It isn't that Steve forgets about Bruce. It's more that when shit hits the fan -Tony, Peggy dying, the accords being signed - he forgets that he had personal belongings being auctioned off, much less that there'd been an offer made to buy them.
Whether being fugitive drives prices up or down, Steve definitely doesn't have the bandwidth to care about.
What he does have the bandwidth to very much care about is finding somewhere to be until he can get enough information to get his people out of the floating, high security prison they were put in when they refused to sign. And time to get a plan together for what he's doing with them after that.
The offer to let Bruce know if he could help? That one he definitely remembers. Doesn't like needing it, but he has next to no other options. Not like 'wanted criminal' is a position he's got a lot of experience with.
He does have sense though, both tactical and otherwise. Which is why his people are in a high security prison floating in the ocean, and Steve isn't. It's also why he calls from a disposable phone and number.
All he says, though, is "I could use a drink." Steve can't get drunk and he's pretty sure Bruce doesn't drink. He's just going to have to hope Bruce is either secure in his security or just spits out an address - or both. Reading between the lines he knows Bruce will do.
Truthfully, Bruce had his own problems. There were too many people who saw Arkham City's closure and Joker's death as an ending. In the quiet that followed, Bruce could see how easy it was to feel that way. But he also knew his city. Knew how it moved and breathed and thought. It wasn't an ending. It was an opening, for something to fill the void Joker had left behind. Bruce had to make sure that something wasn't worse.
So that meant long nights. Well, longer nights, pouring over schematics and plans. Not only to improve his weaponry but to improve the car's capabilities as well. He wanted to be prepared for anything, even if that anything turned out to be nothing at all.
The accords, while a thought, hadn't been a real priority. It'd been filed under 'deal with it later' if it ever became a problem. It seemed a more immediate threat to the likes of Superman and Flash and to Steve than to him at any rate. That is until Steve called. He was tempted to let the answering machine pick it up ( he had work to do ) but when he realized just who it was, he decided to keep his word and answer.
"Well, Rogers, you're in luck. I've got plenty. Come by the Tower. They'll let you into the penthouse."
He's going to take use of his name as a sign that Bruce trusts his phone line. Unless he has radically misunderstood everything about the man, he doesn't expect this to be some elaborate trap.
He's made worse judgement calls, but as a rule? He has a lot of faith in individuals and Bruce has put his own ass on the line for others too many times for him to expect him to pull anything with that.
"Give me fifteen. Make the door you want me in obvious for me, would you?"
He's there in ten. He's not cagey or even overly cautious in his approach. A little tense, maybe but that's because it's Gotham and that Tower is... imposing.
The first night in Germany is quiet. Bruce didn't sleep, even though he should have. He's jet lagged and exhausted, but he keeps himself awake until the small hours of the morning, when the sun is beginning to rise. That's when he slept for a handful of hours. When he wakes, it's still morning and he gets up to make himself some coffee.
The penthouse where they're staying is a luxurious one with a great view of the city's skyline. The Expo would be held in the ballroom downstairs so they wouldn't have far to travel, thankfully. Lucius would be responsible for the finer details of the trip. Bruce would be responsible for the party. And his date.
Bruce knows his sleep schedule isn't exactly normal, so he does not disturb Steve when he gets up. At least he tries. He's able to move quietly and efficiently around the kitchen, preparing a bit of breakfast.
And that is where Steve will find him, sitting at the table coffee mug in hand while he reads the paper and checks the news back home.
Fortunately, though which of them it's fortunate for isn't clear, Steve can go without sleep for a really extended period of time if he has to. Also fortunately he is fully capable of taking his sleep when and where he can get it, regardless of environment, time zone or much else.
The later's directly due to the military and only fair - they gave him nightmares and trauma that makes him wake quickly, the least they could (and did) do was make sure he was able to effectively force himself to sleep when needed.
Meaning Bruce stayed up, Steve stayed up but he kept himself busy with a book and his sketchpad, dim light and pretended not to notice that Bruce was exhausted but not sleeping. When Bruce slept, he slept. When Bruce wakes up and that noise filters in, he gives it a little time and then goes and takes a shower, pulls on some clothes and brushes his teeth.
Then goes out to find Bruce reading the paper. "Have you ordered food yet?" And without pause: "Everything at home all right?" Of course he's still keeping an eye on things. That's just a given: it's Bruce.
[Perhaps, just perhaps, Jason has some issues with "communication". Less about what he wants; shockingly he's clear about that. Rather, about when he might "drop by" for what some might call "a visit" but most would call "blatant arson."
He would never burn the manor down.
You know.
On purpose.
Just some light arson here.
He's very casually come into the cave when Bruce is away, and started hunting down some accelerants, and after finding them, he is casually surrounding his memorial with them. He's pretty pleased with himself, and he knows he only has a little while - maybe even only minutes - but he doesn't expect the Batmobile back this fast. When Bruce is coming out of the car, he's got his crowbar in one hand, hefting it to break the glass.
He's mostly dressed in his armor but his mask is on his bike near the entrance to the cave.]
[ Bruce knew Jason hated the memorial. But it never made a difference. Because it was more than a way to remember Jason and the boy he'd once been. It was so Bruce could never forget all the ways he'd failed him. These were his consequences and he had to live with them.
He's alerted to an intruder seconds after Jason sets foot in the cave, so it takes no time at all for Bruce to reverse course and speed his way back home. It's minutes that pass, but when danger is in your personal space it can feel like hours.
When the car zooms into the cave and parks near to Jason's bike, Bruce should have felt some relief but he's still tense. Jason didn't say he would be stopping by and that does not bode well. And when he sees what Jason's done to the memorial, Bruce's instincts are confirmed. ]
[One of the few benefits of being dead is that he doesn't have to attend a single event for rich people ever again.
Sure, he was okay at it as a kid, when Bruce would protect him from the worst of the snobbery and some of the people who would attend would give Jason pats on the head and Alfred would slip him the extra good snacks. But by the time he was fourteen it started feeling old, boring, and mostly just irritating. And now, he would rather chew off his own leg.
But attending like this? This is actually a lot of fun.
The gala is in a ballroom with a glass ceiling - incredible - meaning that Jason can stage a really dramatic entrance and exit. He gets to use his glass cutter that he kind of made himself. He gets to come after Brucie.
Honestly it's like Christmas.
When he descends on the gala, the screaming announces him in a way that's actually kind of pleasing to the ear. Some dude has private security, and that's a tranq dart to the ex-military dude's leg, oh, he's down, and Jason's modified voice is booming.]
I'm just here for Wayne!
[And with that he grabs Bruce around the waist, punches someone who is trying to stop him, and tugs his line.]
[ It's no secret Bruce hated these kinds of social obligations and if they were not obligations, crucial in maintaining his identity, he would rsvp no every chance he got. He'd much rather be at home, working. Maintaining his gear, monitoring his feeds, all of it sounded better than this.
Honestly, it made sense at the time to offer Jason some quick cash in exchange for a kidnapping. It would certainly generate some headlines and it would get him out of the next few invites with the deepest sympathies from the hosts.
He told Jason no explosions. But maybe he should have also stipulated no dramatics either. It'd make sure no one got hurt because he wanted out. Ah well, guess he's paying a couple of hospital bills too.
As Jason grabs him, Bruce does put up a bit of a show. Just to make it believable. ]
When the auction ends, Blake does well to hide his mild shock and disappointment at the outcome. It's a lot of money — he's not sad about that — but the bidding war that had taken place had left him feeling an undue amount of scrutiny, not to mention renewed concern over whatever expectations might come with this unexpected outcome.
Because the money's for the kids, he tells himself it's fine. The winning bid goes to a notoriously kind woman — her family is old money out of Russia — and while he thinks her plans will be fine, he's been told it's all meant to be standard: A photograph, a sit down meal with suitably pleasant conversation (translated professionally), and a visit to the orphanage where Blake grew up to wrap up the evening.
Blake will hate it, but he'll endure.
Truth be told, he was kind of hoping to ride a motorcycle, eat some cheap food, and maybe see where the night went with Bruce. He'd almost hitched his entire wagon to that star when he'd slipped into the crisp, clean tuxedo and presented himself on stage like a gussied up blue ribbon prize bull.
When the last of the arrangements are made, with ceremonial checks signed and proctored applause long died off, Blake catches Bruce in the hallway outside the dining hall.
"So, this is awkward," he says, only half-joking as he scrubs at the back of his head. He'd started the night pretty excited, but now he's more jittery than anything. Too much caffeine, too much attention, not enough room to fidget when the suit is exactly his size.
Bruce wasn't trying to lose on purpose. When he told Blake he was looking forward to going out with him, that had been an honest statement. Or as honest as you could get from Bruce when he's pretending to be some clueless billionare. It really should have been very easy. No one this side of the Atlantic could outbid Bruce Wayne. Probably the Pacific too. And if he'd been in his seat like he was supposed to be, waving his paddle like he was supposed to be, and running up the price like he was supposed to be the evening might have gone according to plan.
Instead he'd slipped out before it was John's turn on the auction block to stop a robbery in progress not more than 10 minutes down the road. He had plenty of time, he thought. This was going to be quick. He did not have plenty of time and really the only thing it proved was the perils of Bruce trying to be present when Batman was really the one Gotham needed. He really needed to stop making promises he couldn't keep. Bruce returned with only enough time to catch the winner of John's bid receive her congratulations.
It's for a good cause. That's what he tells himself so he's not too disappointed.
He smiles when John approaches him, notes his jitters and tries to be something close to reassuring. "I'm sorry, John. I don't know how I dropped the ball so badly." A lie. "If you're not married by the end of your date, I'd still like to take you out."
[He probably should call someone - anyone - else. Getting a face full of some new designer drug wasn't part of the plan, but he was undercover and he felt obligated to go with it or his cover would be blown.
An hour later he's still at this club, and he's feeling like his skin is going to boil off or like he's going to dissolve, or both, and all he wants is Bruce. He can't even figure out why. He's never felt like this, like he's going to absolutely lose his mind if he doesn't get-
-so he makes the call, slipping a hand onto his phone to let Bruce know he needs a pick up and he needs it soon, handing over his coordinates with a press of a button.
When Bruce does show up, Jason is on edge of the dance floor with glitter covering miles of bare skin. He's wearing short shorts, and a shirt that looks painted on, and he's got someone's hands on his hips, but there is a look to him that seems more manic than anything else.]
[ If asked, Bruce would say he doesn't stalk anyone in his orbit. He doesn't intrude or interfere or bother them when they're not actively seeking him out (or doing something he strongly disagrees with. But he likes keeping them in his peripherals, so he's never blindsided if they come to him for help. After everything it just felt right knowing that they were okay and thriving and if they ever needed him, he'd know where to go looking.
That's how he knew about Jason's undercover work before he ever sent his pick up request. He mostly stayed out of Jason's investigation, except where there had been some overlap with his own case. They were getting along and Bruce wanted to keep it that way. But even if they hadn't been, Bruce still would have come the second he got that pick up request.
Getting by security is easy enough when you know how and Bruce's been at this long enough that most people won't realize he'd been there until long after he's gone. He spots Jason easily too - the glitter may as well be a spotlight and makes his way over to him. He doesn't look injured. Just high as hell. ]
[ Bruce puts a hand on Dick's back, bracing himself so he doesn't sway too much when he's finally upright. Pain spears through him, and for once he groans quietly against it. The car swerves in close and the doors slide open, ready for them to climb in. ]
[ Dick's chest tightens at the sound that bleeds out of Bruce. he wants to reassure him that he'll be okay, to smooth along his cheek and kiss his forehead and gather Bruce up until it all heals.
he wants to patch up the mangle of flesh and blood at Bruce's lower back and to check the rest of him to make sure the adrenaline isn’t cloaking anything major they’re missing.
but he doesn't. that’s not the kind of reassurance Bruce wants. ]
I won't lose him.
[ he helps Bruce into the Batmobile before hopping into the other side. immediately, they start retreating back to the cave. Dick’s fingers flit across the screen to pull up the tracker, already working with the added benefit of distracting Bruce from the pain by letting him watch. ]
The signal’s headed toward the sewers near Blackgate. Did he say anything to you about what he wants?
[Peaceful isn’t a word one would use to describe Oswald Cobblepot.
He’s not even sure he’d recognize the feeling himself.
But for the first time in a long time, he at least looks the part, curled up on one of the plush leather sofas under a canopy of umbrellas and ice-blue neon lights. Worlds away from the jazz band, playing on without missing a beat; from the chatter and the clipped, haughty laughter of the Lounge’s clientele.
This isn’t a man whose workaholism, drinking, and less-than-ideal sleep patterns have caught up to him yet. Oswald is still young. Still determined and able to push through pain and every ‘no’ life throws at him, fighting for his right to exist, to thrive, to build something lasting in a city in a near-constant state of upheaval.
It’s just a man who trusted the drink in his hand, like he has dozens of times before. A paranoid, hypervigilant man soon to confront the reality of having been neither paranoid nor hypervigilant enough. Soon to reckon with surviving - being allowed to survive - more than just a few whispers and sidelong glances over flutes of champagne.
For now, he sleeps. His face slack and soft. Almost childlike. One hand clutching what is decidedly not a pillow.
The ache in his leg wakes him in the small hours of the morning. But it’s the exhaustion that’s overwhelming: a woolly-brained heaviness that makes even the idea of moving unthinkable. Frowning, he nuzzles his human-shaped pillow, mumbling into it. Something about mother, some half-hearted protest. There’s always something to do, somewhere to be, because Gotham never sleeps. But wedged between the back cushions and billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne, he decides the city can wait.]
[ Peaceful isn't a word to describe Bruce Wayne either.
He knew what it felt like once. Many, many years ago, when he'd been a little boy holding his mother's hand as they walked through the dark stretch of alley. When he looks back on it, examines it from every angle his mind can conjure, he's pretty sure he was happy then. But then, tragedy struck, and in a lot of ways, Bruce never really left that alley.
And his life became a war, violence curling in at the edges like long, sharp claws. It reaches for him, tears at him. Keeps him from going completely insane. It took all of the rest of his youth, but Bruce had to learn how to withstand it, so he could bend it to his will. Force it into a shape that makes sense, instead of this albatross intent on sinking him to Gotham's murkiest depths. It's still a weight around his neck, but the drowning's a little slower now that he's learned how to tread water.
Tonight, the battle brings him to the Iceberg Lounge to mingle with his peers and stir up the gossips like hornets. It's a decent enough cover - hiding among the elite Cobblepot liked to pretend he's apart of, while he searches for samples of the latest designer drug. Crocodile Tears they call it. He gets a sample, though not in anyway he expects. When he takes a sip of his drink, he knows immediately something is off. The aftertaste is bitter, acidic. Not the usual burn of a brown liquor. Bruce drains it after a moment of consideration.
He wakes hours later, head in a fog, eyes unclear and weary. Head, feeling like it might burst right off his shoulders. And through it, he could make out the press of another person, his breath warm against his shoulder and neck. It should be strange how comfortable he is with his bedfellow. And in some dark, sober part of him, Bruce is telling himself to move. That he is in danger.
The rest of him, ignores it in favor of tugging Oswald closer, shoving his face between Os' head and the cushion of the couch so he can sleep through the headache he can feel starting behind his eyes. ]
[Jason knows when the contract for his life - well, Red Hood's life - goes out because he is friends with several assassins who let him know that his name came up on the list. Jason considers it - it's a 50k contract, which is, you know, offensive, his life has to be worth way more - and eventually decides it's not worth worrying about.
He probably should have let Bruce know, but he also knows Bruce has his own contacts. He's on a stakeout, just him, Alice (his favorite sniper rifle, brought for her scope more than her ability to kill a man) and a bag of Nerd clusters, and he's chilling on the roof of the Park Row branch of the First Gotham Bank watching an apartment over on the other side of the street when he feels eyes on him.
He looks up from where he's sitting and rolls his eyes.]
[ It takes a day longer for the news to reach Batman. Someone wanted Red Hood dead and someone was willing to pay a pretty sum for it. There's a near endless list of suspects, but Bruce starts with the most likely suspects, combing through their operations, their movements, any recent disturbances. Anything that might point to Jason stirring the wrong pot and putting himself in the crosshairs of some Gotham power player looking to make an example out of him.
In the meantime, Bruce waits for a word from Jason. That he's fine. That no one has taken potshots at him in an attempt to claim the bounty. But there's nothing. And maybe if there'd been something Bruce wouldn't have felt the need to search him out.
When he's spotted, he jumps down next to Jason, cape snapping behind him, and doesn't bother disguising his disappointment. ]
It's only been a week since Tim had asked for space, and it seemed, on the surface, like Bruce had acquiesced. It wasn't like Tim didn't know the guy could still have a hundred trackers squirreled away on him that he didn't know about, and he still wasn't exactly sure there wasn't a video of that night on the roof after Ivy's, but it's been quiet, and Tim was---
Lonely.
He was lonely, okay? Kon was off-planet with Supergirl, Dick was with Bart and Kori handling Titans business for some big case in Guatemala, Barbara was helping The Birds, and even Gar was out of commission lately - dating, of all things. It wasn't like any of them were the kind of connection Tim was looking for either; he loved his friends and family, but they wouldn't fill the hole inside him right now that it felt like Bruce had left.
So Tim went to the clubs again. Sue him. He knew better, but if his one vice was getting too drunk and making out with a hot guy at a leather bar (and maybe blowing him in the bathroom...), then it was pretty tame compared to what some of the other got up to.
He was still more than a little tipsy walking home, but not tipsy enough not to be on high alert when he realized the door to his bathroom was ajar and he felt the presence of someone else in his penthouse apartment. He slid past the kitchen island, palming out the bo staff that fit seamlessly into a hidden compartment and getting a good grip on it as he flipped the lights.
"----Bruce?" His shoulders slumped out of the defensive pose.
It's been one week since Bruce has seen Tim in person. And it's, at least in some small part, because Bruce is respecting Tim's request. He'd asked for space and despite it being a bitter thing, Bruce gave it to him. If he wants Tim to understand how lonely the world could feel without him, how empty the silence gets when he's not there to fill it, Bruce knows he's got to let this linger. Let it ache. Let it settle into Tim's bones the way it's settled into his.
Bruce keeps himself distracted, by throwing himself into his current case, burying himself in layers of intel and analysis and fieldwork and follow up. All of it to say he's just busy and not waiting, even if that's exactly what he's doing. Waiting, waiting, waiting for Tim to come to his senses and come back on his own. It's been a week and not a word. When he said he didn't sit around watching Tim's every movement, that had been a true statement. A week ago. Now, it's just his latest fixation, born of worry and something far less noble. That quiet ache he got whenever he thought about Tim on that rooftop. Whenever he watched the video he'd promised no longer existed.
It all coalesced into something dark and heavy. Dark enough to put him in Tim's neighborhood the night he stumbled home. Dark enough that it had him slipping into Tim's apartment, making himself at home in the space. Bruce heard him before he saw him. There's something unmistakable about the rhythm of someone stumbling home. Especially when they're tipsy. The thought made his jaw set tighter. When the lights flipped on, Tim would see Batman sitting at his table, first aid supplies scattered across it, blood drying on dark on the sliced open parts of his suit.
He put a hand up, as if to say wait. "I needed a moment." And an excuse. Maybe he let that last thug get a few cheap shots in, just so he'd have a reason to stop. Maybe he stopped that mugging in Tim's neighborhood so he'd have a reason to be here. "I won't be long."
Ultimately, Bruce keeps his word. The night does turn out to be a long one after a drug bust leads him into a deeper conspiracy, but it's something that would need more time and research and investigation. Something he isn't going to get done in one night, despite his best efforts. So for once, just this once, he'll set it aside for now.
It's early morning by the time he makes it back to Tim's apartment, slipping in the same way he had the first time. He's exhausted and isn't entirely careful about shedding the suit. It ends up in a heap on the floor by his bedroom door. The bed dips under his weight and whether Tim is there or not, Bruce is asleep the second his head hits the pillow.
Tim is certainly there, passed out on his stomach, still completely nude but at least showered and cleaned out and covered by fine sheets and a massive comforter. He's in deep enough REM that he doesn't even register Bruce coming in, sleeping beside him. So when he wakes and finds the bed full of Bruce around eight in the morning--a late sleep in for both of them--he's shocked. Spends a few minutes in dumb shock just watching Bruce sleep.
Because really--when was the last time he'd seen Bruce actually sleep and not just rest his eyes or take a power nap at the console in the cave? Tim couldn't legitimately remember if he'd ever seen it. As a young teen, he'd half assumed Bruce was lying about not having super powers, figuring his meta ability was just not needing sleep.
Bruce looks soft like this. Hair over his face, his mouth gently agape. Tim bites back a smile. Stays cuddled in a bit longer, because if this is happening then he'll watch Bruce a little while longer. Maybe get up, make them some breakfast. Maybe help Bruce with his case. Like old times. So easy to fall into.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Let me know if anything need changed!
Whether being fugitive drives prices up or down, Steve definitely doesn't have the bandwidth to care about.
What he does have the bandwidth to very much care about is finding somewhere to be until he can get enough information to get his people out of the floating, high security prison they were put in when they refused to sign. And time to get a plan together for what he's doing with them after that.
The offer to let Bruce know if he could help? That one he definitely remembers. Doesn't like needing it, but he has next to no other options. Not like 'wanted criminal' is a position he's got a lot of experience with.
He does have sense though, both tactical and otherwise. Which is why his people are in a high security prison floating in the ocean, and Steve isn't. It's also why he calls from a disposable phone and number.
All he says, though, is "I could use a drink." Steve can't get drunk and he's pretty sure Bruce doesn't drink. He's just going to have to hope Bruce is either secure in his security or just spits out an address - or both. Reading between the lines he knows Bruce will do.
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So that meant long nights. Well, longer nights, pouring over schematics and plans. Not only to improve his weaponry but to improve the car's capabilities as well. He wanted to be prepared for anything, even if that anything turned out to be nothing at all.
The accords, while a thought, hadn't been a real priority. It'd been filed under 'deal with it later' if it ever became a problem. It seemed a more immediate threat to the likes of Superman and Flash and to Steve than to him at any rate. That is until Steve called. He was tempted to let the answering machine pick it up ( he had work to do ) but when he realized just who it was, he decided to keep his word and answer.
"Well, Rogers, you're in luck. I've got plenty. Come by the Tower. They'll let you into the penthouse."
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He's made worse judgement calls, but as a rule? He has a lot of faith in individuals and Bruce has put his own ass on the line for others too many times for him to expect him to pull anything with that.
"Give me fifteen. Make the door you want me in obvious for me, would you?"
He's there in ten. He's not cagey or even overly cautious in his approach. A little tense, maybe but that's because it's Gotham and that Tower is... imposing.
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Don't mind me, just did something dumb lol
I have done that too.
linked the panels cause it is insane lol
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The penthouse where they're staying is a luxurious one with a great view of the city's skyline. The Expo would be held in the ballroom downstairs so they wouldn't have far to travel, thankfully. Lucius would be responsible for the finer details of the trip. Bruce would be responsible for the party. And his date.
Bruce knows his sleep schedule isn't exactly normal, so he does not disturb Steve when he gets up. At least he tries. He's able to move quietly and efficiently around the kitchen, preparing a bit of breakfast.
And that is where Steve will find him, sitting at the table coffee mug in hand while he reads the paper and checks the news back home.
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The later's directly due to the military and only fair - they gave him nightmares and trauma that makes him wake quickly, the least they could (and did) do was make sure he was able to effectively force himself to sleep when needed.
Meaning Bruce stayed up, Steve stayed up but he kept himself busy with a book and his sketchpad, dim light and pretended not to notice that Bruce was exhausted but not sleeping. When Bruce slept, he slept. When Bruce wakes up and that noise filters in, he gives it a little time and then goes and takes a shower, pulls on some clothes and brushes his teeth.
Then goes out to find Bruce reading the paper. "Have you ordered food yet?" And without pause: "Everything at home all right?" Of course he's still keeping an eye on things. That's just a given: it's Bruce.
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happy to change format, etc
He would never burn the manor down.
You know.
On purpose.
Just some light arson here.
He's very casually come into the cave when Bruce is away, and started hunting down some accelerants, and after finding them, he is casually surrounding his memorial with them. He's pretty pleased with himself, and he knows he only has a little while - maybe even only minutes - but he doesn't expect the Batmobile back this fast. When Bruce is coming out of the car, he's got his crowbar in one hand, hefting it to break the glass.
He's mostly dressed in his armor but his mask is on his bike near the entrance to the cave.]
'sup.
It's all good!
He's alerted to an intruder seconds after Jason sets foot in the cave, so it takes no time at all for Bruce to reverse course and speed his way back home. It's minutes that pass, but when danger is in your personal space it can feel like hours.
When the car zooms into the cave and parks near to Jason's bike, Bruce should have felt some relief but he's still tense. Jason didn't say he would be stopping by and that does not bode well. And when he sees what Jason's done to the memorial, Bruce's instincts are confirmed. ]
What do you think you're doing?
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Jason 😭
He just has a lot of feelings
sorry bruce is being a jerk
it's just who he is
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Sure, he was okay at it as a kid, when Bruce would protect him from the worst of the snobbery and some of the people who would attend would give Jason pats on the head and Alfred would slip him the extra good snacks. But by the time he was fourteen it started feeling old, boring, and mostly just irritating. And now, he would rather chew off his own leg.
But attending like this? This is actually a lot of fun.
The gala is in a ballroom with a glass ceiling - incredible - meaning that Jason can stage a really dramatic entrance and exit. He gets to use his glass cutter that he kind of made himself. He gets to come after Brucie.
Honestly it's like Christmas.
When he descends on the gala, the screaming announces him in a way that's actually kind of pleasing to the ear. Some dude has private security, and that's a tranq dart to the ex-military dude's leg, oh, he's down, and Jason's modified voice is booming.]
I'm just here for Wayne!
[And with that he grabs Bruce around the waist, punches someone who is trying to stop him, and tugs his line.]
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Honestly, it made sense at the time to offer Jason some quick cash in exchange for a kidnapping. It would certainly generate some headlines and it would get him out of the next few invites with the deepest sympathies from the hosts.
He told Jason no explosions. But maybe he should have also stipulated no dramatics either. It'd make sure no one got hurt because he wanted out. Ah well, guess he's paying a couple of hospital bills too.
As Jason grabs him, Bruce does put up a bit of a show. Just to make it believable. ]
Unhand me!
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'Till the Bidder End
Because the money's for the kids, he tells himself it's fine. The winning bid goes to a notoriously kind woman — her family is old money out of Russia — and while he thinks her plans will be fine, he's been told it's all meant to be standard: A photograph, a sit down meal with suitably pleasant conversation (translated professionally), and a visit to the orphanage where Blake grew up to wrap up the evening.
Blake will hate it, but he'll endure.
Truth be told, he was kind of hoping to ride a motorcycle, eat some cheap food, and maybe see where the night went with Bruce. He'd almost hitched his entire wagon to that star when he'd slipped into the crisp, clean tuxedo and presented himself on stage like a gussied up blue ribbon prize bull.
When the last of the arrangements are made, with ceremonial checks signed and proctored applause long died off, Blake catches Bruce in the hallway outside the dining hall.
"So, this is awkward," he says, only half-joking as he scrubs at the back of his head. He'd started the night pretty excited, but now he's more jittery than anything. Too much caffeine, too much attention, not enough room to fidget when the suit is exactly his size.
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Instead he'd slipped out before it was John's turn on the auction block to stop a robbery in progress not more than 10 minutes down the road. He had plenty of time, he thought. This was going to be quick. He did not have plenty of time and really the only thing it proved was the perils of Bruce trying to be present when Batman was really the one Gotham needed. He really needed to stop making promises he couldn't keep. Bruce returned with only enough time to catch the winner of John's bid receive her congratulations.
It's for a good cause. That's what he tells himself so he's not too disappointed.
He smiles when John approaches him, notes his jitters and tries to be something close to reassuring. "I'm sorry, John. I don't know how I dropped the ball so badly." A lie. "If you're not married by the end of your date, I'd still like to take you out."
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An hour later he's still at this club, and he's feeling like his skin is going to boil off or like he's going to dissolve, or both, and all he wants is Bruce. He can't even figure out why. He's never felt like this, like he's going to absolutely lose his mind if he doesn't get-
-so he makes the call, slipping a hand onto his phone to let Bruce know he needs a pick up and he needs it soon, handing over his coordinates with a press of a button.
When Bruce does show up, Jason is on edge of the dance floor with glitter covering miles of bare skin. He's wearing short shorts, and a shirt that looks painted on, and he's got someone's hands on his hips, but there is a look to him that seems more manic than anything else.]
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That's how he knew about Jason's undercover work before he ever sent his pick up request. He mostly stayed out of Jason's investigation, except where there had been some overlap with his own case. They were getting along and Bruce wanted to keep it that way. But even if they hadn't been, Bruce still would have come the second he got that pick up request.
Getting by security is easy enough when you know how and Bruce's been at this long enough that most people won't realize he'd been there until long after he's gone. He spots Jason easily too - the glitter may as well be a spotlight and makes his way over to him. He doesn't look injured. Just high as hell. ]
I've got the car waiting. Let's go.
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[ Bruce puts a hand on Dick's back, bracing himself so he doesn't sway too much when he's finally upright. Pain spears through him, and for once he groans quietly against it. The car swerves in close and the doors slide open, ready for them to climb in. ]
Jones has a tracker. Do not lose him.
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he wants to patch up the mangle of flesh and blood at Bruce's lower back and to check the rest of him to make sure the adrenaline isn’t cloaking anything major they’re missing.
but he doesn't. that’s not the kind of reassurance Bruce wants. ]
I won't lose him.
[ he helps Bruce into the Batmobile before hopping into the other side. immediately, they start retreating back to the cave. Dick’s fingers flit across the screen to pull up the tracker, already working with the added benefit of distracting Bruce from the pain by letting him watch. ]
The signal’s headed toward the sewers near Blackgate. Did he say anything to you about what he wants?
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sorry he's like this
i expect nothing less. im also sorry hes like this.
they can be messy together
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how dare
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I've stared at this too long, fuck it LOL
He’s not even sure he’d recognize the feeling himself.
But for the first time in a long time, he at least looks the part, curled up on one of the plush leather sofas under a canopy of umbrellas and ice-blue neon lights. Worlds away from the jazz band, playing on without missing a beat; from the chatter and the clipped, haughty laughter of the Lounge’s clientele.
This isn’t a man whose workaholism, drinking, and less-than-ideal sleep patterns have caught up to him yet. Oswald is still young. Still determined and able to push through pain and every ‘no’ life throws at him, fighting for his right to exist, to thrive, to build something lasting in a city in a near-constant state of upheaval.
It’s just a man who trusted the drink in his hand, like he has dozens of times before. A paranoid, hypervigilant man soon to confront the reality of having been neither paranoid nor hypervigilant enough. Soon to reckon with surviving - being allowed to survive - more than just a few whispers and sidelong glances over flutes of champagne.
For now, he sleeps. His face slack and soft. Almost childlike. One hand clutching what is decidedly not a pillow.
The ache in his leg wakes him in the small hours of the morning. But it’s the exhaustion that’s overwhelming: a woolly-brained heaviness that makes even the idea of moving unthinkable. Frowning, he nuzzles his human-shaped pillow, mumbling into it. Something about mother, some half-hearted protest. There’s always something to do, somewhere to be, because Gotham never sleeps. But wedged between the back cushions and billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne, he decides the city can wait.]
Let's goooooo
He knew what it felt like once. Many, many years ago, when he'd been a little boy holding his mother's hand as they walked through the dark stretch of alley. When he looks back on it, examines it from every angle his mind can conjure, he's pretty sure he was happy then. But then, tragedy struck, and in a lot of ways, Bruce never really left that alley.
And his life became a war, violence curling in at the edges like long, sharp claws. It reaches for him, tears at him. Keeps him from going completely insane. It took all of the rest of his youth, but Bruce had to learn how to withstand it, so he could bend it to his will. Force it into a shape that makes sense, instead of this albatross intent on sinking him to Gotham's murkiest depths. It's still a weight around his neck, but the drowning's a little slower now that he's learned how to tread water.
Tonight, the battle brings him to the Iceberg Lounge to mingle with his peers and stir up the gossips like hornets. It's a decent enough cover - hiding among the elite Cobblepot liked to pretend he's apart of, while he searches for samples of the latest designer drug. Crocodile Tears they call it. He gets a sample, though not in anyway he expects. When he takes a sip of his drink, he knows immediately something is off. The aftertaste is bitter, acidic. Not the usual burn of a brown liquor. Bruce drains it after a moment of consideration.
He wakes hours later, head in a fog, eyes unclear and weary. Head, feeling like it might burst right off his shoulders. And through it, he could make out the press of another person, his breath warm against his shoulder and neck. It should be strange how comfortable he is with his bedfellow. And in some dark, sober part of him, Bruce is telling himself to move. That he is in danger.
The rest of him, ignores it in favor of tugging Oswald closer, shoving his face between Os' head and the cushion of the couch so he can sleep through the headache he can feel starting behind his eyes. ]
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now that's using your head /rimshot sfx
*gives os an advil for the headache*
thanks! /grabs bottle :]b so long, liver
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s'all good!
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/runs
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hello :)
He probably should have let Bruce know, but he also knows Bruce has his own contacts. He's on a stakeout, just him, Alice (his favorite sniper rifle, brought for her scope more than her ability to kill a man) and a bag of Nerd clusters, and he's chilling on the roof of the Park Row branch of the First Gotham Bank watching an apartment over on the other side of the street when he feels eyes on him.
He looks up from where he's sitting and rolls his eyes.]
Oh look.
It's the night.
Hi :)
In the meantime, Bruce waits for a word from Jason. That he's fine. That no one has taken potshots at him in an attempt to claim the bounty. But there's nothing. And maybe if there'd been something Bruce wouldn't have felt the need to search him out.
When he's spotted, he jumps down next to Jason, cape snapping behind him, and doesn't bother disguising his disappointment. ]
When were you going to tell me about the bounty?
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boom baby
Lonely.
He was lonely, okay? Kon was off-planet with Supergirl, Dick was with Bart and Kori handling Titans business for some big case in Guatemala, Barbara was helping The Birds, and even Gar was out of commission lately - dating, of all things. It wasn't like any of them were the kind of connection Tim was looking for either; he loved his friends and family, but they wouldn't fill the hole inside him right now that it felt like Bruce had left.
So Tim went to the clubs again. Sue him. He knew better, but if his one vice was getting too drunk and making out with a hot guy at a leather bar (and maybe blowing him in the bathroom...), then it was pretty tame compared to what some of the other got up to.
He was still more than a little tipsy walking home, but not tipsy enough not to be on high alert when he realized the door to his bathroom was ajar and he felt the presence of someone else in his penthouse apartment. He slid past the kitchen island, palming out the bo staff that fit seamlessly into a hidden compartment and getting a good grip on it as he flipped the lights.
"----Bruce?" His shoulders slumped out of the defensive pose.
yesss perfect
Bruce keeps himself distracted, by throwing himself into his current case, burying himself in layers of intel and analysis and fieldwork and follow up. All of it to say he's just busy and not waiting, even if that's exactly what he's doing. Waiting, waiting, waiting for Tim to come to his senses and come back on his own. It's been a week and not a word. When he said he didn't sit around watching Tim's every movement, that had been a true statement. A week ago. Now, it's just his latest fixation, born of worry and something far less noble. That quiet ache he got whenever he thought about Tim on that rooftop. Whenever he watched the video he'd promised no longer existed.
It all coalesced into something dark and heavy. Dark enough to put him in Tim's neighborhood the night he stumbled home. Dark enough that it had him slipping into Tim's apartment, making himself at home in the space. Bruce heard him before he saw him. There's something unmistakable about the rhythm of someone stumbling home. Especially when they're tipsy. The thought made his jaw set tighter. When the lights flipped on, Tim would see Batman sitting at his table, first aid supplies scattered across it, blood drying on dark on the sliced open parts of his suit.
He put a hand up, as if to say wait. "I needed a moment." And an excuse. Maybe he let that last thug get a few cheap shots in, just so he'd have a reason to stop. Maybe he stopped that mugging in Tim's neighborhood so he'd have a reason to be here. "I won't be long."
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It's early morning by the time he makes it back to Tim's apartment, slipping in the same way he had the first time. He's exhausted and isn't entirely careful about shedding the suit. It ends up in a heap on the floor by his bedroom door. The bed dips under his weight and whether Tim is there or not, Bruce is asleep the second his head hits the pillow.
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Because really--when was the last time he'd seen Bruce actually sleep and not just rest his eyes or take a power nap at the console in the cave? Tim couldn't legitimately remember if he'd ever seen it. As a young teen, he'd half assumed Bruce was lying about not having super powers, figuring his meta ability was just not needing sleep.
Bruce looks soft like this. Hair over his face, his mouth gently agape. Tim bites back a smile. Stays cuddled in a bit longer, because if this is happening then he'll watch Bruce a little while longer. Maybe get up, make them some breakfast. Maybe help Bruce with his case. Like old times. So easy to fall into.
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