2. Reunions

[June 16, 2008, Afghanistan]

"Contrary to what people think, guns aren't for cowards. Long-range shooting is an art form. It can be the deciding factor in any conflict. It's pure power, and it takes immeasurable bravery and strength."

Bruce's lips tightened into a grim line. Floyd pushed his shoulder back a bit from the rifle, turned his posture slightly. They were far out in the desert, away from the town and base camp. To avoid being seen training a billionaire in the fine art of shooting, Floyd had brought Bruce out here alone. They had been camped out in this emptiness for several days now.

"I didn't see any bravery or artistry in what happened to my parents."

Bruce had been trying to restrain his hatred of firearms, but on this scalding hot morning his temper was not in check. Floyd shrugged carelessly.

"Cowards with weapons have been taking lives since the first club was made from a tree branch," he said. "I looked up your Shakespearean tragedy. That guy Frost could have killed your folks with a lead pipe as easily as he did with that gun."

"It was Chill," Bruce corrected, the name heavy on his tongue. "Joe Chill. And if you had tried to stop your brother with anything other than a gun, would he have died?"

Floyd's face blanched beneath his tan. He stood back from Bruce, staring at him. Bruce took the shot he had lined up, and then lowered the rifle. He turned to Lawton, ready for his reaction. Lawton seemed to have gone into a vegetative state.

"You checked me out," Bruce said. "I did the same. Months ago. Your mother convinced your brother to shoot your father. You took a rifle into a tree and waited. You only wanted to shoot the gun from your brother's hand, to stop him from pulling the trigger. But the branch broke. That was all that happened: the snap of a branch. The gun went off. The bullet killed your brother. Could anything other than a gun have done that?"

Floyd nodded, as if to himself, his lank brown hair falling over his forehead (he still had not cut it) and casting a shadow over his eyes. He was exceptionally fast, but Bruce saw his hand move to draw before it reached the pistol. He could not stop him from drawing, so Bruce readied himself to disarm him. Lawton pointed his pistol into Bruce's midsection, but Bruce reached his arm around Lawton's, twisted it under, held the arm rigid against his own body, and used his other hand to give Lawton's hand a sharp strike. The pistol was knocked from Lawton's hand.

Floyd had been taken by surprise, having had no clue that Bruce was trained in hand-to-hand combat. Once it registered that he was facing an equal opponent, Floyd adjusted. His leg lifted and he stepped on Bruce's foot to hold him in place, then leaned back into him, and elbowed his stomach with his free arm. Bruce grunted as Lawton twisted out from under him. He gripped his arm harder, stepped around him, and twisted his arm against the small of his back. He kicked the back of one of Lawton's knees to throw him off balance, and then forced him to his knees. He crouched over him, holding his arm to his back with one hand and squeezing his other arm around Lawton's neck. Floyd struggled, his free arm flailing. Bruce forced him low to the ground before he could take a hold on his hair or eyes.

"Easy, easy. It's over."

Floyd cursed, but he did stop struggling. He gave a sardonic laugh.

"See this is why I never dance on a first date. Now you think I'm easy."

Bruce flushed, and he felt his body responding to the insinuation. He wanted to move away, but could not give Lawton the chance. He prayed Lawton did not notice the effect being prostrated beneath him was causing.

Floyd noticed. "Like it rough, don't you, playboy?"

Bruce released him and sat back in the sand. Lawton stayed on his knees but straightened up, rubbing his arm vigorously. His anger had been lost in sheer curiosity.

"Where'd you learn to fight like that, huh?" Floyd asked. "No stateside rich kid karate school teaches real moves like that."

"You're not the first person I've trained with," Bruce said. "I meant it when I said that I wasn't going to go back to Gotham to be afraid of it. I'm not training with you to hide behind a gun, either."

"You think that's what I was doing when I was a kid?" Floyd asked, his temper flaring again. "Hiding behind a gun?"

"No, I don't think that, Floyd," Bruce said softly. "I think your mother was."

"Well, I won't argue with that." Lawton was rubbing his shoulder again, moving his arm around in its socket uncomfortably. "How the hell did you find out everything? Those were sealed juvenile records, probably locked up in some county file room back home."

"As you keep reminding me, I'm a Wayne," Bruce said. "And I confess that I took an interest in you. I used every resource I had to find out everything."

"Oh, I get it," Floyd said. "I got daddy issues, big brother issues, and I'm a bad boy with a gun. I must be catnip to you, playboy."

"You don't seem surprised by my sexuality," Bruce said. "Or offended."

Floyd shrugged, winced when the motion made his shoulder spasm.

"I'm bisexual. I take what I can get. As for surprise, I've seen the way you look at me when you think I'm not seeing you. Hell, you were checking me out the first day we met. My vision is 20/8, doesn't get any higher than that; only time I don't see something is when I'm not looking." He twisted his arm back to test it and hissed in pain. "Aow! Damn it!"

"Let me take care of that."

Floyd looked surprised, but he nodded. Bruce helped him to his feet and pushed his shirt back from his arm. Bruce had twisted his arm harder than he had intended. Floyd's shoulder would be black and blue nearly to the elbow by morning. They went into the tent they had set up, and Bruce sat Lawton on one of the folding chairs. He looked through his bag until he found a jar of balm.

"Take off your shirt."

"Hey now, aren't you gonna buy me a drink first?" Lawton took his shirt off and grinned over at Bruce. "You're pretty forward for a guy that's waited so long to make an opening move."

Bruce pulled Lawton's arm straight, and the man growled in pain. Bruce had to admit that he was a bit satisfied to have rid Floyd's face of that obnoxiously cocky grin. He soothed his hand over it then, guilty over his momentary sadism, and massaged the abused muscle briefly. Floyd was watching him with his more-than-perfect vision, his eyes traveling every line and curve of Bruce's face. Bruce felt a flush in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the desert heat. He breathed in the smell of sweat, gunpowder, metal, and the chemicals Lawton used to keep his tools of murder in perfect working order.

"That stuff reeks," Floyd complained as Bruce spread the balm over his shoulder. "Ah! Hey! It burns!"

"The effect only lasts a few minutes," Bruce explained calmly. "I got the recipe for this in China. I won't be able to make any more until I get to an import shop."

"Good," scoffed Floyd. "Feel sorry for any other guys you feel like nearly pulling the arms off of, though."

"I didn't even dislocate it," Bruce said, firmly rubbing the balm into Floyd's arm. "If you hadn't expected me to be a defenseless playboy, you might have put up a better fight."

"Believe me, it won't happen again," Floyd said. "We go at it again, and you'll need a gallon more of that nasty rub, believe me."

"And all of it for you."

"Tough guy, huh?" laughed Lawton. He reached over with his good arm to punch Bruce's shoulder. "You're all right, playboy."

"So are you, for a 'bad boy with a gun'," Bruce said. He sobered, concentrating on the massage. "Did you mean that? Is that what you think you are?"

"Sure."

Bruce met his eyes. "I thought you were a soldier? You know how bad boys with guns end up."

"Wash out of the military, end up rogue or mercenary," Floyd said, his eyes shining. "Hell, Bruce, I joined the Marines to learn how to shoot. It's a stepping stone, not a life plan, you should have guessed that by seeing my hair. That bother you? Me not being some kind of hero?"

It did. Floyd's grin hardened, grew contentious. Bruce bowed his head over the man's arm, but Floyd ducked his head down so their faces were level. Bruce paused, his hands pressed to Lawton's thick arm, their eyes locked together.

"Disappointed in me, huh? Starting to think I'm not good enough for you?"

Bruce released Lawton, wiping the remnants of the balm on his khakis.

"Do you want me to be disappointed in you, Floyd?" He put a hand to the man's cheek, recalling Halloran slapping it just days ago. "The way you think your brother would be?"

"Let it go, Bruce," Floyd warned. "I don't care what files you dug up, you don't know shit about me or my family."

Bruce knew. He knew that Floyd had spent his troubled life seeking to replace both the abusive father he loathed and the older brother he idolized. He knew that he had found the former in the military (perhaps embodied by the stern Major General himself), and that that was the very reason Floyd would eventually turn on the military. He knew that Lawton lived in a hell of guilt, narcissism, and need. Bruce had a degree in criminal psychology, and he knew that Floyd Lawton was a prime candidate for the life of a mercenary or assassin. He knew that he should hate a man like this, but all he could feel was pity for him.

"Floyd, I know I'm not your brother," Bruce said. "Do you?"

Lawton closed the distance between their profiles and crushed his lips into Bruce's. The kiss was rough and sloppy, much like the man giving it. Bruce reigned in the aggressive energy, holding Lawton's head still by his hair. He kissed him back hard.

"Would I kiss my brother like that?" Floyd grinned, breathless, his lips moist. "Stop judging me and let's just do this already."

Bruce wanted to sit him down and talk sense into him. He wanted to take away his fears and feed his needs. He wanted to save him from himself. All the psychology and insight he had was useless, and he indeed felt that he was a rich, vapid fool. His chagrin did nothing to chill his desire, however. He pulled Lawton up out of his chair, slammed him down right on the sand, and let everything cerebral go straight to hell.


[November 21, 2014, Gotham City]

The holiday time was full of social events. Bruce Wayne normally avoided these functions like a plague, but this year it was useful timing. He hacked Bobby Halloran's social calendar and found the next party he would be attending. Given that the young man was practically a professional party-goer, it happened to be the night just after Jim Gordon's shooting. There was no chance that Bobby would skip this party, either: it was being hosted at his own house. Bruce had been on the Hallorans' guest list since childhood. He RSVP-ed, spent the day planning his tactics, and then suited up that evening. He was less comfortable in a tuxedo than in his more exotic suit, but he would suffer great pains for his investigation.

Bruce arrived fashionably late. He did not want his appearance at the party to raise Lawton's suspicions. Though he wore a mask as Batman, Bruce always felt more undercover when investigating without it. He was anonymous as Batman, a force dedicated solely to finding and doling out justice. Bruce Wayne had to be curious without being overt, prying answers with the delicate precision of surgery while appearing to be clueless. It was aggravating, but if Lawton turned out to be involved in any of this, he knew that any confrontation between Lawton and Batman would be a final one.

"Bruce! You actually came!" Bobby greeted him at one point. He tugged Bruce to the bar with surprising force. "You haven't gone to any of my parties since you've been back."

"I went to the Garden Gala last March."

"That was a charity thing," Bobby said. "No matter how much alcohol you serve, it's never really … a party. You know?"

Bruce did not know.

"I'll take your word for it."

"Here, have a drink."

Bobby shoved a glass into Bruce's hand, and clinked his own glass to it. Bruce never imbibed by choice, but he was here to be inconspicuous; not drinking immediately would be as blatant as wearing an off-the-rack suit. Bruce drank from his glass. Bobby emptied his own, poured himself another.

"I missed you," Bobby said, putting an arm around Bruce's shoulders. "You left Gotham without telling anyone. Even Tommy had no clue you were leaving. I thought you were going to go to college. That we would all go together."

"You never went to college, Bobby."

"Well, no, but … I might have, if you had stuck around," Bobby said. He took a deep drink of liquor, frowning with more misery than Bruce had seen on his face since he was a child. "Tommy just ditched me when you left. He went to college and completely ignored me. I don't know why, but he acted like he forgot I even existed. Before I knew it, he was this big-deal surgeon. And you were gone. What the hell happened?"

Bruce drew a deep breath, trying to keep his patience. He hated to seek solace in drink, but he allowed himself another sip. What happened? Tommy's father died in a car crash. My parents were murdered not long after. We waited through high school with you, sure, but we were never tethered to this life, this city, or you, after that. It isn't fair. I'm sorry it hurt you. But it's life, kid. I suppose he's never realized that. I don't know whether to envy or pity him.

"I haven't talked to Tommy in years," Bobby said. "He's around, but he has his own doctor friends. Colleagues, I guess. He still acts like I don't exist. And you've been doing that, too, Bruce. You've been back for two years, and this is the first time you've actually talked to me."

Bobby was the one doing the talking, but Bruce did not point this out. They had walked from the spacious dining room to the gardens out back. It was early evening and a mild day, so the French doors leading outside to the back of the manor were open. Not many guests were outside, giving the two old friends relative privacy.

Against his will, Bruce was brought back to childhood days. He had spent many lazy after-school hours in this garden: playing chess with Tommy while Bobby watched in quiet boredom, the three boys industriously doing their homework, wasting summer evenings talking about pointless plans and dreams. He could hardly believe that he had ever been that young. It was far easier to face Bruce Wayne as the memory of a person he would never be. Realizing that a part of that boy still lived on in him made Bruce feel inexplicably sad and ashamed.

"I've been busy," Bruce lied. "Lucius Fox has been running Wayne Enterprises, but I've had to familiarize myself with its business. It's been a long time, Bobby. A lot has happened."

"Your parents." Bobby's hand lingered by his mouth, and it was only a matter of time before he started chewing on it. He had never mentioned the murder before. "And then Tommy's parents. I—When my parents divorced, I thought it was the end of the world. I couldn't imagine—I mean, I don't know what I would have done … Dad and me have had our problems, but I still … What I'm trying to say is, I … God, I'm just sorry. I'm sorry for everything you two have gone through. I know it's a lame thing to say, but it's true. You know that I mean it, right?"

For the first time in two years, Bruce reconsidered his aversion to dating Bobby. The kid was self-centered out of sheer ignorance, but he did mean well. He squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

"I know, Bobby."

Bobby was still frowning into the depths of his glass, like a medium reading tea leaves. Without looking up, he asked, "Did you see my dad in Afghanistan a few years back, Bruce?"

It was amazing how a man as clueless as Bobby Halloran had managed to hit upon the one part of Bruce's past that he was determined to hide.

Bobby's laser-whitened teeth were clamped on his manicured thumbnail.

"Dad said he ran into you. I thought it was weird. I mean, why would you be in a war zone?"

"I was just passing through, Bobby," Bruce said. "I was seeing the world, trying to face down my fears of violence. I wanted to see the war zone. It was a … a phase."

"You're brave," Bobby said. "But you and Tommy always were."

"What about you, Bobby?" Bruce asked. "Isn't there something you want to do?"

Bobby shrugged listlessly. "I don't know. I always just wanted everything to go back to the way it was. But it's not going to, is it?"

"No, it's not."

Bobby went to drink from his glass, found it empty. He took a flask from his jacket pocket and emptied it into the glass, then drank. Bruce was beginning to see through his callous, careless facade, into the darker things that were driving the seemingly shallow man: alcoholism, self-hatred, affected apathy, fear. Bruce had spent two years back in Gotham City, and he had ignored his old friend every day. Was that the cost of being Batman? Did he have to neglect the few to save the many? Was this man any less deserving of his attention than anyone else, simply because he was financially taken care of?

Bruce remembered Gordon bleeding into his hand, the shock of the wall shattering behind them, the screams of the crowd. He took a third sip of liquor, letting the rare burn settle in his blood and stomach. He was only one man, in a city soaked in pain. Contrary to many religions, a single man could never bleed enough to spare humanity its suffering.

"You must be disappointed in me."

Bobby's words were so similar to the words Floyd Lawton had spoken six years ago that Bruce felt a wave of deja vu. It was akin to vertigo of time, that feeling: standing high above on the perch of the present and suddenly being forced to look down at the gulfs of the past far below you.

"I'm not … " Bruce stopped, not wanting to escape through one of the facile lies so many people at this party lived through. "You're young, Bobby. You're not even thirty yet. You have time to do something with your life."

"But can I?"

Bruce squeezed the bridge of his nose. Compared to dealing with the psychological issues of the pointlessly rich, cleaning up crime as Batman seemed easy. He tried to feel sympathy, but frustration soon overtook it. He thought of the depths of suffering he had waded through in all corners of the world, all the endless pain, need, and abuse. This young man would never know the sharp pang of hunger or the desperation of unsatisfied thirst. His father was stern, but Bruce had seen students and children beaten within an inch of their life—and worse. He looked at Bobby, from his smooth, unmarked skin fair over clean, attractive bones, to his eyes darkened by long nights drinking thousand-dollar bottles of liquor and snorting drugs worth enough to feed villages for months. He looked at his old friend and could feel little more than irritated disgust.

"Why couldn't you?" Bruce asked, trying to keep most of the sharpness out of his voice. "You have every opportunity laid at your feet, you're healthy, you're young, so why the hell couldn't you accomplish something?"

Bobby looked at him, eyes round with surprise. "Bruce, I—"

Fortunately, they were interrupted by a third person joining them. Bruce had a glimpse of sharp black dress boots beneath a crisp, expensive trouser hem. A familiar voice said, "Mind if I cut in?

"We're not dancing," Bobby said distractedly. He was staring at Bruce with the expression of a puppy that has just been kicked: confused, hurt, and contemplating whether he dared to express anger.

The man stooped down, his face coming into full view. It took Bruce a moment to recognize Floyd Lawton: he had lost his desert tan, and he was immaculately clean-shaven and groomed. His sharp face was more handsome than ever, though his light blue eyes and wolfish grin held that much more cruelty.

"We could be," Floyd said. He glanced aside, and did a double-take. "Well, I'll be damned. Bruce Wayne."

Their eyes met, locked. Six years and thousands of miles between them, yet it felt that Bruce had just left his side yesterday. Floyd smelled of fine cologne and champagne, but Bruce could have sworn that there was a metallic undertone to his scent. It was as if he had been around guns so long that his cells had been infused with the smell of plastic, metal, and gunpowder.

Bobby watched them for a minute, then cleared his throat.

"So, uh, how do you two know each other?"

"We met overseas," Floyd said, his eyes not leaving Bruce's. "Didn't we, Bruce?"

"I was passing through Afghanistan," Bruce confirmed, also not looking away. "Your father introduced us."

"Of course," muttered Bobby. He took another drink from his glass, emptying it. He looked between the two men, and got to his feet. "Well. I'm dry. I'm going to go … take care of that."

With Bobby Halloran gone, Floyd took the seat on the garden bench next to Bruce. Bruce drew a breath, taking a sip from his glass. Floyd leaned back on the bench, stretching his long legs out before him, and crossed his arms. Whether in fine clothes or a uniform, Lawton had an inherent sloppiness that always set him apart.

"Christ, how long has it been?" Lawton asked. He thought. "Five … Six years?"

"Six years," Bruce said. His heartbeat had accelerated slightly. He was surprised that after so many long, brutal years, he still had a weak spot for the sniper. He would have to be careful of him. "It's been six years, Floyd."

"Yeah, well." Floyd dismissed the time with a shrug. "How the hell have you been, playboy?"

"Good, I've been good," Bruce said vaguely. Years of perfecting his plan to save Gotham City through the Batman flickered through his mind. The understatement almost made him laugh. "How about you? I heard you left the Marines?"

"I left the whole damn army in the dust," chuckled Floyd. "Ages ago. You knew I would."

"Yeah, we both knew it."

Floyd's eyes took on a haunted cast, and he lowered them to the snowy ground. They both knew the moment Bruce was referring to, the exact day it had become impossible for Floyd Lawton to remain a soldier.

"I'm not that kid anymore," Floyd said seriously. He turned on the bench to Bruce, moved closer to him. "I live on my own terms now. I don't have all those regrets. I don't need … the same things I used to need."

"So what is it that you do now?" Bruce asked, looking at him hard. "Nothing you feel you should be punished for? Sounds pretty bloodless."

Floyd considered, running his tongue over his teeth.

"Private security."

"That's bull," Bruce said. He smiled to soften the remark. Floyd knew him better than anyone in Gotham did, but if he got any closer, it could be fatal for Batman. "Come on, Floyd, you're the best sniper in the country. You're telling me that you're content to stand around in a monkey suit for the sake of protecting some heiress or politician?"

"Some specialized security firms use snipers for long-distance protection," Floyd said. "Highly specialized. Pays a fortune."

Bruce eyed Floyd's designer suit. He wanted to believe this trite story. He wished that he could.

"I'll bet it does. You look great, Floyd."

"Yeah, well, the kid picked it out."

"Bobby?" Bruce asked. "Are you honestly with him? He, ah, doesn't seem like your type."

"I go all ways, I told you that before," Floyd said with a smirk. "The kid is annoying, but he's cute."

"Cute? Or a way to piss off his father?"

"That was the plan," Floyd admitted, "until I found out the Major General doesn't give a damn about his son. The General, I should say. He's moved up some ranks in the past years."

"Why are you here, Floyd?"

"What?" Lawton asked. "What the hell are you asking me? Who died and made you the God of Gotham?"

"A sniper took a shot at Commissioner Gordon last night at the Ball in Blue," Bruce said. Careful, he warned himself. Careful, Bruce, don't interrogate him too hard. If it comes to that, leave it to Batman. "Jim is a friend."

"I don't miss, Bruce."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Floyd stood, brushing himself off needlessly. He leaned down again, hands on Bruce's shoulders. Their faces were level, and the old sparks between them stuttered back to life.

"It means," Floyd said softly, "that I don't miss."

With that, Lawton sauntered back into the house. Bruce watched him go, and tried to stifle his regret.