Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bruce woke with a start, breath catching in his teeth. The flimsy curtains— cheap fabric, coarse to the touch, heavily patterned to hide stains— blocked out most of the dreary Gotham morning light. He shifted his body and hissed as pain laced through his side.

Right. Stab wound. Bruce swallowed roughly, closing his eyes and counting backwards from twenty.

He wasn't sure if it helped, but he welcomed any distraction.

Cheap motel room, stab wound. Suit is most likely a lost cause, Bruce paused and patted the bed for his phone. 

Dead.

I'm never going to hear the end of this. 

"Hmm, are you finally awake, beloved?" Talia's voice carried from the bathroom.

Bruce fumbled his phone. It skidded across the floor, just out of reach. Trying to reach for it pulled on his stab wound and left him hanging half off the bed. Bruce grunted out, "no."

The Daughter of the Demon's Head laughed. The door to the bathroom opened with a cloud of steam. Bruce felt her strong hands (and sharp nails) on his shoulders. She yanked him back onto the bed.

She was too beautiful. It was a shock to his system. His eyes could barely register as many details as he'd like— the strong muscles moving under supple, flawless skin; the hooded eyes underneath thick arching eyebrows; shockingly delicate wrists— every movement she made was perfectly efficient, poised on the edge of lethality. Talia was smiling at him.

He hadn't drank anything last night and he still felt hungover. 

I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be seeing this, Bruce thought weakly.

It was beyond disrespectful for anyone to be laying eyes on Ra's al Ghul's daughter. Everyone who survived the League of Assasins training knew that. Bruce knew that. It was beyond a killing offense. He wasn't sure if he was in any kind of state to fight his way out of this situation. The Demonhead's bloodline wasn't meant to be looked at…

But I did so much more than look last night, Bruce thought. Talia's eyes locked him in place, pins in a insect. Bruce barely registered the dark hair dripping over her shoulder in loose waves until a strand brushed his cheek. She smiled at him, eyes crinkling at the edges. Bruce wondered if she was trying to kill him via heart attack.

"You have no self preservation skills," Talia said. "I could have killed you a hundred times over."

"And yet you didn't" Bruce said. "Maybe you're getting soft."

"Always so insolent," Talia clicked her tongue as she pulled back the sheets. Bruce had a fleeting thought that he should probably push her off him. She pursed her lips. "It will scar."

"Stab wounds do that," Bruce said as blandly as he could manage. Talia pinched his shoulder and twisted. "Ow."

"Had you not failed out of the League, this would not be an issue."

"Is a scar more of an issue for you than me 'deserting' the League?"

Talia blinked at him. And then she pinched him more viciously on the chest.

"Ow—"

"You are the most annoying man alive," Talia said, looking like she was enjoying herself, especially when Bruce starting trying to knock her fingers away. "Oh? You dare fight back?"

Bruce rolled them over and Talia broke into wild laughter, hooking her arms around his neck. Bruce brushed his nose against the shell of her ear.

"What are we doing right now?" Bruce breathed out. "Because I thought our truce was—"

"Beloved," Talia purred out, smiling dangerously. It made Bruce’s mouth go dry. "Who says it needs to end?"

This is like keeping a tiger in your house and thinking its not going to kill you just because you feed it. This is peak stupid.

Bruce knew that. He knew that. 

Shut up. I dress up like a giant bat to fight criminals. This is probably not even close to the stupidest thing I've ever decided to do.

Talia was warm against him. Her fingernails scratched the back of his neck, like he was some kind of house cat.

"You're making it extremely difficult to argue with you," Bruce finally managed.

"Maybe you're losing your edge."

"What edge? You just said I failed out of assassin training."

"Oh, that," Talia rolled her eyes, brushing ghostly kisses down Bruce's jawline. "There was a reason you lasted so long, in spite of your silly little holdups, beloved. Cain thought you would be an ideal candidate for my bodyguard. As if I needed one."

"Things make a little more sense now," Bruce said absently, unable to keep himself from leaning into her more.

Bruce had wondered why David Cain, hardass of the century and LoA instructor extraordinaire, hadn’t decided to cut his frustrations down by killing him. There’d been a plan. One that Bruce had ultimately fucked over, but he wasn’t going to lose sleep over it.

If anything, Bruce would sleep better knowing that somewhere Cain was probably raging over the number of white hairs Bruce had given him.

"I think 'won't kill someone' is more than just 'a silly little holdup' for an assassin."

"Bodyguard."

"Darling," Bruce broke, pressing a soft kiss to Talia's temple. "As if any bodyguard of yours wouldn't also be an assassin."

"Perhaps I only need you for parties and to drive the getaway car," Talia hummed, leaning into the affection.

"I have responsibilities in Gotham."

"Unacceptable," Talia pulled him down into a kiss. Bruce let himself get lost in it. "Burn it all to the ground and come back with me. I'm sure I can find something for you to do. Maybe hold my wine glass."

Bruce laughed softly. "You're being ridiculous."

"You'd also excel at peeling grapes. I think that would be well within your capabilities."

Bruce tried hard not to think about how nice it would be to say 'fuck it all' and run back to Eth Alth'eban.

I can't.

Gotham would be a burning wound in his soul, a constant constellation engraved on the back of his eyelids. He loved his city. He'd sworn to protect it, to make things better. To balance out the darkness so it didn't smother the weak flame of hope that kept Gotham from falling into the abyss.

"Or you could stay," Bruce whispered between kisses. It came out before he could catch it, before he could think.

I've lost my goddamned mind.

Bruce's heart began to beat faster, harder in his chest. If he played it off as a joke, maybe he could walk things back. Except he couldn't get his mouth to cooperate with his brain. 

Oh no. Dread started to bloom in his throat. Oh no, I meant that.

Talia laughed, shoving him by the face. "What, in America? In Gotham? Desert my blood and the League, let my sister win?"

"She can have Lex Luthor," Bruce smiled crookedly at Talia, trying to ignore the little voice in him saying, 'what's wrong with Gotham? I can protect you in Gotham.' He picked up a strand of her silky hair and pressed a kiss to it. "As a congratulations present. Maybe she could hunt him for sport."

Where the hell is this coming from? What the hell is wrong with me? Bruce tried to clamp down on the insanity his brain was pumping out. Protect who? The woman who stabs as a hello? What??

Talia snorted, biting her lip as she started to laugh harder. She draped her arms over her eyes. "Ridiculous, idiotic man."

Oh, no. No no no no no. That was cute. I can't think she's cute. 

And then she was looking up at him with glittering green eyes that crinkled up with her bright, beautiful smile,  and Bruce choked on his tongue so he wouldn't say something even more insane like, 'how do you feel about kids?'

Bruce hadn't even realized kids were something he wanted until he'd gotten custody of Dick not even two months ago. One and barely a half months ago. He shouldn't be thinking about how nice it would be for Dick to have a sibling to grow up with. Much less bringing that up to Talia fucking al Ghul after a one night stand. 

He needed to get his head examined. A sane man wouldn't be having thoughts like this.

"What are you thinking about, beloved?"

Bruce reached desperately for anything else to talk about. It wasn't hard— memories of last night, a little hazy from the adrenaline hangover and maybe bloodloss, were trickling back into the forefront of his mind.

"I hotwired one of Lex's cars last night. We had an entire car chase with the League of Shadows in a stolen Italian sports car through Metropolis," Bruce flopped down on the bed and covered his mouth, trying not to break into giggles. That's it, I'm deranged. I'm actually deranged— why the hell would I do that? I'm supposed to be a good guy. A hero. This is not hero behavior. "We crashed Lex Luthor's Ferrari into a water treatment plant."

Talia howled with laughter, rolling over to cuddle into Bruce's side. She pushed her aristocratic nose into his chest and splayed a hand over his stomach. "We? ‘We,’ beloved? That was all you. I was too busy picking off my sister's lackeys."

"I was trying really hard not to think about that."

"You're so squeamish."

"I guess I am," Bruce said, and then Talia was kissing him and he forgot why he was upset with himself again.

Almost.

He couldn’t help but wonder, in the back of his mind, how bad the fallout was going to be once he managed to turn on his phone.

Chapter Text

[The Night Before]

Metropolis was stunning at night; all glittering lights and sleek, futuristic skyscrapers. Bruce pretended to sip obscenely expensive champagne from a crystal champagne flute engraved with LexCorp's stylized logo. The floor-to-ceiling windows had Bruce contemplating falling. If he threw himself out of the LexCorp skyscraper's observation deck, would Superman catch him?

Some people would call that joke concerning, Bruce scolded himself. Don’t make that joke.

It was a beautiful view, an excellent event space. To quote Jurassic Park (which had quickly become one of Dick’s favorite movies, even though he always made sure to tell Bruce very seriously that the dinosaurs weren’t accurate), Lex Luthor had spared no expense.

It's too bad Lex can't buy a personality, Bruce thought bitterly. Right now, home in Gotham, Kate and Dick were getting ready to go on patrol. And I'm trapped in Lex's quarterly egotrip with a bunch of jerks with more money than sense.

Bruce inhaled sharply through his nose and tried to keep from slouching. Wayne Enterprise's shareholders had wanted their figurehead to make an appearance. And normally Bruce would, to quote Dick, "tell them to go kick rocks," except he needed to foster goodwill. I have to keep them happy so they'll lower their guards enough that I can trick them into signing over their shares.

Was is playing dirty? Sure. But they'd been playing dirty the entire time, running rampant without a thought to ethics. The only way Bruce could think to set things to rights was by becoming the majority shareholder and strong-arming the changes he wanted.

As much as he hated the company, it was Gotham’s largest employer by far. If it went under, any good he'd done with the Wayne Foundation— or as Batman— would be unraveled.

Bruce braced himself as a large hand decked out in platinum and diamonds came down on his injured shoulder. Lex Luthor was wearing a designer suit in his signature color (white.) Bruce thought uncharitably that it made him look like a thumb.

I'll just burn this suit before I get home. Alfred can't be mad at me for destroying a bespoke suit if it happens outside of the house, Bruce tried to convince himself. Alfred could and would be steaming mad if Bruce showed up to the Manor in clothing purchased from a 24-hour drugstore.

Bruce pressed his lips together and smiled without showing his teeth. He could see the reflection of Lex's smile in the window. Lex’s teeth looked like a military graveyard: perfectly straight, unnaturally even. Veneers, Bruce speculated, probably from the most expensive cosmetic dentist with the most elite roster of celebrity clients.

Every time he’d had the misfortune to meet Lex Luthor, Bruce had found him to be a grandstanding self-important blowhard desperate to be revered. Lex wanted adoration and adulation without any effort on his part— a small man petrified of being seen as less than. Lex had taken an immediate dislike to Bruce the first time they’d met. Bruce was wealthier, with “better breeding” that came with being solidly upper upper class for generations, and effortlessly handsome even in a depression funk. When they were photographed together for the first time during yet another one of Lex’s parties, Lex had looked older and a little dumpy next to Bruce’s freshly 18 face.

Naturally Lex had latched onto any negative thing he could emphasize about Bruce to regain power over the situation. Four years later and Lex was still going strong. That’s just what narcissists did when they thought they were losing ground.

“Well,” Lex gripped Bruce’s shoulder tighter, sending a twinge of pain down Bruce’s chest. People were milling around. Bruce was painfully aware of how many people were watching them. “Well, well, well— Brucie, you made it to my soirée after all. I was so surprised when you RSVPed. I know how difficult these events are for you.”

Bruce smiled tightly. Shh, gray rock. Gray rock. You can do this, gray rock him. He gets nothing—

“I was so busy greeting people that I realized I hadn’t seen you once— I was starting to think you might have bailed on us,” Lex’s smile didn’t go away. Maybe he thinks he’s charming.

People like Lex always thought they were charming, suave. Smarter than anyone in any given room. Money was a big factor. Most people thought money meant intelligence, or taste, or moral superiority. There was a greater wealth and class disparity than any other kind of divide— the ultrawealthy were parasitic. They assumed poor people were stupid and lazy. That might meant right. They attacked social programs and infrastructure that looked to the future—

Stop, I’m making myself upset, Bruce exhaled slowly and smiled as blandly as possible. Calm down. Calm down calm downcalmdown.

One of the most helpful things Mary Grayson had ever taught Bruce was, ‘if you’re the smartest person in the room, you’re in the wrong room.’ Odysseus had hamstrung himself over and over again because of his hubris. Because he was so used to being the smartest person in the room, in any room, that he sometimes couldn’t conceptualize that other people could think, too. Bruce knew he was smarter than most people, often times by more than he felt comfortable admitting. Bruce still made it a point to bring in people who were experts in their fields to listen to— sure, he’d make sure he was literate enough in the subject to understand, he’d do his own research— but there was a substantial difference in quality of input from renown botanist Dr. Pamela Isley and Bruce Wayne powering his way through as many research papers he could in three hours. Lex Luthor thought himself to be a god.

And Lex had taken the existence of Superman in Metropolis as a personal offense.

Superman was everything Lex Luthor wasn’t: likable, naturally strong, good. Superman did good things because they were the right thing to do. Lex offered to do good things to give himself an ego trip when people praised him, only to turn around and fumble the execution. There had to be a part of Lex Luthor that genuinely thought Superman was doing the whole thing as a way to attack him. Bruce wondered how much money Lex had sunk into trying to secretly engineer anything to make his delusion reality.

Lex leaned more weight into the hand on Bruce’s shoulder. It was agitating the hell out of his still recovering injury. Bruce’s patience snapped. He gently moved Lex’s hand away.

“My shoulder is still recovering,” Bruce said— less for Lex and more for the few groups of stockbrokers and lifestyle influencers who were not-so-subtly watching them. Bruce felt like he was some kind of creature in an aquarium. No where to hide.

“Right, right,” Lex said sympathetically. Bruce supposed there had to be at least one person who thought he was being genuine. But Lex’s eyes flashed with a twisted satisfaction. “You were shot by the police, I forgot.”

Conveniently leaving out the context, Bruce thought. The only thing holding him back from being outwardly hostile was knowing it would get back to the shareholders. Gray rock. Give him nothing.

“Hm?” Bruce blinked at Lex, and then tilted his head to the side. “What an odd thing to say, Lex. I know you’re busy keeping LexCorp from running into the ground, but you really need to make sure to stay up on current events. At least hire someone to read the news to you.”

It was a stupid move, but Bruce couldn’t help but enjoy seeing Lex’s facade drop for a moment.

“Is that what you do?” Lex asked sharply, baring his teeth in what was meant to be a smile. “Have someone read the news to you?”

“Heavens, no,” Bruce said, widening his eyes in what his cousin liked to call his ‘I’m just a baby’ face. “I always make time in the mornings to read the papers myself. I just thought, since you outsource so much of LexCorp, you might want to in your personal life, too.”

I am digging a hole for myself, Bruce was resigned to his fate now. His only hope was Lex would get so annoyed that he’d fuck off for an hour. I am burying myself alive.

A vein at Lex’s temple was bulging. Bruce hoped it was as good for Lex as it was for him. Lex relaxed his posture, forcing himself to take on a more ‘indulgent’ pose. Like Bruce was acting like a stupid child.

“Oh, Brucie,” Lex tutted. He winked at one of the finance bros behind them as he continued. “You must feel pretty over your head in here. I’ve got to get back to taking care of my guests, but later I’d like to introduce you to some people. I know you like to keep things in Gotham, but sometimes it’s good to branch out. I actually have Talia Head here as a guest— her father and I are in talks about an international partnership.”

The only information Bruce had been able to dig up about the mysterious Talia Head was that she was speculated to be the heiress to some kind of business or oil magnate in the Middle East, and that she frequently acted in business matters for her father overseas.

The way Lex had said her name made Bruce wonder if he was angling to get more than a business deal out of her.

Bruce smiled noncommittally. “Don’t let me keep you.”

I need fresh air. There’s got to be some kind of balcony or roof access. Bruce would even take a window that opened at this point.

He hated parties. Too many people, too much small talk, and he was expected to be perceivable. Bruce had avoided the majority of social events he’d been invited to ever since returning back to the States. Alfred was in despair over it: Waynes had Certain Responsibilities to uphold, and Bruce was the head of the family.

Sometimes Bruce wondered what it would have been like if his older brother had survived to adulthood.

He kicked that thought out of his head and went to find a balcony. The blueprints to LexCorp's skyscraper said there were three on this floor— which seemed a little risky to Bruce, but maybe things were different when the city was protected by a flying superhero.

The entrance to the balcony was hidden behind a black velvet curtain. It was meant to be a backdrop for the ostentious centerpiece statue of LexCorp's skyscraper, carved out of diamond. Bruce was able to slip unnoticed onto the balcony.

Bruce breathed out a sigh of relief. The air was thick, just like Gotham, and smelled like city. The wrong city: Gotham always smelled like a port city— dirty sea water, ever-present marsh gas, wet concrete and stone. Metropolis lacked that stench of home.

A woman was standing by the railing, her back to Bruce. She was dressed in an elegant long tunic dress slit up the sides to her waist over billowing trousers that cuffed her ankles, deep green with hand-embroidering; and a beautifully draped headscarf that concealed everything but her eyes— something Bruce discovered as she turned around, quickly closing the distance between them to stab him in the side.

Emerald green, Bruce thought faintly, brain faster than his body. Her eyes had long, dark eyelashes and were lined in khol, with a thinner second line of gold underneath.

"[Is this the best the League of Shadows could send?]" she said in Arabic, the thin bladed dagger sinking into him like water. "[You're louder than any self-respecting assassin should be. Thank me for ending your shame so quickly.]"

Bruce grabbed her wrist before she could twist the knife, holding her in place. "[Hello to you too,]" he said, his Arabic still unfortunately spotted with the lingering British accent he'd learned it in. Bruce winced. "[I'm not with the Shadows.]"

Which would be an entirely different issue. Green eyes narrowed.

And then she laughed harshly. Bruce caught her other hand before she could stab him with the second dagger.

"I recognize that atrocious accent," the Daughter of the Demon, Hand of the League of Assassins said in English. "And here we thought you were dead. How clever of you to escape our attention for so long. Most deserters are caught quickly."

When he'd run away from home at sixteen, Bruce had the idea of becoming someone who could stop bad people from doing bad things permanently. It had led him to joining a martial arts encampment that the League of Assassins recruited from— not that I knew that at the time. Like every other impulsive life decision he'd made as a teenager, it had been only partially thought through.

Bruce had advanced through the training quickly. He just hadn't taken into account that wanting to kill someone was very different from actually taking another person's life.

If it weren't for that little moral hiccup, he would have done very well for himself in the LoA. Probably. The Daughter of the Demon hadn't been too impressed with him when she taken over the squadron he was training in.

'[Who taught you how to speak? You sound like an idiot.]'

It had been one of Alfred's old UKSF buddies. He'd been, like most everyone in London, British.

'[How fortunate for you that you were recruited before I got here. I would have had you thrown off the mountain.]'

None of the recruits were allowed to see what the Daughter of the Demon looked like. They weren't supposed to know what each other looked like either, but that was less about hierarchy and more about being an anonymous horde. Either way, the Daughter had made a point to single Bruce out for any and all ridiculous punishments she could think of. Normally "insolence" and "insubordination" were punished with whipping or being locked in the deprivation chambers for days on end. Bruce usually had to do something insane like scale a cliffside to catch a bird that the Daughter wanted served at dinner ('[wrong bird, put it back and go fetch the one I told you to get the first time.]')

Bruce had always had a bit of a commitment issue: the intelligence and drive were there, and most of the time he was able to lock in and focus with an intensity that made everyone around him uncomfortable. Which was great, he loved that. The biggest issue (other than being ‘creepy’ and ‘unsettling’) was the focus didn't stay. Which was why he had half a dozen university programs he'd dropped out of, two unfinished trade certificates, and was one practical exam away from a pilot's license.

Auntie Harriet has suggested Bruce might have an attention deficiency disorder only once, when he was 13 and had quit the second medical program he'd been enrolled in. Alfred had outright refused to 'entertain the very idea.'

Bruce thought it might be something to do with longstanding misconceptions Alfred's generation had about mental illnesses, and the stigma around disorders. Bruce was the head of the Wayne family, and he had to be beyond reproach or criticism.

So forget about therapy and take up rugby.

"To be fair, I am pretty good at playing dead."

"Always so insolent," she said, eyes sparkling.

A lesser, more audacious man might think she was flirting with him. Bruce had audacity in heaps— just looking the Daughter of the Demon in the eyes for so long was an act of audacity, Master Cain had beaten that into every recruit in the squadron— and he knew that she was biding her time. Being the head of the Wayne family meant nothing in this situation.

Which was why I ran away in the first place, Bruce thought, trying not to get suckered into Talia’s green eyes. He wasn't a teenager with a deathwish anymore. He was a fully grown adult man with a deathwish.

They’re more beautiful than I remembered.

This was ridiculous. He couldn’t die at a Lex Luthor party. He couldn’t give Lex Luthor the satisfaction of knowing he could make Bruce Wayne’s death all about himself. Bruce refused to help boost Lex’s anything.

“I’ll be even more insolent and ask why you’re here at Lex Luthor’s ‘I have more money than sense’ party,” Bruce said. “It doesn’t seem like something you’d enjoy.”

“That is because it’s not,” Talia said. Bruce thought she might be sneering. He tried not to think too much about that lest he slip up his grip on her wrists. She followed the line of his face with her eyes. Memorizing his face.

That can't be good.

Hopefully I have time to warn Dubois before she alerts the League. At least one of us should get out of this alive.

“Luthor sent my father an invitation,” Talia all but hissed. “The unmitigated gall. No doubt he’s hoping to cement a relationship.”

She didn’t need to spell it out. ‘One way or another: business or romantic.’

Bruce blinked.

He opened his mouth, and then closed it.

“Speak, deserter.”

“May I call you Talia?”

She rolled her eyes, head tilting to the side. “No, call me ‘darling.’ Were you asleep during your covert training?”

“So that is your name. He’s looking for you inside.”

“Ugh. I’d rather die at the hands of an incompetent initiate.”

“Or maybe you could just dance with me?” Bruce asked, mouth twitching up slightly at the corner as she stared at him. Talia’s grip on the knife tightened. Bruce sucked in air. “I’m— my name is Bruce. Bruce Wayne—”

Talia’s head tilted slightly to the other side. Bruce felt a little lightheaded— some combination of giddiness and adrenaline.

“Interesting,” Talia said finally. Her eyes sized him up. Bruce’s heart began to beat faster. Talia stepped back, wrists still caught, and relaxed her posture.

Her perfume was painfully familiar— smoky, spiced sandalwood with a bright undercurrent of ripened fruit. 17 year old Bruce had often gone to sleep dreaming about it. 22 year old Bruce had a collection of cologne bottles that only just barely captured the memory of the scent littering his bathroom counter.

Oh no, Bruce felt the sharp edge of panic, like a knife, creeping in. He’d thought he’d gotten over this fascination. Only an idiot would entertain feelings for the daughter of an eco-fascist cult leader with an elaborate network of assassins and spies. She just stabbed me. Given a chance, she’d kill me without a second thought.

Her eyes crinkled up slightly at the corners and Bruce’s heart stuttered. Is that a smile? Is she smiling?

He hoped she was smiling.

“I should kill you,” Talia said, voice lilting up with amusement. Bruce’s shoulders relaxed a fraction of a hair. Out of the danger zone. For now.

“Probably.”

“Alright, Bruce,” Talia said, and Bruce hoped she’d write off his pulse kicking up again as a stress response. “A temporary truce. You keep Luthor at bay and I won’t kill you tonight.”

“OK,” Bruce said, lips quirking up more into a smile. “If you really want to get under his skin—”

“You think me so petty?”

Bruce leaned in closer to whisper, “[were you not the one who ordered me to polish the entire mosaic hall with a single washrag?]”

Talia laughed. Bruce liked this laugh much better— her delight was bright, melodic. Her eyes crinkled up slightly once more.

That has to be a smile, right?

“[Because you were undisciplined.]”

“Mm. And it wasn’t because you were trying to save face after I made you jump?”

“Need I remind you that only happened because you oh so oafishly fell through the ceiling and landed on Cain?”

“Maybe the temple needed better infrastructure.”

“Maybe your ego was too massive for the centuries-strong architecture to bear.”

Bruce glanced away, back at the obscured door. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face. Talia broke his grip on her wrists. She left the knife behind and plucked his handkerchief from his breast pocket.

“You’re lucky this has been the most entertaining conversation I’ve had tonight,” Talia said as she unbuttoned his suit jacket. Blood was slowly seeping into his shirt. Which means the knife is keeping most of it in.

Talia grabbed the knife fast and pulled it out smoothly. Bruce hissed. She ignored him, shoving the handkerchief into the wound. “Such a child. This is barely anything compared to your training.”

“Thank you, oh great and terrible Demon,” Bruce wheezed out. His vision swam a little. The panic was trying to claw its way past his wall of self control.

Her eyes searched his face for a moment. She buttoned up his jacket. “Tell me what you were plotting for our host.”

“Nothing too extreme— we go inside, we dance, look lovingly into each other’s eyes. Lex has been drawing comparisons all night—”

“Yes,” Talia hummed, cleaning her knife before she tucked it away. “I’ve had the displeasure of hearing Luthor’s tirade against 'Bruce Wayne'.”

“—and he’d been trying to catch your attention all night,” Bruce continued. “Playing into that would be devastating to his ego.”

Talia leaned her weight into Bruce’s chest, snaking her arms around his neck. Her cloth-covered nose brushed against his. “And you were calling me petty, ‘beloved’.”

Bruce carefully rested his hands on her waist. “Who said petty? You said that, not me.”

“You’re a stupid, ridiculous man,” Talia said, stepping onto the tops of Bruce’s shoes. “Show me you can look lovingly into my eyes. If we’re to do this, it must be at least slightly believable.”

Bruce wasn’t sure what she was looking for. He was a passable actor, but Talia had exacting standards. She tilted her head to the side, fingertips glancing against his chin.

“That’ll work,” she said. And Bruce had no idea what she meant by that, because he hadn’t done anything different. "Take me to the dance floor."

Chapter Text

I'm going to have to apologize to Alfred, Bruce thought as his muscle memory carried him through a a dance whose name he couldn't remember, I can't believe all those years of dance lessons actually amounted to something.

Talia was gliding effortlessly along with him, feet light as air. Bruce kept his society smile plastered on his face: too many people were watching them for him to risk not smiling. He hadn't seen Lex yet, but that didn't matter. Everyone was already taking pictures of them. Bruce had no doubt that the next morning's gossip rags would be spouting headlines like, "Could it be an E-Merge-ing Romance? Wayne Enterprise’s Bruce Wayne Dances Night Away with Foreign Heiress" underneath social media photos.

Lex would be apoplectic about it. Bruce could barely bring himself to enjoy that slice of petty revenge. His stab wound was throbbing with dull pain.

"Darling," Bruce said through his smile. "I don't see our host."

"Neither do I," Talia's fingers played with his lapel. "Does the staff seem… different to you?"

Bruce's eyes darted up to catch sight of one of the caterers watching Talia closely. He ran a mental tally of everyone he'd seen that night. This was a new face. Bruce's smile became more rigid. A quick turn caught several more staff Bruce didn't recognize, eyes all on Talia.

"I think you may have broken out the knives prematurely," Bruce murmured under the guise of gazing at Talia like a lovestruck fool.

"Demon's teeth," Talia swore. "I count ten."

The original catering staff was fifteen people. Bruce twirled Talia and pulled her closer into his arms. "That means theoretically there's five more, unseen. We need to leave."

"Have you gotten over that silly little 'holdup' of yours in the past ten minutes?"

"No, but something tells me the collateral damage will be much smaller if we lead them away from the party."

Talia rested a hand on Bruce’s cheek. He nearly choked. Her eyes crinkled up.

"So noble," Talia teased. "It'll get you killed."

"Hasn't killed me yet."

"Always so insolent."

"That would carry more weight if I was still in the league."

"So come back."

"No," Bruce said. And then the lights in the building shut off, sending the entire party into silent darkness.

Bruce pulled Talia closer, his body moving on its own to shield her. Like she's not one of the most lethal people on the planet. He was already narrowing down the exits he'd scoped out hours ago.

"There's a service exit in twenty feet from here," Bruce whispered against Talia's ear.

A ring of cold blue light shone through the gaps in the main doors. Bruce began dragging Talia towards coverage— an abandoned drink cart. He ducked them down just as large spikes of ice exploded through the doors, knocking them into the room. People screamed. Icy smoke— dry ice? how theatrical— cast a group of people with weapons in silhouette.

"Who is Nyssa letting into the Shadows?" Talia hissed through her teeth. "What flashy American nonsense is this?"

I'm not touching that one, Bruce thought as he tugged her back out of sight behind the cart, but that's pretty rich coming from a woman who's title is 'The Daughter of the Demon's Head.' The pandemonium was still small, but every ounce of his Gotham-trained body was screaming that it was about to get worse. The smoke curled around the ankles of partygoers, ominous. A man dressed in what Bruce could only think to call a 'tactical parka' propped a massively oversized gun straight out of a science-fiction story over his shoulder and grinned.

"Oh, Lu-u-u-uthy, I'm home!" he sung out.

His parka-wearing goons, armed with smaller versions of his gun, rushed from behind him. More screaming, more running. The shock had worn off and Bruce could have kicked himself for not moving to the door faster.

"Shit," Bruce muttered, frantically going over the blueprints of LexCorp's building he'd memorized. "That's Captain Cold— he's—"

A frigid zap of cold blue light hit one of the champagne flute towers, exploding it with an ice spike. Bruce couldn't remember if Captain Cold's cold gun did that. 

Doesn’t matter. His henchmen's guns sure do.

He put his hand on the back of Talia’s neck so she was kept out of sight. She glared at him.

"Luthor, you little coward, where'd you run off to?" Captain Cold called out, cupping his hands to his mouth to project his voice further. "Olly-olly-oxen free! Hell-o-o-o!"

"He's one of the Flash's villains. What the hell is he doing in Metropolis?" Bruce grit his teeth, eyeing the service door. It was disguised as a bumpout of wall. I'm not prepared to deal with a supervillain.

Talia pressed closer, pulling out—

That's not a knife, Bruce thought, staring blankly at the sleek handgun. It would have fit right in with any of Captain Cold's weapons, if it weren’t for the very obvious LexCorp engraved on the barrel.

"What is that?" Bruce hissed as another ice ray blast exploded the crystalline model of the LexCorp skyscraper.

"Luthor, I just want to talk," Captain Cold called out. People scrambled to get away from him.

"I liberated it from Luthor's lab," Talia said, sliding back the cover to reveal a cool blue fuel cell. It radiated cold. "If he's going to insist on boring me to death, I will help myself to his experimental weapons as I please."

"Incredible," Bruce gritted out. So she's masquerading as the daughter of an arms dealer, which means Lex Luthor is no longer interested in pretending to be a good person. I’m going to have to get this information to Superman… somehow.

This is a clusterfuck.

The ‘catering staff’ that Bruce could see were now actively dodging behind pillars to avoid Captain Cold’s henchmen. Talia slid the cover back in place and nudged Bruce.

“We need to get out of here while they’re distracted.”

Part of Bruce wanted to argue. Glass was shattering, ice protruding out to corral screaming, panicking guests while Captain Cold— a certified supervillain— called out for Lex Luther to show himself—

“Let’s talk about copyright infringement, Luthor.”

—and the part of Bruce that had him dressing up like a bat to beat the shit out of mafia thugs was screaming for him to help the defenseless civilians.

Captain Cold doesn’t kill people, Bruce told himself. It didn’t make him feel any better as he led Talia into the pitch-black service hallway. But the League of Shadows is actively trying to kill Talia. And me. And they’re not going to have qualms over killing witnesses.

And maybe the Flash will show up. Or better yet, Superman.

They’ll be fine, Bruce tried to convince himself.

It took a handful of minutes navigating the service hallways in the dark before they arrived in the (still dark) showroom floor of Lex Luthor’s personal garage. The decor was sleek: all clean lines, borderline futuristic, in chrome, white and concrete. Each car was obscenely expensive, tricked out to the nines and painted Lex’s signature white.

Bruce wrinkled his nose in distaste.

Nouveau riche.

Just thinking it made Bruce feel like an asshole. There was elitist snob, and then there was Elitist Snob. Bruce had been actively trying to smother out that aspect of himself.

It would be so much easier if the other fuckwits in my tax bracket weren’t unlikeable jackasses with god complexes.

“What’s wrong?” Talia asked, sparing him a glance over her shoulder. She had the experimental gun out. It glowed eerily in the dark.

“Nothing,” Bruce said. He scanned the garage quickly before breaking into a smile. Hello. Lex had questionable taste in a lot of things, but this might be his saving grace: a Ferrari 812 GTS in pure white.

“Why are you smiling like that?”

“Don’t worry about it. I found our escape car.” Bruce dug in his inner suit for his pocketknife as he walked to the Ferrari. “It’ll take me a minute to hotwire it.”

“Beautiful. I’ll provide cover,” Talia said, shooting a LOS assassin as they came through the same hallway. Ice exploded out, encasing the assassin and blocking most of the entrance. She looked down at the still-humming gun. “Interesting.”

Bruce tried to ignore the excited undercurrent in her voice. When he’d finally gotten the engine going, there were two more ice sculptures and the distinct sound of a fire axe being used to break up frost.

He grimaced. They might not be dead, Bruce tried to tell himself. If they get rescued quickly enough…

And their compatriots don’t hack them to pieces to get to us.

“Car,” Bruce called out, testing the accelerator. Talia slid over the hood and leaped into the passenger’s side. “Seatbelt.”

“Are you being fucking serious right now.”

“Put on your seatbelt, darling. This car goes from zero to 60 in 2.8 seconds,” Bruce said.

Talia rolled her eyes but snapped the seatbelt on. Bruce threw the car into drive and depressed the accelerator all the way to the floor. The Ferrari roared to life, nearly clipping the first wave of assassins who’d broken through the ice as it peeled out of the garage at a ridiculous speed.

Bruce used one hand to push Talia’s head down before he took the car out of the plate glass window. Glass shattered, glittering in the lights of the city, as the car flew and landed onto pavement. Talia clawed his hand off, eyes wild, looking back over her shoulder at the skyscraper. They’d gone out the second floor.

“You’re insane,” Talia shouted over the whipping wind. “You’re actually insane.”

“You know, this car supposedly goes up to 211 miles per hour,” Bruce said brightly.

An explosion blew out the side of the LexCorp skyscraper, shaking the ground. A red and blue blur rocketed through the sky towards it. Bruce drifted the car around a corner. A veritable army of armored cars sped after them.

“Did you rig something to explode?” Bruce asked, never taking his eyes off the road.

“Beloved,” Talia twisted around in her seat to fire the ice gun at their pursuers. The first car skidded, sliding like an icecube before the car behind it collided at full speed. “When have you ever known me to use bombs? Bladed weapons are superior in every way.”

“I think I recall something in the tenets about dignity in death.”

“All life is inherently valuable, and must be given the respect it deserves, even in death,” Talia said, shooting the assassin leaning out of the window. Their torso froze over in a block of ice, sending them crashing to the road. The driver didn’t stop. “Yes, I’ve read the LOA doctrines too, beloved.”

“Hypocritical,” Bruce said, taking another corner at an inadvisable speed. “It preaches about the value of life, of how precious the balance is, and then asks its students to go out and kill people.”

“People who deserve to die, beloved.”

“By whose judgment?” Bruce yelled over the sound of screaming sirens. All the emergency vehicles passed them— ships in the night— on the way to LexCorp’s skyscraper.

“This planet is overpopulated by people who are happy to destroy everything for a fleeting, worthless life devoted to greed,” Talia shouted back, freezing over another car’s windshield.

The car spun out of control and crashed into a buffer wall. Bruce pressed down more on the gas. The turnoff out of Metropolis, heading towards Gotham, was within sight.

“The answer shouldn’t be genocide!”

“It’s not genocide if we’re just cutting the heads off the snakes!”

“The world is not black and white, Talia.” Bruce’s arm shot out to help pin her to the seat as he took the exit sharply. She gasped for air and looked at him. He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “Killing removes the possibility of redemption, of growth.”

“Some people will never redeem themselves.”

“Listen, I’m not saying it’s a perfect solution,” Bruce conceded as they hit the nearly empty highway. “But we have to believe humans are fundamentally good even in a world that operates solely in shades of gray. The truly evil people are outliers.”

“We, beloved?”

“Me, then. I have to believe it,” Bruce said, glancing at the rearview mirror. The armored cars were trailing, but trying to catch up. “I have to believe that there is hope for everybody, anybody, if I can just reach out in the right way.”

“You’re an idealist,” Talia hissed out. “A hopeless dreamer lost in a hypothetical world where believing in people is enough to change things. You optimistic idiot.”

“Yes,” Bruce said. “Because the alternative is much, much worse.”

“Truly unbelievable, beloved,” Talia shot back at the convoy of assassins. Ice covered the road, sending cars spinning out of control. “Where would I fall on this gray spectrum of yours?”

“I think you’re someone dedicated to a noble goal,” Bruce said with overwhelming sincerity. “You want to save the world, you want to make it a better place. I just think your methods are deeply at odds with your goals.”

“I should have let Cain beat you like the other initiates,” Talia pouted— or at least Bruce thought she might be pouting. “Maybe it would have knocked some sense into your stupid, handsome head.”

“Handsome?” Bruce said, almost losing his grip on the steering wheel. “You think I’m handsome?”

“I have eyes, beloved.”

“Oh my god,” Bruce laughed in disbelief. “And here I thought my accent was ‘too atrocious’ to be attractive.”

“It is,” Talia informed him. “You’re one of those men who does better when he doesn’t say anything at all.”

“You’d miss the insolence,” Bruce said. “Dammit, these guys are persistent.”

“Yes,” Talia grit her teeth. “The League of Shadows has always been extremely dedicated to completing their goals, and after Nyssa took control, they’ve been like hornets. We’ll have to either kill them, or waylay them for long enough to make a clean break.”

“I can improvise.”

Talia stared at him with wide eyes and heavy disapproval. “Like how you improvised us out of Luthor’s skyscraper.”

Bruce grinned.

“It is extraordinarily unsettling when you smile like that.”

The Ferrari didn’t just explode when it hit the water treatment plant outside of Gotham. It burst into flames, and then massive spikes of ice tore through it like the car was made from paper. The LOS armored cars— what was left of them— skidded to a halt before the carnage. Assassins left the cars to scope things out.

In the underbrush, Bruce crouched over Talia, hands still protectively tucking her into him. She pinched his arm. He looked down at her. Her fine clothes were a little dirty, but not destroyed completely.

The same couldn’t be said for his suit. The side he’d hit the ground on when they’d bailed was torn up, possibly beyond salvaging. His entire body was numb with the adrenaline coursing through his body.

Talia nodded towards the woods. ‘We need to leave. Now.’

Bruce helped her up. They disappeared into the woods together, fingers intertwining.

“Have you ever been to Gotham?” Bruce asked after a long time.

“Shut up,” Talia said, with a warmth that Bruce might have missed if he hadn’t been prepared for it.

He held her hand tighter.

After a long moment, she squeezed back.

Chapter Text

Clark Kent sat next to the Flash at the corner booth of his favorite diner and tried not to look at himself in the reflection of the window. He’d been Superman for about three years now (three years, three months, six days and 2.4 hours) and it still made him feel a little selfconscious to see himself in the suit. But this was a meeting between peers.

At my favorite diner, after an absolute nightmare of a night, Clark thought as he thanked Anne, the waitress he was pretty sure was a runaway kid, for bringing out their food so quickly.

“Anything for you, Superman,” Anne smiled at him.

Clark felt a rush of what his Ma called ‘the warm fuzzies’ and Lois called ‘endorphins.’ He smiled back, and the Flash reached over to nab a few fries from Clark’s plate.

“You’re a good kid,” the Flash said. His southern Missourian accent was strong: thick as syrup, twice as friendly. He grinned at Superman when Clark started to blush a little. “I appreciate you not clobbering Leonard too hard. As soon as I saw the explosion on the news, I ran over.”

The Flash had been a hero for a few years longer than Clark, plus he was a legacy of sorts. The first Flash was active during World War II— a founding member of the first really big superhero team. ‘Another Kansas boy to look up to,’ Clark’s Pa had liked to say when he was growing up. Good role models had been easy to find. Clark wondered if the Flash— the current Flash, hero to two cities, sitting right in front of me in my favorite diner— was related to the first one.

Was that something I can ask? Is that appropriate for a first conversation with a— a peer? Sometimes he had trouble turning off his journalist brain. Lois had mentioned he should work on that.

‘You can be pretty intense sometimes, Kent. You know that, right?’

Clark smiled at the Flash. “I’m just glad it got resolved so quickly. I was a little worried about the structural integrity, but I guess that wasn’t an issue.”

“After that explosion?” The Flash gestured with his fry. “I don’t blame you. Damn near well thought the whole thing was coming down. Nearly didn’t even put my suit on— I was sure I’d need those seconds to get here on time.”

“You weren’t, ah… on the clock?” Clark winced, smiling awkwardly. “Sorry, I’m still not sure what to call this part of things.”

“I like ‘on the clock.’ Makes it sound like gainful employment. I know it’s more like a… OK, you know those guys that get really into cycling, and it escalates to a near dangerous degree? They’re out there in spandex shorts and speed helmets, huffing and puffing on the side of highways while cars are zipping by. A lot of them get hit by cars. It’s an insane hobby for people with no sense. I think it’s like that: this is our insane hobby we’re out here doing for the love of helping people, but there’s a reason why there’s not a lot of us. It’s dangerous, it’s lonely, it’s time consuming.”

Clark considered that, taking a sip of his milkshake. He hadn’t ordered it. He never did, but the owner Sally was always slipping him extras for saving her son from a collapsing building, and Clark couldn’t bring himself to say no. It was a small gesture of thanks, and it didn’t hurt him any to accept it. He just always made sure to leave a good tip.

“Sorry, I talk fast. And a lot,” the Flash laughed, dunking his fries into his own milkshake. “But we should really put our heads together about this, because something feels off, you know?”

“Oh, good,” Clark relaxed. “I was thinking the same thing. This whole thing feels wrong. A little too clean, if that makes sense?”

“Sure does,” the Flash said, frowning. “I’m still caught on Leonard being here, in LexCorp, but my main concern is the explosion. Looks like it took out some kind of lab…”

“Which according to the registered blueprints for that building, shouldn’t have been there to begin with,” Clark said. He rubbed his jaw. “That and the evidence of an ice weapon being used in the lower levels of the building, plus the broken window on the second floor. Something more had to be happening. It doesn’t add up.”

“Oh-ho,” the Flash leaned his elbows on the table in a flagrant display of not caring about manners. “And all your city’s media likes to play like you ain’t smart. I couldn’t agree more, Big Blue.”

“I— wait, I’m sorry. Big Blue?”

“Cause you’re big and blue. It’s a nickname. We’re friends now, friends get nicknames.” The Flash grinned a little wider. “Gotta remember my brain is processing on demonic time. It goes just as fast as me, and I can’t hardly turn it off. You’ll adapt eventually.”

Clark smiled, flashing a dimple. “I’ll try to think of a good nickname in return. In the meantime, we’ve got several things that aren’t adding up.” And considering Luthor is involved, I’m more than a little on edge about them.

“That’s not even mentioning the missing guests,” the Flash said, knocking back the rest of his milkshake. “Bruce Wayne and Talia Head. Couldn’t find anything on the woman other than she’s maybe an heiress, but Bruce Wayne is. Well. Bruce Wayne. He was all over the news a few months back after getting shot in a soup kitchen. Slow news day, I guess.”

“He’s something like a celebrity, more so in Gotham,” Clark said. “I’ve never met the guy before, but he’s in the same circles as Lex Luthor.” And I know what I think that says about him, but I’ll reserve my judgment until we’ve met. Because I’m pretty sure now I’ve got to meet him.

“Super rich,” the Flash nodded, looking like he wanted to say something else but deciding against it. He paused, and then began to bounce his knee underneath the table. “Do you… I mean Gotham. Should we reach out to the Bat?”

“Batman?” Clark’s eyebrows arched all the way up.

He’d steered clear of Gotham, especially after rumors of Batman began to crop up four years ago. The rumors painted the Bat as part hero, part cryptid: a living nightmare putting the fear into criminals. There wasn’t much information on him— hardly even a decent photograph— until Gotham was nearly wiped out in the Flood. Batman had been caught on multiple cameras helping clear the wreckage, tend to the injured, comfort children. His suit wasn’t like any of the ones Clark had seen the other heroes wearing: Batman had selected blacks and grays, with the occasional very, very minimal yellow accent. He was dressed for combat, not cameras.

Not that I dress for cameras, Clark thought as his ears started to pink. I just mean Batman isn’t really dressed to interact with civilians.

“Have you met the guy?”

Clark laughed, and then covered his mouth. “Sorry. Sorry, you just caught me by surprise. I don’t even know how to contact him.”

“Normally I wouldn’t push it, but Bruce Wayne’s a pretty big deal in Gotham. I can’t imagine Batman appreciating being left out… oh my god, he’s on TV.”

“What?” Clark whipped his head around to check the mounted TV above the bar seating. The morning ‘news’ show was showing a slightly blurred photograph of Bruce Wayne in a ruined button down shirt and suit slacks, sleeves rolled up to show off pale but muscular forearms, sitting with a woman dressed head-to-toe in what might have been green silk and a man’s suit jacket draped over her shoulders. They were at a table outside a cafe, and the woman— presumably Talia Head— was leaning in closer to Wayne, cupping a delicate-looking teacup in her hands. Wayne himself was smiling softly down at her with his own much heavier looking mug.

Anne bumped the volume up.

“—Brucie Wayne spotted with a mysterious new lady friend,” the talking head chittered on, voice artificially high, “Looks like he had a rough night… or maybe just a fun one!”

Clark grimaced. Tasteless, but that’s about the best he could expect from morning talk shows. Bruce Wayne looked like he’d taken a tumble out of a speeding car, which was just adding to his list of questions.

The Flash shook his head, finishing off his fries. “I forget I’m spoiled over in Central City. Our morning shows actually cover the news.”

“There was an explosion at LexCorp,” Clark sighed, massaging the space between his eyebrows with his thumb. “Ten injured, two in the ICU.”

“Don’t worry, though: we have the latest, hottest gossip about billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne!” The Flash snarked. He shared a grin with Clark.

This is nice, Clark thought. Really nice.

The Flash had made a really good point. Being a superhero was lonely. It was hard to connect to people when he had to keep such a big part of himself hidden. When he had to keep himself hidden. Clark had thought he was ready for it. That it should have been easy because he’d spent his entire life hiding himself from the rest of the world. But it wasn’t.

He’d made friends at work. Lois and Jimmy were great, and Clark thought he might be winning over his new deskmate. But he couldn’t talk to them about being Superman.

Though Lois suspects, I think. Not that she had said anything— which, if Clark knew Lois Lane (and he did) meant that she had sniffed out a potential lead. One thing at a time.

Having another superhero friend would be… really nice. Really, really nice, actually.

“So, we’re agreed: we’ll work together on this,” Clark said.

“Yeah,” the Flash stretched his back. “And I think we should probably go together to see Batman.”

“You just want to meet Batman,” Clark smiled.

The Flash laughed. “Yeaaah. Yeah, I do. Now that I’ve met you, I think I want to meet your neighbor. Lets go be neighborly.”

Neighborly. Clark liked that. It felt like home. Like Kansas. Being in Metropolis was great— Clark loved the city, loved the bustle and lights and people, but sometimes he felt like he was losing the homegrown parts of himself.

“I can get behind that.”

Chapter Text

Talia breathed in the fragrant tea and watched Bruce tear open a packet of artificial sweetener with his teeth. His pretty face was bruised and marked with small cuts from last night— maybe from jettisonning them out of the second floor in a sports car, or possibly from bailing from said sports car before it crashed into a building, or even from trekking through the woods in complete darkness. He caught her looking at him and smiled, fleeting but genuine.

"How's your tea, darling?" His voice still had the faintest stink of English accent, but ironically it was less English when he was speaking English than it was when he spoke Arabic. 

"Barely passable," Talia said. She arched an eyebrow— unseen underneath the scarf— and inclined her head to his mug as he stirred in the sweetener. "Are you punishing yourself?"

"Always," Bruce said, again with that fleeting smile. "But this is because I don't get to eat these kinds of things at home. I have to try them when I'm out."

"Are you not a grown man?"

"Sure," Bruce said, eyes lighting up as she watched him. "A grown man with a strict dietician, and an even stricter nutritionist."

He's so ridiculous, Talia thought, letting the tea warm her hands. A ridiculous boy grown in a ridiculous man.

She was finding out so much about herself on this trip: she liked American National Parks, frozen yogurt restaurants, jazz. And apparently ridiculous men who are clever enough to avoid detection by the League of Assassins, but not clever enough to dodge a well-aimed knife.

Bruce had a deceptive face: his mask for cameras smiled and waved, but the man underneath showed himself in flickers of emotion that Talia found fascinating, like watching birds flit for scattered seeds. He had the audacity to keep looking at her with that soft expression in his eyes that in any other person would be a killing offense. Softness wasn't a trait valued by the LoA. Talia wasn't supposed to value it.

But here she was. Valuing it.

"You look like a buffalo," Talia said once Bruce had taken a sip of aspartame-tainted coffee. He choked on the mouthful, and Talia smiled a little beneath her cover.

"A buffalo?" Bruce sputtered, using a paper napkin to clean up spilled coffee. "A water buffalo?"

"No, one of your big hairy American buffalo. Bison. With the big, stupid head and shaggy hair."

Bruce paused. He took another sip of coffee. "I thought you said my face was handsome."

"I did," Talia said. She reached over to brush some of his feathered hair out of his face. It was practically bedhead, unruly when not styled back. "And you still look like a bison, with your hair all over the place."

Bruce smiled at her, leaning in to whisper, "Talia, do you like bison?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Talia could count the number of eyelashes, the number of stormcloud-colored flecks in his eyes. This man drove a convertible out of a second-story window last night, Talia reminded herself. Father would be beside himself with anger if I kept him around.

Bruce leaned in more, til his mouth was more or less level with her ear. "I think you like bison."

Of course she liked bison. "You are greatly mistaken, beloved."

He bit his lip, huffing out amused air— a quiet laugh, private and special. Just for me. Talia smiled.

She hadn't had time to pull up any in-depth information on Bruce Wayne. Now that she knew he'd been trained in the LoA, by Cain, in the squadron Father had let her be in charge of, Talia knew better than to believe she'd find anything useful. Still, she'd have to check—

"Hey, jackass," a tall woman with red hair clipped short to her scalp said, pulling out a chair and dragging it over to their table. She sat down backwards in it and smiled. Her canine teeth were pointed— like Bruce's— and Talia realized that she looked very much like Bruce: same high, gaunt cheekbones; eye shape and color; mouth. They could be siblings. "You know there are cameras out here, right?"

Bruce's smile had turned into a frown. "Kate."

"Don't you 'Kate,' me. I'm not the one who didn't check in after a party." The Kate woman turned her attention to Talia. "Hi, I'm Bruce's cousin. Would you like to join us inside for a family breakfast?"

"Yes," Talia said as Bruce grunted out, "no."

Kate smiled at Talia, ignoring Bruce. The woman stood up and offered Talia a courteous arm, which Talia took. "It'll be just us and Bruce's godson, Dick."

Bruce was glowering the entire walk to the private breakfast room. Talia pretended not to be aware of him. Large tinted windows overlooked the Gotham harbor, and a circular table was already laden with an English tea set and fruit. A little boy with a thicket of fluffy black hair and a complexion closer to Talia's than Bruce's bounced off his chair with the ease of a gymnast to tackle into Bruce's side.

Talia watched with interest as Bruce picked the child up, careless of his stab wound. The boy hugged his arms around Bruce's neck. "You were supposed to call!"

Bruce melted immediately, soothing the child. "I'm sorry, Dickiebird, my phone died. I didn't mean to scare you."

Dick peeked at Talia. She catalogued ocean blue eyes that were clear with intelligence. Something turned in her mind, clicking into place.

Oh. Oh no, Talia realized with growing horror. 

Father had begun to hint, very infrequently, that he'd like for her to eventually take a consort and consider children. Talia hadn't planned to do that anytime soon. She didn't particularly like children, nor did she like most people in general.

She very much liked that this ridiculous, insolent man was so gentle with this child. This child that could easily be mistaken for one of ours. 

Father hadn't said they needed to be children born from Talia. Adoption wasn't looked down upon in the LoA, and athletic talent and intellect was rewarded handsomely in her Father's court. Bruce's squeamishness around killing could be potentially be reworked from bodyguard to house husband. Of course he wouldn't be expected to kill anything, he was there to take care of the children.

Which would necessitate more than one.

Talia felt like she was going insane. All of these thoughts were insane. She smiled at Dick, knowing her eyes crinkled and gave her away, and waved. "Beloved, aren't you going to introduce us?"

Bruce looked very much like he didn't want to do that. Talia respected that impulse. It showed markedly more self-preservation than he'd previously been displaying. He set his jaw and smiled in a way that made the boy— Dick— perk up like a wolf. "My apologies, darling. This is my godson, Dick. Dick, this is my friend Talia."

Clever child, Talia thought as Dick scrutinized her. She held out her hand to him. He cautiously shook it. "Hello, habibi."

Bruce shot her a confused look. She ignored him. Dick blinked at her. "Hello," he said. "You're Bruce's friend?"

"In a way, yes," Talia purred, looking up at Bruce with a look that caused him to blush all the way up to his ears. Dick's mouth fell open as he stared at Bruce. He blinked that away and looked back at Talia when she gently squeezed his hand. "Perhaps we can be friends in a different way?"

"Oh," Dick said. His mouth worked a little bit, trying to find words, and then he dimpled at Talia. Bruce looked aghast with this betrayal. "Oooh, OK. Yes, let's be friends."

Kate's tongue pressed to her top lip as she steadfastly did not laugh or look at Bruce when he looked at her for backup. She sank down into a chair and poured herself a cup of tea.

Talia liked that. That was a woman who understood the sheer delight to be taken in making things interesting. Talia sat down next to Kate, and then— before Bruce could stop him— Dick sat down next to Talia.

He scooted in the seat as Bruce— disgruntled and adorable— settled into the chair opposite Talia. She smiled indulgently at Dick, pouring him a cup of tea.

"The news says you're a princess," Dick said, cutting straight to the chase.

Kate snorted into her cup of tea, eyes watering slightly as she tried not to laugh. Bruce put his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands.

"Mm," Talia hummed, setting the teacup in front of Dick and proceeding to pick up an orange, which she peeled quickly and with precision. "People say many things, habibi."

"Are you a princess?"

Talia looked at him. He waited. Very Bruce-like. She winked at him and he gasped, heading whipping around to stare at Bruce.

"She might be sort of a princess," Bruce choked out, trying to find a way not to lie to his son without revealing the truth of the matter.

Talia preened, smiling smugly to herself as she pulled each orange segment apart.

Dick looked at her. Talia put the last orange segment onto the small plate and set it down in front of Dick. He blinked at it, smile faltering from his face.

Fuck, Talia thought. Don't children like fruit? She had vague, fuzzy memories of her Father doing this for her when she was a child.

"My— my mom, uhm. Sorry," Dick said thickly. He picked up a segment of orange and stared at it quietly. "My mom peeled my oranges, too. Thank you, Talia."

Talia glanced at Bruce. He looked like he was on the verge of crying if Dick started crying. 

That's right, Talia thought, he said that Dick is his godson. He didn't mention Dick's parents. 

"My Father peeled mine when I was your age too, habibi," Talia said, hoping to distract away from tears.

Dick looked up at her. Bruce looked at her, disbelief heavy in his eyes. Talia ignored him, choosing instead to smooth back Dick's hair. "Would you prefer a different fruit instead?"

"No," Dick straightened up and smiled at her, seeming to bounce back quickly. Talia noted the resilience with approval. "I like oranges."

"Of course, habibi."

"What does that mean, 'habibi' ?"

"It is a term of endearment," Talia said.

"The English equivalent is roughly, 'my dear' or 'my love,' though that cuts some of the cultural context," Bruce said.

"Tt," Talia chided Bruce. "He is not to be taught Arabic by you. I will not tolerate your atrocious accent to be passed down, beloved."

Dick bit down a laugh, and then ducked his head away when Bruce frowned at him.

"Hn."

"Good," Talia said. "Stay quiet."

Kate laughed. Talia caught Bruce's flicker of a smile, the subtle relaxation of his shoulders.

She catalogued everything, locking it away in her mind. Talia had been raised since birth to be a commander, a strategist, a living incarnation of Death. She breathed in information like it was air, absorbing as much as she could from this family breakfast— so very different from what she remembered of hers, but at the same time so achingly similar. Processing the information could come later, in private.

When she'd had some time to figure out how she felt about the imagined visions of domesticity that kept trying to take root in her mind.

She didn't like how easily she could picture this scene taking place on the patio of her home in Eth Alth'eban: morning sunlight filtering through the canopy of well-established fruit trees, birdsong bright in the jasmine-scented air, Dick chattering about sword practice while Bruce smiled sleepily over his first cup of coffee, occasionally glancing her way to share a secret, fond look that true lovers never lost.

She didn't love him. But she could see it in her mind's eye: this was someone she could easily, unbearably fall in love with.

Talia didn't want to fall in love. She didn't have time to fall in love.

'Habibti, my flower,' she could remember the warm voice of her Father, his eyes crinkling into familiar halfmoons when she looked up at him from sharpening her favorite knife.'You ask about the strangest things sometimes. Love comes suddenly, without reason. It is the most intoxicating feeling in the world, to love and be loved.'

He had smoothed her hair back down into a braid, bending down to kiss the top of her head. 'You must never fall in love, Talia, my heart. Promise Papa.'

'Yes, Papa,' Talia had said dutifully, eyes floating up to the glass coffin where her mother's body was preserved. The Lazarus Pits had failed to resurrect her. Quinlan's head, preserved forever by the waters of the Pits, was mounted on the wall behind her Father's throne— a reminder to others what the cost of betraying Ra's al Ghul was… and a reminder to Ra's al Ghul to never allow such personal failings like love to cloud his judgement.

Talia slid into the back of the expensive armored car like she hadn't been ignoring Deathstroke's increasingly frustrated messages since last night's party. The assassin sat, legs spread, arms crossed, helmet off across from her, back to the partition. His white-blond hair was cropped close to his head, and his one good eye was glaring. Wintergreen, pleasantly from the driver's seat, welcomed her.

Slade Wilson held up his phone and pointed at the dozens of read receipts with no answers.

"This wasn't what we had discussed," Slade gritted out, knee bouncing in irritation. "Do you know how much shit you left me to clean up?"

Talia hummed, luxuriating in the backseat as the car started. "Is that not your entire purpose?"

"Through a fucking window, Talia?" Slade slammed the phone down onto the leather bench seat and leaned in, hands shaking. "And then crashing Lex Luthor's newest, favorite car into a sewage treatment plant? Do you know how much of a nightmare that was to clean up before Superman and the fucking Flash showed up?"

Talia smiled, warmth blossoming in her chest. Bruce is so very endearing when he's being petty. "I have full faith in your abilities, Wilson."

Slade's eye narrowed at her.

"Was that faith misplaced?" Talia asked coldly.

"Bruce Wayne, Talia?" Slade continued, and Talia fought the urge to roll her eyes. She'd learned, working with Slade, that it made him go into full lecture mode. He was too useful to kill— too resilient and regenerative to die— and, when he wasn't annoying her, Talia found him to be pleasant company. Right now he was getting on her nerves. It was nice to know she getting on his too. "Billionaire Bruce Wayne, Talia? Have you lost your everloving mind?"

"Mm," Talia hummed, pretending to examine her nails.

"You are supposed to be keeping a low profile."

Talia glanced up at him, her eyes flashing dangerously. He tilted his head, unimpressed, arms coming to rest over his chest.

"The mission parameters were very clear. We get in with Luthor, see what weak points there are to exploit, and leave after establishing a connection," Slade lectured. Talia groaned, beginning to beat the back of her head against the headrest. Wintergreen subtly closed the partition, the bastard, locking her into isolation with Professor Wilson. "You knew good and well that Wayne was one of Luthor's biggest triggerpoints—"

Talia tuned out his droning. Her mind drifted to breakfast. To before breakfast, taking a second shower with Bruce because he joked that 'it would be better for the environment,' grinning into her neck as he peppered kisses reverently down her skin. Talia examined her nails.

She'd known he was insane when he was just an initiate. David Cain called him 'that brat' whenever he reported to her all those years ago. 'That brat broke the maze,' had been one of Talia's favorite— Cain hadn't shut up about how angry he was that that brat had circumvented his 'masterpiece' of a training grounds, finding and dismantling the technology that was supposed to simulate an ambush's hail of bullets. Normally initiates learned how to sneak past better, or died full of holes. That brat had crept past Cain's safeguards— already an insult— and took the machinery apart in record time, and then leisurely walked out of the maze like it was nothing.

Cain had been spitting angry.

He'd also been full of praise, convinced even further that he was correct in his selection for Talia's personal bodyguard.

'You need someone who will approach things from a different perspective, for balance.'

What he'd meant but was too savvy to say was, 'you need someone who will be at or a little behind your same level of competence, but won't immediately default into stabbing as a first warning. No one respects a leader who defaults to killing at a first offense.'

It was sensible. Talia could see the merit to that line of thought. Cain had thought at the time that that brat would be able to kill when it was demanded of him. Talia had also thought that, too: that that brat, despite all clues to the contrary over his training, would do what all true weapons did.

He didn't.

Bruce had stood in front of his opponent— another initiate, a fallen combatant in the final test before ascending to the next level of training: head already bowed and waiting for the final blow— and dropped his sword.

'This is wrong,' he'd said. 'I forfeit.'

The courtyard had fallen silent but for the night insects and the dusk-singing birds. His opponent had hesitated before looking up.

'What are you doing,' the other initiate hissed. 'Grant me an honorable death before you sentence us both to suffer.'

'Finish your assessment,' Cain barked out, barely able to contain his growing rage.

Bruce kicked the sword out of reach.

There was only one punishment suitable for this flagrant disrespect.

Cain had wanted to kill him himself.

He didn't want it to be left up to the other initiates. Cain wanted that brat, his star pupil and the light of his eyes, to die by his hands.

Failure had always been Cain's greatest trigger. He flew off the handle whenever one of his carefully laid plans was ruined. That brat had been his masterpiece of training: a student who adapted quickly and flourished under stress, intelligent and capable. Her Father had needed to pull Cain from the initiate program so he didn't end up burning the whole thing to the ground.

Talia had mourned the loss of potential, but had moved on to more important, pressing things. A failed initiate wasn't a cause for concern. It happened. The circle of life rolled on.

And then that brat's voice— terrible accent and all— came out of tall, dark and handsome stranger Bruce Wayne's face, and Talia had a crisis on her hands.

A filial daughter would have finished him where he stood for daring to oppose the Will of the Demon's Head. A strategist would keep him alive to find out how and why he'd been able to survive and escape. Talia, ever the pragmatist, had allowed him to live because Nyssa was trying to kill her and she needed help.

The plan she'd whipped together involved 1. getting out of the party alive, and 2. having Slade interrogate the traitor for information. And then that plan had gone up in smoke when that brat had looked at her  like she was something delicate and precious, even with her dagger still buried in his guts, and the smoke had choked out all reason when he'd actively chosen to put his body in front of hers and her knifes so any dangers would focus on him.

Bruce Wayne knew she was dangerous. He knew she could more than handle herself. And yet he couldn't bring himself to not put her safety over his own. The fact that there was not a mark on her from their stuntwork last night was a testament to his dedication.

He was crazy, and Talia liked that very much.

"What were you thinking," Slade finished.

"He's very handsome," Talia said.

Slade looked like he wanted to strangle her. Talia wondered if he'd try. She was always up for a good fight.

Chapter Text

Bruce sat across from Dubois in the tailor’s personal office, tapping his fingertips against the arm of his chair. Dubois sat on the opposite side of the drafting table he used as a desk. His violet-blue eyes were boring holes into Bruce’s head.

He’d made sure to change out of the ruined suit the moment he’d had a chance. Casual clothing was offensive to Dubois’s sensibilities, but showing up in a suit that was shredded to hell would have been worse.

Unfortunately, the photographs of him and Talia outside the restaurant had already hit the news cycle.

I knew he was going to be pissed about the suit.

“In my defense,” Bruce said slowly, like he was trying to talk down a wild animal, “Lex Luther did touch my shoulder. The suit was ruined before I threw myself out of the Ferrari.”

“The Daughter of the fucking Demon’s Head, Bruce?”

Oh good, we’re jumping straight into this conversation.

Bruce leaned forward, covering his face with his hands as his elbows pressed into his knees.

Dubois struck up a cigarette, muttering darkly in French under his breath. He tapped the lighter— metal, scratched to all hell, a memento from Egypt— against the table. “What’s our move?”

Bruce peeked out from between his fingers. Dubois still looked furious, but it had settled into the eerily blank expression Bruce hadn’t seen since their ‘backpacking’ expedition.

“I don’t know. She said she wanted to continue our, ah, truce. I don’t think she’s going to send anyone after me, and I don’t know if she’ll recognize you,” Bruce began to pluck at loose threads on his cuffs.

Jean-Paul sank back into his ergonomic chair, pushing his fingers through his blond hair. The cigarette was pinched tightly between his lips. He turned his head to stare at the legions of framed designs hanging on the wall behind him.

All of the designs were hanging in Bruce’s dedicated suit closet. Jean-Paul had always been skilled with a needle, fixing any damages to his uniforms while they were initiates in the LoA. When they were on the run, Jean-Paul had— at Bruce’s repeated asking— thought about what he’d like to do as a civilian.

‘I think I want to make clothing,’ he’d finally said, ‘that seems useful. I think I could like that.’

Bruce had promised Jean-Paul he’d personally fund an entire studio for him. Jean-Paul had laughed it off… but now, sitting in the office of one of Jean-Paul’s personal dedicated floors of the grand Hera Hotel, Bruce wondered how Jean-Paul felt.

Yes, he’d gotten as much funding and support as he’d wanted— plus Gotham’s Prince as his own personal walking advertisement— but Jean-Paul had lost so much in the process.

His name, for one.

They hadn’t used their names in the LoA.

They’d largely been treated as a group and not individuals, except for in extenuating circumstances. Getting a designated callname from David Cain was generally considered a punishment. Bruce very quickly had one (“brat,”) as had Jean-Paul (usually some variation of “grad,” for graduate student.)

Losing those names wasn’t a hardship. But Jean-Paul had to change his entire name before he was safe to be smuggled into the United States. The religious organization that had raised him to be an assassin in the first place wouldn’t let their very expensive weapon continue to stay free of their influence if they knew he was alive.

So Jean-Paul Valley became someone else: Rene Dubois, a name chosen out of a hat at random. Jean-Paul hadn’t wanted it to mean anything.

‘What’s the point of assigning meaning to something meaningless?’

Bruce didn’t think it was meaningless. But he understood the thought process: a name that wasn’t weighed down by personal meaning was a name that couldn’t be connected back to him. ‘Dubois’ was an easy mask to wear, and Jean-Paul hardly ever left his art deco tower.

Which was concerning for a lot of reasons, none of which Bruce was going to bring up when Jean-Paul was in a (very much earned) snit.

“I don’t know,” Bruce repeated.

“Bullshit,” Jean-Paul snapped, tapping the lighter faster against the table. He exhaled smoke through his nose. “Stop trying to handle me with kid gloves.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes tight so he wouldn’t have to see Jean-Paul’s reaction.

“I think, realistically, we have two options. The first is I relocate you somewhere else. The second is you stay here and we knock out some contingency plans.”

Bruce didn’t know which would be worse: Jean-Paul leaving and having to navigate both the LoA and the Order of St. Dumas with minimal aid from him… or Jean-Paul hiding in Gotham after Bruce had caught the attention of the heir apparent to the LoA. Talia’s truce was only with Bruce. He wasn’t going to gamble on it extending to another ‘deserter.’ The LoA wasn’t known for its mercy.

“I dislike both of those options.”

Bruce sighed and messed up his hair. He stared down at the hardwood flooring. “I know.”

“You’re a self-sacrificing idiot and you’re killing yourself for this shithole of city.”

Read: ‘I hate that your ideas both involve you staying behind to potentially face the wrath of the LoA by yourself.’

Bruce snorted, mouth twitching a little at the corners. “Careful, Japes, it’s getting close to sounding like you care.”

Jean-Paul slapped the lighter down and then leaned over the table to grab Bruce by the tattered t-shirt. His eyes were furious.

“Listen here. You had the audacity to deny me a righteous death, and then rubbed salt in the wounds by dragging me all over creation until we landed in the worst city I’ve ever had the misfortune to experience. You set me up with literally anything I’d ever need to be happy— save one phone number—”

Bruce resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of course he brings up Julia. What else was I expecting?

“Japes, she’s two decades older than you, and she already hates me.”

“That’s between you and her,” Jean-Paul said, breaking out of his intensity for a moment to sigh, wistfully. “I’m better now, I am a changed man.”

“Going to therapy once and buying a juicer doesn’t mean you’ve changed.”

“Fuck you,” Jean-Paul said. “Stop distracting me. You’ve funded my entire bespoke tailor business, dedicated two floors of this ridiculous building for my personal use, and built an entire false life for me with full documentation. You don’t get to keep trying to save my life, asshole. How much debt are you trying to put me in?”

Bruce kept his mouth shut. Jean-Paul would start throwing hands the second Bruce tried to point out any previous instances of him saving Bruce’s life. Neither of them knew how to navigate friendship cleanly— not with each other— so it had become this sort of convoluted thing based on 'life debts' and assigning moral values to the most minute of actions.

“Then you’re staying,” Bruce said flatly. Something anxious inside of him unfurled, comforted, and he tried to ignore it.

“Obviously.”

“Fine.” Bruce waited for the tension— anxiety and fear, rolling over Jean-Paul’s eyes like a movie reel of all the terribly creative ways to kill people the League of Assassins had perfected— to soothe back down to noticeably manageable levels in Jean-Paul.

Bruce tapped his fingers against the arms of the chair, trying to set a rhythm.

Jean-Paul settled back in his chair and began to play with the lighter.

He glanced at Bruce. Bruce scowled.

“I can’t believe you fucked the most dangerous woman on the planet.”

“Don’t be crude,” Bruce said automatically, before relenting and throwing up his hands in a shrug. “I can’t believe it either.”

“Maybe she’s trying to upset the Demon’s Head?”

“Hn.”

“This might possibly be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done,” Jean-Paul said, lighting up another cigarette. “And I’m including Egypt.”

“OK, but Shelia actually did try to kill me. Talia just stabbed me lightly as a warning—”

“You let her stab you?”

“I didn’t mean to, it just happened.”

“There’s only one way you got stabbed and it was by standing there like an idiot instead of getting out of the way.”

“Hn.”

“Mon Dieu, you stood there like an idiot.”

“Hn.”

“I— this is embarrassing, Bruce. I am embarrassed.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

Jean-Paul picked up his drafting table and put it to the side gently. He began to roll up his sleeves. Bruce shrugged off his hoodie. Relief settled into his muscles. This was something comforting, in a way that Bruce wasn’t sure he could ever put into words.

Because I don’t think I’m allowed to miss the League of Assassins. I think that would maybe be just a step too far down a path I know I can’t tread.

“I’m going to beat you to death,” Jean-Paul said flatly.

“Sure, Japes,” Bruce stood up, shaking out his arms to loosen his muscles. “Let’s talk it out.”

Chapter Text

[Arabian Peninsula, September 201X]

Bruce dragged Jean-Paul out of the ditch and rolled him over onto his back. The blond was panting roughly. They both were: battered and bruised and dirty from a mix of blood, sweat, mud, ash. Bruce flopped down on the overgrown wild grass next to him and threw an arm over his eyes.

Cain's operatives were good. Bruce had to give praise where praise was due. They'd almost gotten them this time. Really. 

Bruce's shoulders began to shake with silent laughter. Jean-Paul's violet-blue eyes, bloodshot and lined with sleeplessness, were on him like a vengeance.

"Shut the fuck up," Jean-Paul hissed in French.

Bruce shook his head, curling onto his side as the quiet laughter intensified. Cain is going to be so mad when he gets the report that one of his base of operations got blown up.

Jean-Paul punched Bruce weakly in the side. It was less a sign of fondness than a testament to how exhausted he was. They'd escaped the death maze of the League of Assassins alive, circumvented the assassin capital of the Arabian Peninsula to make it— by foot and then stolen car— to "neutral" ground further north, in Saudi Arabia.

It wasn't neutral by far, but it also wasn't allied with the Demon's Head, so they'd been able to move with relative ease towards their destination goal.

Jean-Paul had complained the entire trip, of course: 

'you stupid stubborn bastard, you should have just let me die an honorable death,' and,

'we'll now be running for the rest of our lives because you couldn't follow basic fucking orders,'

but don't forget,

'no, I'm not actively suicidal, stop asking me if I'm suicidal!' 

Bruce had never really learned how to make friends his own age. Being a part of the squadron, in assassin training, hadn't helped that. The squad was supposed to work together, live together, do everything together until they could act like an extension of each other: a hivemind weapon. Being 'friends' wasn't much of a priority— a good assassin was loyal only to the Demon’s Head. Friends meant split loyalties. It was very much against the rules.

That hadn't stopped Bruce from befriending Jean-Paul. 

Not that Jean-Paul would ever openly admit that we're friends. 

Bruce thought his fellow initiate might still having lingering embarrassment from, well. Everything.

Slipping up and telling Bruce about his father's murder during a survival training exercise in the wilderness.

And then finding out he was a genetic experiment.

And that he'd been being meticulously groomed to become a implement of death for a doomsday cult, so he'd decided to run away and become a weapon for an entirely different death cult.

Because then it was his choice and not theirs.

'It was a bad birthday,' Jean-Paul had surmised dryly between sips of alcohol they'd lifted from Cain's supply. (That Bruce had lifted from Cain's supply, and Jean-Paul had refused to hear about so he would have the illusion of plausible deniability.)

Bruce's refusal to kill Jean-Paul, or even leave him to die in the death maze, had added another level of embarrassment to the whole thing for him.

Jean-Paul gets embarrassed over the most ridiculous things, Bruce thought.

"We were this close to dying," Jean-Paul continued, pinching his fingers almost together.

"But think about what Cain's face is going to look like when he opens his mail," Bruce wheezed out.

"Impossible," Jean-Paul stood up on shaky legs. He dragged Bruce with him. They both needed a hearty meal, a hot shower, and a fresh change of clothes. "I'd ask if you hit your head, but we both know you were shaken as a baby and that's why you're like this."

"Devastatingly charming?"

"Stupid as hell and twice as ugly."

Bruce huffed out a laugh and grinned. He knocked his shoulder into Jean-Paul's arm. Jean-Paul had a couple on inches in him in height, and about a year in age.

"Come on, I think there's probably an inn or something around here." Bruce pulled out a fat wallet full of multi-colored bills and waved it lazily. "Cain's treat."

"You really were sent from hell to torment him, weren't you? Confess."

"I'm Jewish. We don't believe in hell."

"Oh? Where are you Jewish?"

"My mother's side. The only side that matters in determining that," Bruce said. "Not that I'm practicing."

"Much like I am a former Catholic," Jean-Paul sniffed. Bruce got the feeling that he was mollified somewhat by Bruce’s admission.

Religion had never made much sense to Bruce. He vaguely remembered his parents trying to explain it to him, how it was important to understand the stories and their cultural impact. Bruce had diligently read through religious texts until his head hurt— interesting, yes. But so were other stories. He couldn’t really understand what Jean-Paul was getting from this exchange to elicit the fraction of hair’s worth of relaxation.

It hit Bruce suddenly. This was probably the first real, honest thing about himself that he'd willing shared with Jean-Paul.

John said that he couldn't make friends if he didn't also open up. 'You've got to be able to share with people, BT. It doesn't have to be anything personal, or even big. You just have to be open to possibilities.'

Maybe I should share something else?

Bruce kicked that thought out of his head. Baby steps. He didn't want Jean-Paul to think he was getting sappy.

"I could kill for a shower, " Bruce said instead.

Jean-Paul laughed, wiping tears and grime from his eyes. "You couldn't even kill someone asking you to kill them."

"Maybe an ant or something."

"Uh-huh."

A shower and a change of clothes, and Bruce felt like a new man.

Ish.

When he wiped down the steamed-over mirror, he didn't see a man. He saw a lanky seventeen year old who looked like he'd been dragged through the desert by a car.

At least I'm clean now.

Jean-Paul was sitting on one of the beds, smoking a cigarette and examining the map. Plates were scattered around him: an aromatic meat and rice dish, flatbreads, qawah and dates. Bruce's stomach growled. He tore a piece from a flat bread and scooped up a portion of mandi.

"I think our best option is France," Jean-Paul said. "Your accent is terrible, but mine is passable."

"If by passable, you mean Swiss, then I suppose I agree," Bruce said as he sat down on the other side of the bed. "From France, we can head to England—"

"England," Jean-Paul looked at him with annoyance, eyebrows arching up.

"Why not England?"

Jean-Paul shook his head, smoking quietly for a minute. Bruce waited.

Finally Jean-Paul spoke. "There is an LoA hub. Too risky. We don't know if they're looking for us— just because Cain is, doesn't mean we're on their radar. And you know we don't want to get on their radar."

The LoA thought they were dead. Bruce had made sure of that.

No reason for more initiates to be killed as a punishment for not killing me.

But Cain wasn’t the LoA. If he was anything, it was a glorified contractor. And he was very much single-minded.

"Cain's paranoia really is the stuff legends are made from," Bruce said absently between bites of juicy chicken and flavorful rice. He hadn't had meat since being recruited by Cain— initiates ate vegetarian dishes, until they rose high enough in the ranks and accepted enough of the ideology to understand the responsibility of meat.

Do you understand the value of life? What it means for something living to have died in order for you to eat? Reflect on this.

Which had been fine. The LoA fed their ranks well when they weren't sending them out into the wilderness for survival training. Even the poison they occasionally laced into rations (oh, survival training) hadn't detracted from the flavor.

Bruce was already dreading London and Alfred's delicious but aggressively European cooking. 

If Alfred was even still there.

Bruce had been trying very hard not to think about that— if Alfred would be there when he got home. If there even was a home waiting for him; or if it was just an empty house, cold and quiet as the grave.

The last 'conversation' they'd had was also the worst fight they'd ever had. Auntie Harriet was dead and buried before Christmas, and all Alfred would say was, 'we must hire another head maid promptly to manage the property before we return to Gotham, Mr. Wayne. We have a little over a year before you age into your inheritance, and much to prepare.'

Bruce had seen red. If he thought too hard about it, he still saw red.

Auntie Harriet, who'd helped him adjust to England. Who’d introduced him to the Graysons. Who’d been more of a grandmother— the sweet and doting kind of grandmother that set the platonic ideal— to Bruce than either of his flesh and blood grandmothers. Not Mimi, his mother’s mother (kind but distant, uninterested in children as a whole) nor his father’s mother (who had died shortly before Mozzy was born, in a hunting accident, and Bruce had only known through his father’s strained recountings of ice given human form.)

Auntie Harriet who showed me all the best hiding places to go when I couldn’t handle any more of Alfred’s “Wayne Legacy” lessons.

Auntie Harriet was dead and Bruce couldn't keep pretending that he was fine. He was an ocean of grief and anger and pain crammed into a bottle, and the bottle was breaking. Had broken.

After the funeral, he'd screamed his throat raw at Alfred, lashing out verbally with the force of every painful moment he'd ever experienced, every memory of how Alfred had retreated into cold, impersonal professionalism when Bruce needed a real human person to pull him back from the edge.

'We will Talk about this in the morning, Master Bruce,' Alfred had said, voice like ice and eyes burning.

Bruce had slipped out the window that night with a waterproof bag and enough cash to get him to China.

Cain had found him early into his training.

'Interesting,' Cain had said in fluent Mandarin. His dark blond hair was cropped close to his head, and his steel colored eyes were calculating. 'How long has this one been here?'

'Less than a month,' Sifu had said.

'A prodigy, then. You, boy, gather your things. You have been selected for a more advanced program.'

It had been thrilling. Bruce wasn’t anyone in China, just another martial artist in training. Every bit of praise he received was something he'd earned, and couldn't be attributed to his family name or wealth. That someone else, someone stronger, was judging him worthy meant more than Bruce could articulate.

'I think they call that "Daddy Issues" in English,' Jean-Paul had said one night in the desert, on a different wilderness survival trip.

'Fuck you,' Bruce had sputtered out, 'I'm going to kick your ass!"

'Fuck you,' Jean-Paul had shot back, 'I’ll take you down!'

The League generally avoid pairing up the same initiates for training or missions. The point was to be able to work well with everyone— a well-oiled machine no matter what circumstances.

Cain had ignored that rule by consistently pairing up Bruce and Jean-Paul.

The Daughter of the Demon had listened to Cain's explanation in judgmental silence before granting permission with a slow incline of her head.

Jean-Paul was more experienced than Bruce was. He come into the LoA already partially trained to be an assassin, and had quickly been scooped up by Cain. Most of the other initiates were far below his level, and Bruce learned at far too quickly a pace to stay a beginner long. When placed together, Bruce and Jean-Paul worked like a dream, and challenged each other to new heights. Cain encouraged the competition.

Bruce grimaced, brow furrowing slightly. He took a restorative bite from a date.

Cain encouraged us to compete against each other because he wanted a winner. One of us was always going to end up dead by the other's hand, if Cain had gotten his way.

The memory of Jean-Paul, battered and bleeding, kneeling in front of him and waiting for the final arching sweep of the blade, came unwanted to Bruce. He drank his coffee quickly.

Jean-Paul took another drag from his cigarette, and then a date. He glanced up at Bruce and smiled nastily.

"You certainly know how to incite passion in a man. I have never seen anyone so consumed by hatred for one person before."

"Aw," Bruce smiled, pulling back out of his mind. "Thanks for noticing. Fuck you."

"Fuck you. Look at this," Jean-Paul turned the map towards Bruce, who made an effort not to knock over any dishes. He pointed to their marked path. "We're almost to Egypt. From there, we'll go through Greece—"

"If by almost you mean we still have to cross through most of Saudi Arabia and then the gulf, then yeah," Bruce said.

"You're the one who didn't want to go through the north."

"Uh, yeah, because that’ll take us through either Iraq or Palestine— insurgency or genocide, choose your own adventure." Bruce began to move the dishes off the bed, out of the way. "Maybe you should have been genetically modified to have a brain."

"You're a pussy," Jean-Paul said. "Maybe you should get genetically modified to not suck."

"Pussy this, bitch," Bruce grappled Jean-Paul off of the bed. Jean-Paul twisted so Bruce landed on his bruised side. It quickly devolved into elbows and punching.

Bruce found the physicality grounding. Jean-Paul was alive and jabbing his knuckles into bruised flesh, not dead-eyed and crawling with insects. Bruce's hands weren't red. They weren't safe, but they also weren't actively being murdered by the LoA or Cain's operatives.

He could feel himself starting to relax. Jean-Paul claimed victory smugly, taking the rest of the dates as his spoils of war. Bruce stared up at the ceiling.

Bruce curled his fingers over his stomach.

"Are you going to go back?"

"What?"

"To Switzerland," Bruce clarified.

Jean-Paul grunted in disgust, pulling open one of the dates. "There's nothing of worth for me there. Is that why you want to go back to England?"

"I think I want to go home," Bruce said.

His mind couldn't settle on what that actually meant: Eth Alth'eban, the home that might have been; London, the home that was only meant to be temporary; Gotham, the city that he could still feel etched in his bones like a long-sleeping echo. Calling, calling, calling out for him. Waiting.

He barely remembered it. Gotham— at least, he thought he barely remembered it. Alfred had whisked him out of the city, out of the country, before the dirt over his parents had even settled. The Gotham in Bruce's memories was all dark buildings and gargoyles, the smell of copper and smoke, the sound of a string of pearls snapping.

The news articles had sensationalized things. Bruce's memory was fuzzy, a ship of Theseus, replaced over the years piece by piece by things other people said happened, or kept asking, 'are you sure?' until he couldn't think about it without second-guessing himself.

Are you sure?

Are you sure?

Are you sure?

Pearls don't scatter when a necklace breaks. Each pearl is so very precious: a soft and delicate thing that grows from a point of pain. A knot is tied between each pearl to keep them from scratching against each other, to keep them from being lost. The pearls didn't scatter, but everyone told him that wasn't right; of course they scattered. The news had said the pearls had snapped and flown across the grimy alley concrete, lost in blood and dumpster-stained slush, so that had to be true.

'Are you sure, Bruce? Are you sure?'

That was Gotham for him, some terrible mix of fact and fiction and unreliable memory.

Bruce inhaled sharply. "I don't know where that is now."

"If all else fails, you can join the circus. I'm sure you'd fit in with the clowns," Jean-Paul said offhandedly.

Bruce knew he meant it as a dig, but something as fragile as a baby bird was hatching in his chest. He clutched at the fabric of his shirt and thought about Mary and John, and Dickie. His godson was about to turn four and oh no, I've missed so much, almost a year, I'm— calm down. Calm down.

It was September. He'd be back home before November 11th. 

I have to be. I can't miss Dickie’s birthday.

"Hn." 

Chapter Text

[Northeast Africa, September 201X]

Egypt’s tourists were somehow more noticeable than Makkah’s had been— or maybe the tourists in Egypt were just louder, waving around their cameras and phones wildly, dressed in clothing that screamed 'I barely put any research into my vacation.’

September was near-miserably hot during the day, and the sun unrelenting. Even in the back streets of the tourist trap city they’d been waylaid by was suffering from the weather.

Bruce was thankful that his sunburn had finally peeled away to a much more even tan. It made him look less like missing person Bruce Thomas Wayne, net worth in the upper hundreds of millions (or however much he was supposedly worth now.) His father’s side of the family were pasty white, and never tanned. His mother’s side like to pretend it was the same for them, too.

It wasn’t. Bruce only had to look in the mirror to draw the connections, clear as day, from the Kane family to their roots in the Middle East. But it wouldn’t do for a well-established, old money all-American military family to openly admit genetic ties to a global region the United States had been in conflict over for close to three decades now.

Or over three decades.

With his dark hair and ‘ambiguously aristocratic' Kane genetics, a darker complexion helped Bruce blend more into the background… unlike Jean-Paul, whose blond hair looked even brighter against his deep tan, and drew unfortunate comparisons to action heroes and too many curious cameras.

Jean-Paul had irritably purchased a hat and sunglasses with what remaining funds they’d had from Saudi Arabia. Bruce was still nursing a sore cheekbone from a snide comment—

‘I’m going to check the departure times,’ Jean-Paul had murmured in passing. ‘I’ll be back.’

‘OK, Arnold, try that line again.’

It had almost gotten them arrested for fighting in public, but Bruce couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry.

Jean-Paul was smoking another cigarette. It was a bad habit, discouraged strongly in the LoA, but even assassins needed their little vices. That was how humanity functioned. Bruce held out a hand, and Jean-Paul rolled his eyes.

“Buy your own.”

“After I saved your life?” Bruce sighed dramatically, hand covering over his heart. “Ouch. This betrayal.”

“You think you’re so funny.”

“I am. You just don’t have a sense of humor.”

Jean-Paul’s eyes narrowed as a dusty looking jeep came into view. He ashed his cigarette— half was left, and he tucked it back into the box— and shared a look with Bruce.

“No,” Bruce said firmly, mouth setting into serious line.

“If we get killed because you wouldn’t let me handle this immediately, I will bring both of us back to life so I can kill you again.”

“Hn.”

“Stop laughing.”

“I take back what I said. You’re actually very funny, Japes.”

“Stop calling me that.”

The jeep pulled to a rough stop on the other side of the street. Men dressed in trousers and neat short-sleeved polo shirts exited with a swiftness that felt a little too obvious to Bruce. Obviously they were trained in something, maybe security, but whoever had trained them didn’t seem to think stealth was important.

“Not LoA,” Bruce whispered towards Jean-Paul. The men were entering the building they’d parked in front of— some kind of hookah bar, Bruce was pretty sure. “But they don’t move like they’re purely Cain’s either.”

“It might be St. Dumas,” Jean-Paul said grimly. “But they don’t usually come this far south.”

“Oh, good. I love a mystery.”

Jean-Paul frowned at Bruce. “Six. We’re outnumbered.”

“Aren’t we always?”

Jean-Paul laughed, and then went completely, eerily silent. He straightened his hat. “I can’t believe the lengths we’re going to for a fucking arms dealer.”

“If the arms dealer can get us into Greece without real papers, and hide us from League detection, I’ll swallow my reservations.”

“Sure, that’s why,” Jean-Paul said as they crossed the street.

Bruce didn’t say anything.

He didn’t like guns.

That was an understatement.

Bruce hated guns. Alfred had tried, once, to teach Bruce how to shoot. He’d blacked out— a panic attack.

All Bruce remembered was waking up with Alfred’s arms wrapped around him, his voice choking up with more emotion than Alfred had openly showed in the then-twelve years Bruce could recall, ‘oh, my boy, my sweet boy, Bruce, my dearest boy, it’s alright, shhh, it’s alright.’

He’d cried, inconsolable, clinging to Alfred desperately. He hadn’t been allowed to hug Alfred since his twelfth birthday, because he had to start learning to become the Head of the Wayne family, and the mantle of Mr. Wayne meant there were Certain Expectations of his behavior and actions.

That might have been the last time Alfred was openly affectionate with me, Bruce thought. It was easier to hold onto that homesickness and bittersweet feeling than remembering how scared he’d been: limbs shaking, skin clammy with a cold sweat, lungs stuttering for air while his brain kept looping his eighth birthday over and over again.

Pearls and gun smoke and blood and burnt flesh. Bruce’s hands had been too small, too clumsy, to hold in the searingly hot blood gushing out of his mother’s chest. The life had drained out of her eyes slowly, the wet rattle of her breathing drowning out his crying; Father’s rough, desperate gasping breaths as he bled out a few feet away, his last words competing against the ringing of gunfire in Bruce’s ears.

Are you sure you remember what happened?

Are you sure?

Are you sure?

Are you sure?

Bruce couldn’t bear the sight of guns. He’d made himself ignore them— not ignore them. He was very aware of guns at all times. Bruce had merely trained himself into pretending he didn’t see or care about them. That had been the only reason he wasn't a gibbering mess Jean-Paul needed to drag out of Napier’s warehouse. 

Jack Napier was a tall man. That was one of the first things Bruce had noticed: Napier was well over six feet tall, maybe six-five, and— unlike everyone else in the warehouse— he wasn’t packing heat. Napier cut an elegant figure, the only person dressed in a purple suit. After the meeting, Jean-Paul had dissected the outfit, ‘linen: lightweight and breathable, sensible choice. I don’t know what the hell he’s thinking choosing that vibrant of a color.’

Bruce’s guess had been, ‘who’s going to tell him no? He’s got an entire warehouse full of guns and a comfortable working relationship with the CIA.’

Napier had perched himself on the corner of his desk and cleaned his nails with the tip of a combat knife. His eyes were black like a shark’s, and the corners of his mouth kept twitching like he was holding in laughter. Napier was erratic like a rabid animal, but there was a cold intelligence lurking behind his eyes, a hunger that could never be satisfied.

“I hear there’s been a string of unfortunate accidents that have befallen some outposts of a certain colleague of mine,” Napier said. He had a vaguely nasal American accent that hinted at some part of the North East. His eyes bounced between Jean-Paul and Bruce with interest he hadn’t bothered to conceal. “It’s been nice work. Just messy enough to cover tracks.”

Jean-Paul waited, unmoving. Bruce watched Napier watching them. A smile, humorless and unsettling, began to spread over Napier’s face.

“I hear things,” Napier cajoled, voice softening like he was trying to seduce secrets from them. “So many interesting things. Many people come to me to hear what I’ve heard. I make them pay for it, of course, but I like you boys, so I can knock a few grand off the top.”

He’s fishing, Bruce thought, face as immovable as stone.

They’d come to the warehouse for one purpose: passage into Greece. Napier had a world-class forger in his employ. Cutting corners at this point could be the fine line between survival and the LoA finding them.

“So what can I do for you boys?”

Jean-Paul said nothing. He’d disagreed with this plan of action entirely. Which was fine. Bruce had planned to take the lead regardless.

“We need two Canadian passports,” Bruce said, leaning into his English accent. Napier studied him without blinking. Bruce reclined effortlessly in the uncomfortable chair that had been provided for them. “The question is what can we do for you in order to make that happen.”

“Oh,” Napier grinned. His teeth were longer than average. “A business man. I dislike business men greatly.”

Bruce didn’t react. Napier barked out a rough laugh, pushing off of the desk. He began to circle the chairs— Bruce sitting, the other empty, and Jean-Paul posted behind Bruce’s chair like a bodyguard. Jean-Paul’s eyes tracked Napier.

“You’ve got some stones on you, boy,” Napier crowed, smiling wider to show off more teeth. “I like that. I like that a lot. There’s nothing more rewarding than getting a tough audience to crack. A laugh, a smile, some bones.”

Bruce examined his nails, picking at invisible dirt. He was balancing on the very fine wire of not setting Napier off. “If you have nothing for us, we’ll leave. I don’t think either of us appreciates having our time wasted.”

Napier moved too fast for someone his size. One moment he was circling them, and the next he was in Bruce’s face, hands gripping the arms of the chair. Bruce held up a hand so Jean-Paul wouldn’t reflexively break Napier’s neck.

I don’t want to find out how bulletproof a dead body is.

“Boo. You barely flinched,” Napier said in mock disappointment.

“My statement still stands, Mr. Napier. If we can’t reach an agreement, there’s no point in us wasting any more of each other’s time.”

“Mm, I see, I see.” Napier shoved away from the chair. It made a terrible sound as it scraped against the concrete floor. “I suppose I’ll hand you off to sweet Shelia— she handles, ah, ‘acquisitions’ for me. She’s always in need of some new blood. If you handle what she wants, I’ll make sure you get your Canadian passports.”

Napier sent down off with one of his gun-weilding goons. The man stayed silent, taking them from the warehouse to a small, shabby-looking bar that was filled with all sorts of dangerous people: off-duty soldiers, mercenaries, drifters wearing clothing that had been scrubbed of any allegiance. They were brought to a cramped back office.

A woman sat behind a beautifully carved wooden desk that had been pockmarked with what was probably knife marks. She was pouring over paperwork and didn’t look up.

“Miss Haywood,” the goon said, clearing his throat softly. “Mr. Napier sent these people over here for you.”

Haywood— ‘sweet Shelia,’ Napier had called her— looked up, head rolling to the side lazily as she eyed Jean-Paul and Bruce. She had big blue-green eyes in a heart-shaped face, and a mass of soft blonde curls styled back, like an actress in one of Alfred’s favorite black and white movies. Bruce thought she might be a little older than him— twenty, maybe twenty-three. She tipped her head to the other side as she examined him.

“Did dear Jack say what he wanted done with them?” Haywood had a low, almost husky voice, with an American accent Bruce couldn’t quite place. She spun her pen around her fingers absently.

“Something about you needing new blood, Miss Haywood.”

“Mm. Leave us,” Haywood said. She leaned back in her chair and removed a cigarette from a golden case, eyes watching Bruce and Jean-Paul closely. “Hello, boys.”

Bruce watched Haywood light up her cigarette. She took her time— every movement languid, unbothered. She was wearing a billowy white linen shirt, unbuttoned down to her waist, over a beige tanktop that clung to her body like skin and a pair of white linen trousers.

“Take a picture, pretty boy,” Haywood said, exhaling smoke lazily, face unimpressed as she stared Bruce down. “It’ll last longer.”

Jean-Paul is never going to let me live this down. Bruce arched an eyebrow at her.

“What did dear Jack promise you?”

“Two Canadian passports,” Bruce said, thankful that his British accent didn’t falter, “if we took care of something for you.”

Haywood didn’t say anything. She just smoked her cigarette, watching them.

Bruce watched her right back, unmoving. He could feel Jean-Paul’s bulk behind him, just slightly off to the side. Bodyguard mode. Bruce knew the strategy was to convince everyone that Jean-Paul was the bigger threat, and that Bruce was the face.

He didn’t like the strategy, but it worked. St. Dumas had spliced things into Jean-Paul’s DNA that should have killed him. Human genes weren’t meant to have an entire zoo’s worth of animal genes grafted to them, and Jean-Paul (perhaps jokingly, though Bruce highly doubted that) attributed his survival and relative normality on Divine Intervention.

‘I am just beloved of God,’ Jean-Paul had said with a half-hearted shrug.

‘You just told me you don’t believe in God.’

‘I am the Prodigal Son,’ Jean-Paul said, ‘so stop asking if its a meta-gene; it’s not a meta-gene, I’m just special.’

Whatever had been done to him, Jean-Paul was a tank. He was stronger and had faster flexes than average, and healed more quickly. The closest comparison Bruce— having fought, and sometimes won, against Jean-Paul— could make was that fighting Jean-Paul was like fighting a bear.

If you can’t get him down quickly, your best bet is to run away or play dead.

Shelia slowly smoked her cigarette. 

Mind games, Bruce thought, but I was raised by Alfred Pennyworth to navigate through Gotham’s high society. You're not going to break me with a cigarette.

Bruce took the stretch of silence to study Shelia. She was pretty— more than pretty, Bruce conceded, feeling the human weakness of his teenage hormones working themselves up into a frenzy over the purse of Sheila's lips and her half-lidded eyes behind the solid mental wall of his LoA training.

Alfred had insisted on Bruce learning meditation, to help with his frequent bursts of emotions when he was younger. The LoA training had expanded on that— or Cain had, at least. Bruce knew the other initiates had received some level of mental training to resist torture.

He also knew that the torture training Cain put him through had been much more intense. Jean-Paul had stared at him for a full two minutes in complete silence when Bruce had finally felt comfortable enough to try and compare notes.

'Hey, how do you handle the car battery part?'

'The fucking what?'

Bruce had realized quickly that the squad fell into three caregories: those that where expect to kill themselves when they were captured, those that were trained to either escape or kill themselves trying, and then him.

Who was trained to endure, incapacitate, and escape because 'death wasn't an option.'

Jean-Paul thought it was just an extension of how much Cain actively hated Bruce— any excuse to hurt him, and prolong his suffering, especially since the Daughter of the Demon's Head wouldn't let Cain beat Bruce back into submission.

They couldn't decide if that was her giving favor to Bruce, or if she just like to torment him like a cat with an injured bird.

I like the challenge, Bruce thought, momentarily distracted from Shelia as he thought about the Daughter of the Demon's Head and her green eyes.

Fuck, focus. Bruce steeled himself. Shelia was finishing her cigarette. She scraped the end into the skull cap acting as an ashtray.

"As it so happens, I do have something I need done," Shelia said. She slid a shitty digital photo across the desk towards Bruce.

Bruce arched up an eyebrow and glanced at the photo analytically.

A tall man, handsome in a cruel kind of way, dressed in western style clothing examined a display of masks. Around him , flanking him  are several rough looking men dressed like extras from an action movie: guns and knives and muscles.

Shelia tapped her fingertip above the well-dressed man's head. "Him."

"Who is he?"

"Some rich asshole from the States, rude. Thinks the whole world revolves around him. If he were here just for exotics— antiques, drugs, sex— that wouldn't be as issue."

"But he's not."

Shelia hummed, lighting up another cigarette. "Mm, not just a pretty face, are you?"

Bruce didn't react to the sarcasm. Jean-Paul, he knew, was going to laugh himself sick after this meeting.

"No," Shelia said, muscle in her jaw flexing as she turned her head, took a drag from her cigarette. When she leaned her elbows onto the table, it pressed her chest up, and Bruce wondered if he should write Cain a thank you card for introducing him to the car battery.

Dear Cain, thank you for teaching me how to disassociate functionally at a professional level…

"He's sniffing around a lot of places where he shouldn't be," Shelia said. "Some of these rich assholes think they know what they're doing, that they can muscle in on other people's territory. A real god complex. This one is trying to outbid— or should I say underbid?— dear Jack's contracts. My contracts."

Bruce didn't like the direction this was going.

"I don't want him dead," Shelia said suddenly, brushing her curls back from her face. "The CIA doesn't like it when Americans go missing— not when it wasn't on  their docket. I want him gone."

"Hn."

Jean-Paul braced a hand on the back of Bruce's chair, leaning in closer to the table. Shelia arched an eyebrow at him.

"Are your contracts different than Napier’s?"

Shelia's smile flickered tightly. "Dear Jack handles the weapons. I… handle everything else."

Drugs, Bruce thought.

"There is a booming market here for medicine and medical supplies. A woman can really make a killing here."

That might actually be worse, Bruce thought absently, and then he firmly reminded himself, I am on the run from one of the deadliest assassins in the world, and if either I or Jean-Paul get spotted by an LoA operative, our chances of survival hit negatives. I can't do that to Jean-Paul.

A small, dark voice in the crevices of Bruce's mind whispered, 'I just want to go home.'

Bruce wondered if that was selfish. Alfred liked to wax on and on about how good and upstanding and wonderful Bruce's parents were. How kind and loving and gentle Martha was, how deeply Thomas cared about the less fortunate of Gotham. How much good they did for the city.

His parents had become the impossible standard, an unquestionable, undeniable beacon of light in a dark and cynical world. Bruce wanted so desperately to be like them, to be good like them, to be worth the warmth in the voice of the man who raised him.

But Bruce wasn't good like his parents. Bruce was stubborn and argumentative and couldn't stay focused on any of the things Alfred said were important. Bruce threw tantrums and acted out and— and Alfred’s not going to be there when I get to London. Why would he be? I ran away from home and now that he's had a chance to be free of me, why would he want me back?

Julia had said that Alfred was 'just like that.' He left and didn't look back, and Bruce was lucky that Alfred had decided to wean him off the parental affection before Bruce got any older.

'He abandoned me and Mum, kid. His career was more important, and then he pissed off and got that cushy butler job with your parents. Maybe he'll stick around longer since you're paying him. Who knows. He's a piece of shit.'

A not-so-small part of Bruce (roughly the size of an eight year old who couldn't save his parents) was convinced Alfred would— that maybe he could love Bruce if he was more like his parents. Only Bruce’s parents were basically saints and Bruce had let them bleed out in an alleyway and it was entirely my fault.

If I hadn't insisted on going to the movies for my birthday, if I hadn't been born to begin with, all of them would be alive right now: my mother, and father, and my brother.

Auntie Harriet had said no child was born evil. Bruce had felt like she was just trying to make him feel better. Now that he was basically an adult, he was pretty sure that was exactly it. A good person wouldn't be sitting in the office of an arms dealer who'd just openly admitted to scalping prices on humanitarian aid, and thinking, 'I just want to go home.'

Bruce took the photograph and studied it coldly. Shelia's eyes tracked him.

"He sounds like a nuisance," Bruce said. He handed the photograph to Jean-Paul. "I'm sure he'll see reason after we're done with him."

"I'm glad to hear it. As soon as my pest problem is dealt with, you'll have your passports."

"No," Bruce said. Shelia arched her eyebrows. He leaned into the chair, crossing his legs lazily. "One passport before the job, as a show of goodwill, and the other after we're done."

"You don't trust me?"

"Oh, I trust you to be a ruthless business woman."

Shelia laughed brightly, tucking hair behind her ear before she leaned more into her desk. Her breasts looked like they might spill out of her tanktop. Bruce ignored them, fixating like an idiot on her mouth instead.

"Fine," Shelia had purred. "But remember that if you betray my confidence, pretty boy."

And now they were casing an illegal hookah bar, waiting to see if Roman Sionis would be making an appearance.

“Alright, pretty boy, you know the plan?”

“Don’t call me that,” Bruce scowled, fingers brushing over the handles of the knives he’d hidden underneath his clothes.

“Would you prefer manwhore?” Jean-Paul asked, looking altogether too pleased with himself.

“Shut up.”

“You know, there was a reason sweet Shelia gave us my fake papers, first,” Jean-Paul grinned. He laughed under his breath as Bruce elbow-checked him on their way into the bar.