[ 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 couldn’t feel more accurate.
Chasing his dreams have come at a cost, like all dreams do. He’s 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 he’s 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 hasn’t 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 isn’t always safe. Yet, despite the worst the city has dashed him against, how close he’s come to giving up, Oswald can’t imagine quitting. Can’t 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 can’t do it being good; if Gotham has taught him anything, it’s that kindness and mercy don’t get results. Sooner or later, they just get a man killed.
Bruce’s 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 doesn’t ask. He doesn’t 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 Bruce’s arm a pat. A soft puff of laughter escapes him, despite himself, at the firmness of his arm.]
Someone’s been hitting the gym. [He notes, his eyebrows lifting.] ...Well. Don’t 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 – 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 – 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. ]
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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 couldn’t feel more accurate.
Chasing his dreams have come at a cost, like all dreams do. He’s 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 he’s 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 hasn’t 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 isn’t always safe. Yet, despite the worst the city has dashed him against, how close he’s come to giving up, Oswald can’t imagine quitting. Can’t 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 can’t do it being good; if Gotham has taught him anything, it’s that kindness and mercy don’t get results. Sooner or later, they just get a man killed.
Bruce’s 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 doesn’t ask. He doesn’t 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 Bruce’s arm a pat. A soft puff of laughter escapes him, despite himself, at the firmness of his arm.]
Someone’s been hitting the gym. [He notes, his eyebrows lifting.] ...Well. Don’t 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 – 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 – 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. ]