Author'sNote: Just a little one shot that popped into my head. Yes, I know it's technically non-canon for the movie verse if you go by the novelization, but just go with it. I think the birthday party in 'Batman Begins' was for his thirtieth birthday, if memory serves me, so I'm going with that. Enjoy and please review!

First Impressions

By: Silver Spider

When he awoke, Bruce instantly knew he'd fouled up, though he'd be damned if he could remember how exactly. Henri Ducard was standing over his cot and handed him a terrible smelling drink. There was something in the thin line of the man's mouth that told Bruce that whatever he'd done was probably worse than he imagined.

"Drink this," Ducard said curtly. "It will help with the hangover. You had yesterday for fun. It will not be your excuse for missing training today."

He was about to assure his teacher that he was not hungover, but the instant he tried to move every light and sound produced a such a dizzying sensation that he had to stop for a moment. Yup, this was definitely a hangover. He had one or two in his brief tenure in Princeton to know. How did this happen? He was in the League of Shadows training camp, for God's sake, not a preppy college.

Ducard was still looking down at him. "What do you remember from last night?"

"I..." He tried to think. "I went out, right? You let me take the day of, because... was it my birthday?"

"Indeed it was," Ducard looked amused. "You are another year older, though I'm afraid not very much wiser. You went into town."

"Yeah." It was starting to come back to him. "I... wandered around for a while, and then I found this... tea house?"

"It was a tea house," the man confirmed. "But that was not tea you were drinking."

Right. He remembered at some point switching to sweet plum Sakai. When the first flask was empty, he'd asked for another. There was food somewhere in there – some kind of local dumplings – but Bruce couldn't remember the details. There was also... He stared at Ducard.

"Did I... hit on some girl?" His voice came out half-horrified.

"You did. She was the one who asked me to come for you when you were too drunk to pick yourself up from the table."

Bruce groaned, pressing the balls of his palms into his eyes, then a sudden thought flashed through his mind. He was sitting up so fast, his head spun, but this time Bruce didn't care.

"I didn't... hurt her, did I?"

"No," Ducard assured him. "Believe me if you had, I would not have let you back into these walls. In fact, it is very likely you would be a bloody mural in the snow."

Oh, good. Not being a bloody mural was good. Bruce lay back down. "I guess it could've been worse."

And there it was again, that twitch in the corner of his teacher's mouth, that slight raise of the brow. Ducard looked almost amused, but clearly dangerous at the same time. He turned and walked to the door. He paused in the doorway.

"Trust me: it is so much worse than you think."

Hours earlier,

He hadn't actually intended to get drunk, but as these things usually went, the more he drank, the more it looked like a good idea. A day off was nice, but there was not much to do. Most of the locals regarded him, the foreigner, with suspicion. After more than a year, he still didn't really know the language, and... well, it was his birthday, after all.

There weren't many people in the tea house. The small town that sat nearly embedded into the mountain side was not exactly a popular tourist destination. Those that were around didn't bother him, and Bruce sat alone at his table idly observing the reset, not really thinking about anything in particular. Every once in a while the wooden doors would swish open and let in the cool mountain air and another local.

Except that one time...

That one time, she walked in.

Some line from an old black-and-white movie popped into his head, but he couldn't recall the exact line or the title of the movie. All Bruce knew was that he would have noticed her even if her foreign features didn't stand out here as much as his own. He would have noticed her even if he wasn't drunk – at this point Bruce would have however reluctantly admitted that he was well on his way to that – because she was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. She was talking to the shop owner, and he could have sworn she spoke the local dialog fluently. Her chestnut-brown hair was braided down her back in a single long thick braid that swayed slightly as she walked. Loose strands framed her face, and Bruce caught sight of long delicate fingers that wrapped around the tea cup that was handed to her.

She turned slightly to survey the rest of the place, apparently still waiting for the rest of her order. When her face turned in his direction, he made note of long dark lashes above moss-green eyes. She didn't have a bit of makeup on, but even then, and in her practical hiking clothes, she would have given the top-paying models a run for their money. Bruce grinned, and she smiled back, probably just trying to be polite.

"You're gorgeous."

The corner of her mouth quirked, and somehow it looked... familiar. She ignored him. He frowned. People didn't ignore him! He was Bruce Wayne! Maybe she didn't know that? He rose – somehow he could still walk – and made his way over to the counter where she waited.

"I'm Bruce." He extended his hand, but she looked everywhere but at him. Oh, right... "As in Wayne. Bruce Wayne."

That, at least, illicit a slight tilt of the head. Oh, he was making progress!

"Maybe you don't understand me? Do you speak English? Parlle vuse un France? Vy govorite po Ruski?"

Again that slight twitch of that beautiful mouth. She was listening to him!

"So my pickup lines are a little rusty," he admitted. "College was supposed to be for that, but Princeton and I had a few minor disagreements. I went there, you know. To Princeton. It's in America. You're very pretty, by the way. I mean, totally... totally hot."

"I would take it as a compliment if you didn't reek of alcohol," she replied suddenly in slightly accented but otherwise perfect English.

"Ah, she speaks!" He shifted closer. "So... ahh... what's a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?"

She actually laughed! "Your pickup lines are rusty."

"Got you to smile, so I must be doing something right. What's your name?" She bit her lip stubbornly. "Okay, you don't have to tell me. More interesting this way."

And then he kept talking and talking. Some of it actually sounded witty, but judging by the growing contemptuous look on the girl's face it was only to his ears. She didn't talk to him, but that was okay because he was doing enough talking for the both of them.

"You know what I miss about civilization? The girls. None of those in ninja school. At least you're here."

"Charming," she said flatly and took a sip of her tea. He felt just a tiny bit dizzy.

"Admittedly this isn't my best."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

"I should take you out on the town in Gotham. You'd like it."

"I very much doubt that."

"Okay, it's got a bit of a wild side, but I'm betting so do you."

"Mr. Wayne." There was a sound like air sucked in through gritted teeth. "I strongly advise you to stop speaking."

"Or..."

"Or you will regret it."

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

"A simple fact."

He didn't remember much after that. Which was really too bad. The girl was very pretty.

He felt marginally better by the afternoon but still bad enough that he'd failed almost every scion. Bruce's body felt like one giant bruise from every blade flat and Escrima stick that connected with it. Finally Ducard seemed to either take pity on him or he was completely fed up. The last drill for the day was against an opponent who couldn't have been more than a boy judging by the slight build and size.

He was better than Bruce expected, lunging at him with measured movements that were both smooth and graceful. He was suddenly glad they were going at it with katanas on the bamboo floor instead of the wobbly beams otherwise the kid would have a real advantage. As it was, Bruce's greater strength and reach helped. He thought he was almost there when he noticed the only part of his opponent not hidden by the black clothes and armor.

Those eyes... Those moss-green eyes...

Thwak!

He landed painfully on his back, and when he tried to rise, the cool kiss of the other blade touched his throat just below the jaw.

"Yield."

That voice definitely didn't belong to any man. Bruce swallowed. "I yield."

Still the katana didn't move. To his left a single clap permeated the air followed by Ducard's voice. "Enough! Release him and reveal yourself."

The threat of the sword lifted instantly, and his opponent stepped back. Bruce managed to rise on his elbows and look up just as the head covering and mask were pulled away in one smooth motion. She looked down on him, those green eyes amused and predatory with victory.

"I warned you that you would regret those thoughtless comments."

He said nothing, didn't even move until Ducard came to her side. Instantly her expression brightened, and she looked at his teacher.

"I am unimpressed, Father. You would make him out to be a warrior, but as of now your protégé leaves much to be desired."

Father?

Bruce knew he was staring. Yes, there was a definite resemblance now that he was sober and paying attention, especially in that slight quirk of the mouth that somehow signified both amusement and unhappiness. Then there had been Ducard's tone that morning, but... father?

The back of his head hit the mat with a thud, and he groaned. When he opened his eye, Ducard's hand was extended to him. He took it, and his teacher pulled him up. The girl – woman – ignored him completely but took a step towards her father.

"I'll see you at evening meal," she said sweetly and kissed his cheek.

Then she was moving away, and Bruce's gaze couldn't help but linger on the slight sway of her hips. He hadn't realized he was even doing it until next to him, Ducard cleared his throat. Again there was that half-amused, half-annoyed look. Bruce opened his mouth to apologize, but the single raised brow from his teacher told him there wasn't anything he could actually say.

"I did tell you it was worse than you thought," Ducard said wryly.

"I am so sorry," Bruce finally managed. "I..."

"You were an idiot," the man supplied, "but you meant no harm. Otherwise..."

"Bloody mural?"

"See? I knew you were smart."

"Am I allowed to talk to her?"

"You're allowed to apologize... if she lets you."

He didn't see her during dinner – presumably she ate with her father – or later that evening. At night though, during one of the times Bruce couldn't sleep, he ventured out onto one of the monastery's many balconies that overlooked the mountain. The fresh air usually helped, but steps away he caught scent of something else. Not quite perfume but something distinctly feminine. Shampoo, he thought, trying to remember the last time he bathed with something other than the harsh soap they had here.

The woman was there on the balcony, her hair free of the braid it had been bound in earlier. Another gust of wind brought the scent again, and he breathed it in. There was only a sliver of moon left in the sky, but what little light there was cast an iridescent glow across her face. He cleared his throat, but she didn't turn.

"I'm going to have to do all the talking again, aren't I?" he ventured a guess. There was no reaction. "Look, I'm sorry. I was... no excuses. I'm sorry. Let's start over, okay? I'm Bruce."

"Apology accepted." She turned her head slightly towards him. Her eyes looked even greener in the pale light.

"You haven't told me your name." He didn't miss that.

"You have to earn that knowledge."

For some reason that response thrilled him. A challenge, and that implied she might actually give him a chance to do that. He smiled.

"Miss Ducard, then," he tried. "Unless it's something else?"

She snickered. "You should consider working on your subtlety, Mr. Wayne, but I will give you that much. I am not married."

"Good. I mean..." He cleared his throat. "Good that I have something to call you."

"Because billionaire playboys never flirt with married women."

He felt himself redden a little. "I wouldn't. Just how much do you know about me?"

"A lot more than you know about me. My father wrote to me while I was in France. He spoke of you often."

"Really?" It was his turn to raise a brow. "Should I be worried, then? Since you obviously think of me as an air headed playboy."

Her back stiffened a little. "That was not due to my father's words. In fact, he thinks quite highly of you."

That he knew. Ducard was a tough teacher, but Bruce knew he liked him. Otherwise, he suspected the man wouldn't be investing so much time in him. Still...

"I have a feeling after yesterday I'm back at square one. Or maybe negative one."

"I wouldn't be too concerned. You were the subject of most of his letters, as if you were the son he never had. At times I was almost... jealous. Like I was competing with a brother."

Oh, he didn't like that. At all. The 'son' part made him feel both warm but also uncomfortable at the same time. Thomas Wayne was his father, and no one would ever take his place. But the other part...

"I don't think there's any need for that," he tried. "I'm sure he's had other students before, but only one child, right?"

"One surviving," she confirmed, and Bruce instantly felt guilty for the unintentional prying. Ducard had mentioned he had a wife that was taken from him. The loss pained him greatly, Bruce could see it. Had he lost children as well? But the woman didn't look too bothered. That was good... as long as she didn't actually think of him as a brother.

"So you're in," he tried to recall what he'd called it last night, "ninja school to see your dad?"

She smiled a little. "I spend a lot of time in Europe, and he's here, so I don't get to see him nearly enough. I miss him."

Suddenly he felt sad. "You're lucky. At least you can see him."

"I know."

He wondered if he did know. Had Ducard, in his letters, told his daughter of the great tragedy of Bruce's childhood? He felt self-conscious and looked away. When he finally had the courage to glance up, she was giving him a look that was almost sympathetic. For the first time her face looked soft.

"We needn't be at odds," she said mildly. "I do accept your apology, Mr. Wayne."

"Bruce," he reminded her. "But you still won't tell me your name."

This time her smile was coy. "No."

"Are you going to be around long enough for me to... earn the privilege?"

She seemed to consider the question. "Probably not. You'll just have to wait till my next visit."

"Which will be?" He didn't want to push her, but damn, he was curious.

"Before your thirtieth birthday."

"I just turned twenty-nine yesterday... but you knew that, didn't you?"

The young woman laughed, and for a split second he thought she might be moving to kiss him. Which, he realized as she walked towards the door, was absurd since she didn't even tell him her name. That's okay, he thought grinning and watching her go unashamedly. A year's not that long at all.

What could possibly happen in such a short time?