[His gaze snaps, mid-conversation, to the rumpled bill trading hands. The tip is pocketed with a nod, a polite, restrained smile - a sort of Mona Lisa smile that could mean nothing and everything under the circumstances. Frowning, Oswald lifts his drink to his lips, half-listening as Bruce talks about hotels and left shoes, his headache sharpening behind his eyebrows. He finds himself wondering if itās even true, this story, or just one of those go-to cocktail party anecdotes people like Bruce tend to keep on hand. Maybe this is Bruce giving him permission to relax, offering an out. Or just filling the silence before it has a chance to settle. Either way, the answer matters less to Oswald than Bruceās tone as it shifts away from humour.
Worried almost feels like an exaggeration on Bruceās part. But Oswald canāt deny the flutter of relief he feels at Bruceās willingness to extend him the benefit of the doubt. As someone too used to being assumed guilty by default, and yet, never so used to it that it doesnāt hurt, he canāt help the slight softening of his features any more than he can help the click in his throat when he swallows.]
Thank you, Mr. Wayne.
[Real or not, Bruceās grace has given him something else to think about. Something heād think about long after the clubās doors closed for the night. But for now, his moment of vulnerability passes, and heās sucked back into the hungry black hole of his anger.]
But, with all due respect, what you call a mere inconvenience was a brazen, calculated attack - one that could have ended very differently for you. Whether you were the intended target or simply caught in the crossfire, I cannot, in good conscience, let this slide - nor do I have the luxury.
[He inhales sharply, with the bold, almost defiant energy of a man drawing himself up before a firing squad.]
I made a promise to this city the day I first stood before the lectern outside City Hall as its mayor. The people of Gotham turned to me in their hour of need - brothers, sisters, families - and, time and again, I delivered on that promise. I answered their pleas when the GCPD had failed them.
[He insists, the fierceness in his eye daring anyone to tell him differently with more than a few public safety reports speaking to his success.]
And while I may no longer hold office, my commitment to order remains unchanged - here, and in the streets. I give you my word, Bruce: I will find whoever was responsible for this, and they will be brought to justice.
[ There's always one of two reactions to that story. A polite laugh. A knowing smirk. An acknowledgment of his antics. Ol Brucie's at it again as it were. And then there's reactions like Oswald's: subdued. Uninterested. Like its one of those dime-a-dozen kind of tales, something to laugh about over expensive cocktails and backhanded compliments. Those reactions are almost always the most interesting. Because the charm isn't working as intended and Bruce has to find another advantage.
That billion dollar smile and that somewhat crass humor would only carry him so far with someone like Oswald. Eventually, he'd see right through him--or worse, get bored of him. So it's often better to lean into something a little more sincere. Men like Oswald didn't want to be jerked around. Selectively offered sincerity could keep the conversation flowing just as effectively.
Bruce softens the smile, so it doesn't feel quite so forced. Lowers his pitch and slows the pace of his words. Not enough to be noticed outright. But it's enough to shift the rhythm, make the conversation flow a little slower. He leans in against the bar, shifts just so, so he's leaning that much closer to Oswald. Like they're old friends having a quiet chat over drinks. ]
I don't know if I was or not. People think they'll get something out of me if they threaten me or kidnap me. Maybe that's what happened last night. Maybe not. [ He shrugs a little; like it happens often enough Bruce barely thinks about it anymore. ]
I remember that speech. [ And it made him recoil. ] I think you know what Gotham needs, probably better than any of us. You're out here in the trenches, I guess you could say.
[ He shifts a little where he stands, like something inside won't let him be still. Like something anxious is pushing and pulling him. ]
If I can help you in anyway, will you let me know?
[A lifetime of being ruthlessly bullied has made him hypersensitive to anything even vaguely resembling mockery. But he believes Bruce is being honest with him, because he wants it to be true. Because, most days, in the trenches couldnāt feel more accurate.
Chasing his dreams have come at a cost, like all dreams do. Heās been threatened in nearly every way a man can be, and there are limits, he has realized, to how far his cunning can take him, the situations it can weasel him out of. He knows the grinding crunch his own bones can make; knows the rusty tang of blood in his mouth. With every passing year, he leans more heavily on his cane, the pain in his leg reaching further up into his hip. But heās still swift on his feet when he needs to be, always keeping a few paces ahead of this life he chose, or that has chosen him. What hasnāt killed him has only made him meaner; whatever good is left in him survives buried deep under sarcasm and scar tissue, and even there, it isnāt always safe. Yet, despite the worst the city has dashed him against, how close heās come to giving up, Oswald canāt imagine quitting. Canāt imagine letting go of the dream - for the effort and loss and pain to have all been for nothing. He will live and die a great man, just like his mom had promised him. He canāt do it being good; if Gotham has taught him anything, itās that kindness and mercy donāt get results. Sooner or later, they just get a man killed.
Bruceās slow, conspiratorial lean, their shared closeness, makes it more noticeable when a sort of restlessness comes over Bruce. Had his conviction come off as too fierce? Had the force of his unflinching resolve - his idea of justice, and the lengths he was willing to go to see it realized - stirred something dark and ugly in Bruce? Oswald doesnāt ask. He doesnāt apologize, either.]
Of course. [Said like an old friend to an old friend, a smoky hint of whisky on his breath. His intensity has dropped off a notch. But the line of his shoulders holds a piano-wire tightness.] If there is anything you feel I should know about - anything at all - you can tell me.
[Anything, with a caveat. But he trusts Bruce not to abuse the invitation.
His smile finally reappears: small and lopsided. All lips, no teeth. He polishes off the rest of his glass in a single, wincing gulp and sets it down to give Bruceās arm a pat. A soft puff of laughter escapes him, despite himself, at the firmness of his arm.]
Someoneās been hitting the gym. [He notes, his eyebrows lifting.] ...Well. Donāt let me keep you. I am sure your companion would love to have your ear back.
[ He wouldn't say for sure, but he's comfortable assuming Oswald believes him. Or at least finds him plausible. Maybe not enough to trust, but there's no recoil when Bruce leans in, no questions to press the matter beyond what little Bruce has already given him. It helps that there's some sincerity in what he's saying. He never doubted Oswald's commitment. Despite everything that's come after, he didn't doubt for a single second that Oswald wanted to help Gotham.
It's just sometimes, Gotham has to be dragged into the light ā kicking and screaming and leaving claw marks on the floor. Bruce knows that. Oswald did too.
The shame is that for all their similarities, their differences keep them at odds. Bruce hates that they couldn't meet somewhere in the middle. Hates that Oswald dresses his ambition up like its salvation. Hates that a man's desire for something better could put him on the wrong side of Arkham's walls. Could make him so diametrically opposed to what the Bat's mission that is shattered the foundation for an alliance before it could ever truly exist.
Must be the Gotham in them though. Divide and conquer. Keep them divided so there's never a united front to root out all the ugly parts of her.
Oswald reassures him that he could speak freely and for some that might seem like an invitation to babble endlessly about the most inane of topics and Bruce almost takes him up on it. He has a name in mind, and it would be an easy thing to weave it into the conversation. Let it slip like it's an accident. He makes a show of it, like he's holding something back ā opening his mouth and closing it again. Then smiling and nodding when Oswald pats his arm. It's permission to walk away. The grin widens into something bright and sunny while he flexes a bit. ]
Can you tell? I've been going to the gym four days a week. Vanessa Stirling told me my arms felt flabby last summer and I haven't slept right since.
[ He turns to go, leaving his drink behind. Then pretending to remember it. When he turns to look at Oswald, he finally leans in again and says in a low voice ]
If you really mean that I can tell you anything, well I think you should know this. I hear Alberto Falcone is pushing Crocodile Tears.
[ Then he snags his drink, gives a friendly wave, and heads back to his friends. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theknightshift) wrote2024-11-12 08:56 pm
/runs
Worried almost feels like an exaggeration on Bruceās part. But Oswald canāt deny the flutter of relief he feels at Bruceās willingness to extend him the benefit of the doubt. As someone too used to being assumed guilty by default, and yet, never so used to it that it doesnāt hurt, he canāt help the slight softening of his features any more than he can help the click in his throat when he swallows.]
Thank you, Mr. Wayne.
[Real or not, Bruceās grace has given him something else to think about. Something heād think about long after the clubās doors closed for the night. But for now, his moment of vulnerability passes, and heās sucked back into the hungry black hole of his anger.]
But, with all due respect, what you call a mere inconvenience was a brazen, calculated attack - one that could have ended very differently for you. Whether you were the intended target or simply caught in the crossfire, I cannot, in good conscience, let this slide - nor do I have the luxury.
[He inhales sharply, with the bold, almost defiant energy of a man drawing himself up before a firing squad.]
I made a promise to this city the day I first stood before the lectern outside City Hall as its mayor. The people of Gotham turned to me in their hour of need - brothers, sisters, families - and, time and again, I delivered on that promise. I answered their pleas when the GCPD had failed them.
[He insists, the fierceness in his eye daring anyone to tell him differently with more than a few public safety reports speaking to his success.]
And while I may no longer hold office, my commitment to order remains unchanged - here, and in the streets. I give you my word, Bruce: I will find whoever was responsible for this, and they will be brought to justice.
no subject
That billion dollar smile and that somewhat crass humor would only carry him so far with someone like Oswald. Eventually, he'd see right through him--or worse, get bored of him. So it's often better to lean into something a little more sincere. Men like Oswald didn't want to be jerked around. Selectively offered sincerity could keep the conversation flowing just as effectively.
Bruce softens the smile, so it doesn't feel quite so forced. Lowers his pitch and slows the pace of his words. Not enough to be noticed outright. But it's enough to shift the rhythm, make the conversation flow a little slower. He leans in against the bar, shifts just so, so he's leaning that much closer to Oswald. Like they're old friends having a quiet chat over drinks. ]
I don't know if I was or not. People think they'll get something out of me if they threaten me or kidnap me. Maybe that's what happened last night. Maybe not. [ He shrugs a little; like it happens often enough Bruce barely thinks about it anymore. ]
I remember that speech. [ And it made him recoil. ] I think you know what Gotham needs, probably better than any of us. You're out here in the trenches, I guess you could say.
[ He shifts a little where he stands, like something inside won't let him be still. Like something anxious is pushing and pulling him. ]
If I can help you in anyway, will you let me know?
no subject
[A lifetime of being ruthlessly bullied has made him hypersensitive to anything even vaguely resembling mockery. But he believes Bruce is being honest with him, because he wants it to be true. Because, most days, in the trenches couldnāt feel more accurate.
Chasing his dreams have come at a cost, like all dreams do. Heās been threatened in nearly every way a man can be, and there are limits, he has realized, to how far his cunning can take him, the situations it can weasel him out of. He knows the grinding crunch his own bones can make; knows the rusty tang of blood in his mouth. With every passing year, he leans more heavily on his cane, the pain in his leg reaching further up into his hip. But heās still swift on his feet when he needs to be, always keeping a few paces ahead of this life he chose, or that has chosen him. What hasnāt killed him has only made him meaner; whatever good is left in him survives buried deep under sarcasm and scar tissue, and even there, it isnāt always safe. Yet, despite the worst the city has dashed him against, how close heās come to giving up, Oswald canāt imagine quitting. Canāt imagine letting go of the dream - for the effort and loss and pain to have all been for nothing. He will live and die a great man, just like his mom had promised him. He canāt do it being good; if Gotham has taught him anything, itās that kindness and mercy donāt get results. Sooner or later, they just get a man killed.
Bruceās slow, conspiratorial lean, their shared closeness, makes it more noticeable when a sort of restlessness comes over Bruce. Had his conviction come off as too fierce? Had the force of his unflinching resolve - his idea of justice, and the lengths he was willing to go to see it realized - stirred something dark and ugly in Bruce? Oswald doesnāt ask. He doesnāt apologize, either.]
Of course. [Said like an old friend to an old friend, a smoky hint of whisky on his breath. His intensity has dropped off a notch. But the line of his shoulders holds a piano-wire tightness.] If there is anything you feel I should know about - anything at all - you can tell me.
[Anything, with a caveat. But he trusts Bruce not to abuse the invitation.
His smile finally reappears: small and lopsided. All lips, no teeth. He polishes off the rest of his glass in a single, wincing gulp and sets it down to give Bruceās arm a pat. A soft puff of laughter escapes him, despite himself, at the firmness of his arm.]
Someoneās been hitting the gym. [He notes, his eyebrows lifting.] ...Well. Donāt let me keep you. I am sure your companion would love to have your ear back.
no subject
It's just sometimes, Gotham has to be dragged into the light ā kicking and screaming and leaving claw marks on the floor. Bruce knows that. Oswald did too.
The shame is that for all their similarities, their differences keep them at odds. Bruce hates that they couldn't meet somewhere in the middle. Hates that Oswald dresses his ambition up like its salvation. Hates that a man's desire for something better could put him on the wrong side of Arkham's walls. Could make him so diametrically opposed to what the Bat's mission that is shattered the foundation for an alliance before it could ever truly exist.
Must be the Gotham in them though. Divide and conquer. Keep them divided so there's never a united front to root out all the ugly parts of her.
Oswald reassures him that he could speak freely and for some that might seem like an invitation to babble endlessly about the most inane of topics and Bruce almost takes him up on it. He has a name in mind, and it would be an easy thing to weave it into the conversation. Let it slip like it's an accident. He makes a show of it, like he's holding something back ā opening his mouth and closing it again. Then smiling and nodding when Oswald pats his arm. It's permission to walk away. The grin widens into something bright and sunny while he flexes a bit. ]
Can you tell? I've been going to the gym four days a week. Vanessa Stirling told me my arms felt flabby last summer and I haven't slept right since.
[ He turns to go, leaving his drink behind. Then pretending to remember it. When he turns to look at Oswald, he finally leans in again and says in a low voice ]
If you really mean that I can tell you anything, well I think you should know this. I hear Alberto Falcone is pushing Crocodile Tears.
[ Then he snags his drink, gives a friendly wave, and heads back to his friends. ]