton’s hat tilts up, it’s enough for Bruce to see the bright smile under it. Anton sets down two hundred euro bills from– that’s Bruce’s wallet, he notices with less annoyance than he should feel– and tugs at their joint hands until Bruce stands up with him. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

“On our date.”

***

They spend the entire afternoon together.

It’s incredibly domestic, relaxed and normal.

Bruce keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop as Anton drags him from place to place, never letting go of his hand.

He even walks Bruce back to his penthouse; or– almost.

“You’re not coming inside?” Bruce asks, confused, when Anton lets go of his hand a building away and leans casually against a light pole. The sun is setting, and he looks even more ridiculous in the hat. 

“I don’t put out on the first date.”

“You– Oh, forget I even asked,” he snaps, annoyed.

Anton tilts his head in a way that lets Bruce know he’s raising an eyebrow– and probably making fun of him.

“Not that I wouldn’t love to, but I figured Brucie wouldn’t want to be seen inviting a man up to his bed.”

Oh, oh right. Well– “I don’t think holding a man’s hand publicly for the entire day is sparing my reputation either,” he says.

Anton shrugs. “I took care of any online gossip, Icon is getting pretty advanced.” 

Bruce blinks. “You named your AI Icon? ”

“Do you have to judge all my naming choices? Do I have to remind you of the Batmobile, and the Batcave, and the Batcomputer–”

“That wasn’t even me–” He breathes. The sun has set. “The day is over,” he says neutrally. “I’ll see you next time, maybe.”

“Right,” Anton says. “Of course.”

And then he leaves Anton under the lamp’s golden light.

***

The man is on his balcony only an hour later. Bruce sees his silhouette, clothes rocking in the soft wind, and finds himself not even a little bit surprised.

He means to say something, but his mouth has suddenly dried up, and the figure isn't saying anything either, just standing there, waiting. 

Waving through the thick silence, Anton steps forwards, and Bruce remains frozen in place, eyes locked on him as he closes in. 

Bruce shouldn't let it happen, shouldn't have let it reach this point –not again, not ever– and yet… It’s also inevitable.

Inches away, Anton whispers, “Will you call me by my name, just for tonight?”

Bruce takes two deep breaths, in which neither men move, and then he flings the stupid hat out the balcony and kisses him.

The kiss they meet in is bruising, electrifying, desperate. 

“Khoa,” he says, mumbles, gasps, repeats like a prayer. Khoa melts against his skin, clings, scratches and digs his fingers.

Bruce burns, and the only reprise is Khoa's mouth on his, and Khoa’s hands on his skin. A vicious circle in of itself, because every point of contact between their bodies feels like fire up his veins. 

They fall asleep tangled like the boys they used to be.

***

When he wakes up, he’s warm, but there’s no body between his arms, and no arms around him.

Khoa hasn’t stayed the night before, but maybe… after yesterday…

Eyes still closed and keeping his breathing steady, he tries to extend his senses.

The bed still smells of Khoa, of him, of both of them together. He thinks he hears Khoa’s breathing, or maybe it’s just the wind from the open balcony doors. There’s a divot of another weight on the mattress, or is there really?

Bruce breathes, and keeps his eyes shut for a little longer.

As long as Bruce doesn't open his eyes, he doesn’t have to deal with Khoa’s presence, or his absence.

As long as he doesn't open his eyes, he can pretend Khoa is lying beside him, swaddled in stolen blankets because he always runs cold. Or on the other side of the door, making them both a light breakfast. Maybe… 

Maybe he can live with the uncertainty for just a little while longer.