X X X

Bravura

"We do not choose whom we love, only how."

X X X

She awakens to the sound of his breathing, always his breathing. His form is so much larger than her own, hulking, though she knows it is only to compensate for his one physical weakness - his mask - laid out for all to see. When they were younger, in hiding from the world and in training with the League, he was tall and wiry; now he is the physical manifestation of strength, a match for any foe.

Though she knows this bodes poorly for his opponents, it gives her a small measure of comfort. It will take a great force to bring him down.

His voice is deep from sleep and the after-effects of the drug. "You are awake."

She nods, turning in his embrace to face him. He remains conscious long enough only to eat, brush his teeth and shave when he needs to. A half hour at most, she has it down to a science after so many years. They fell asleep on her bed, him far before her, and she let the rare moment of silence settle in around her like a comforting blanket, pretending for just the night that they were only two people who sought comfort in each other's presence and nothing more.

No war, no sworn acts of revenge. No killing.

"Do you remember. . ." his voice trails off, and Isabel tilts her head up towards the sound of his voice, "Do you remember the day we met?"

He only ever speaks of the past when under the influence of the drugs, but she doesn't comment on this. Instead, she lifts a hand to her wrist, padding her fingertips along the embossments on the watch face: sometime after five in the morning.

They have a few more hours of peace, and she knows it is both a blessing and a curse. For a few hours, he is hers, and then he will don the mask and become the monster her cousin has groomed him to be.

"I remember," she answers quietly. "How should I ever forget?" His face, his eyes will be burned into her memory for the rest of her life.

His arm, draped over her hip, tightens protectively around her. The motion draws her closer so she can feel the weathered cotton of his shirt and the cargo pants he wore all night.

There are some lines even she dares not cross.

"Tell me," he says, voice still thick. "Tell me what your first thought was."

Isabel closes her eyes against the sudden rush of memories. It's not his question that has her fighting against the knot in her throat, but the quiet sense of hope in his tone as he asks her. He is vulnerable in so many ways when under the influence of the anesthetics, and only with her.

"I thought. . ." she begins, then pauses. She knows there is no use in lying to him; he has always possessed a talent for seeing into the true nature of things, and she is no exception. "I thought you were too beautiful to have come out of a place so evil."

"Ahh. . ." he sighs, pulling her closer yet to him. "Blood and all?"

Isabel reaches forward to rest a hand against his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing. His scent envelops her completely, and she closes her eyes against the dark that surrounds her at all times. His lips brush across her forehead in a lazy almost-kiss.

"Blood and all," she whispers in return.

X X X

The coffee's halfway through brewing when Gwen wanders into her kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She's about to question her sanity, as she swears she didn't start the machine, when a yellow post-it sticking to the pot catches her eye. Her mouth is already curving into a smile as she reaches for it and reads the small, neat handwriting.

At the precinct, call me if anything comes up.

See you later.

-JB

She pours herself a cup, adding a heinous amount of sugar (no cream), and settles onto the couch. She takes a few big gulps before flipping on the TV, tucking her feet underneath her to keep warm.

The 10 AM news is in full swing and, though she knows better, she's still sickened to see how the media swarms to interview the stock exchange victims, questioning them about their reactions, how did they feel, what went through their mind as the masked terrorist held the entire building hostage.

"It was absolutely fantastic, didn't you know?" Gwen mutters to herself, finishing off the last of her coffee.

She's about to switch the channel (not wanting to hear what the news outlets have to say about the Batman) when coverage of a fraud case catches her eye: bad trades apparently executed by Bruce Wayne are under police investigation following the hostage incident.

Why on earth somebody as intelligent as Wayne would do something like that truly confuses her and, in the back of her mind, she realizes something's off. . .

She's snapped from her tumbling thoughts at a sharp knock at her front door.

Perhaps it's because she just woke up, and the coffee hasn't kicked in yet, but for whatever reason, she doesn't think to look through the peephole before opening it. And maybe it's because Blake stayed the night next to her, the temporary feeling of security afforded by his presence not having worn off yet, the way his blunt but sweet note on the coffee maker makes her smile.

For whatever reason, when Gotham's infamous cat burglar - unmasked with fury blazing in her dark brown eyes - bursts forward and grabs her by the neck, Gwen is caught entirely off guard.

She sputters for breath, and the cat only laughs, a hollow, humorless sound as she struggles to get her bearings. The master thief has her pinned up against the back of her door, completely cornered in the narrow hallway.

"How's your morning, sweetheart? You have a good time with your cop friend?" The woman drawls. The spits out the world 'cop' like it's poison.

In the light of day, Gwen notices the faint wrinkles at the corner of her dark eyes, the deep vibrance of her hair, pale complexion of her otherwise flawless skin. She also takes note of sharp, white teeth, and the red-lipped sneer adorning it.

Something bad has happened, Gwen knows, and it has to do with the exchange. Everything's connected.

She blinks a few times, and tries to breathe, but the motion feels as if knives are being dragged across her throat. Eventually, the cat registers her difficulties and scoffs, releasing her grip on Gwen's throat and turning away in disgust. Her vision swims for a second, and she brings a hand to gently massage her throat. She takes a few deep, steadying breaths, and then looks warily at the cat.

It's got to be bad for her to come to her apartment, unmasked and in the day. It's got to be really, really bad.

"I'll let you in on a little secret, Gwen," the cat says carefully, quietly. One hand hangs at her side and the other is pressed to her shoulder.

Knowing escape is a silly, stupid idea, Gwen settles into a sitting position at the base of the door, a hand still on her throat.

"And what's that?" She manages to get out, her voice hoarse.

"I had it fucking made," the woman sneers, voice low and sharp. "I was the best in town, but this kind of life doesn't come with a pension plan. So, I wanted out. And what do I do?" She glares down at Gwen, eyes narrowed to slits. "I take a last pair of jobs - the kind I'd stayed away from my entire career - gigs that I could retire on, get the hell out of this shit hole of a city and start fresh on another continent."

Somewhere in the middle of her speech, Gwen realizes something: the cat's not just angry, but scared, too. She remains silent, almost convinced the woman isn't there to kill her - though the possibility remains in the back of her mind.

"The first job goes all wrong, and a goddam child is shot dead," she continues, and Gwen winces.

"And then the second," the cat says, "I get outsmarted by a silver spoon-fed cripple." The woman makes a flippant gesture with her hand, resting her head against the wall and closes her eyes. "What are the odds?" She asks softly, as if to herself.

Gwen doesn't realize she's tearing up until her vision blurs, and she closes her eyes and looks away. She never thought she'd feel sympathy for a person like Gotham's most infamous jewel thief, but it's there, along with apprehension. She understands now, what's happened. She harbored the same anger towards her father after the robbery.

"Who did you lose?" Gwen asks into the silence.

There's a brief moment where she thinks the cat might lash out at her again - or worse - but when Gwen opens her eyes and meets the woman's wavering gaze, she sees only sadness in her eyes, the fury all but gone now.

"Jen," is all she says. She runs both hands through her hair, smoothing it back from her face, collecting herself. "Her name was Jen."

Gwen nods, silent, looking down. "Your sister?"

Another scoff. "She should be so unlucky. . .she was the closest thing I had to family."

Gwen nods, thinking of Mary, and how heartbroken she'd been after. . .it was horrible, losing someone you chose to love like family, having them ripped from you without notice, without fairness.

"Who killed her?" Gwen asks after another moment.

The cat looks away, irritated with herself, with her weakness. "Fucking rat in a suit," she mutters, her voice dangerously low.

Recognition strikes Gwen, and she sits forward, her hand dropping from her throat. "Stryver," she confirms.

The woman's eyes snap back to hers. "What do you know of him?"

Gwen's eyes slide down the hall, to where the news is still playing on the TV in her living room. She runs over the events in her mind with clarifying speed.

"Daggett hired you, didn't he?" She asks, returning her gaze to the cat. "To steal something from my father. And to set up Wayne. But why?"

The cat walks towards her slowly, closing the few feet of space between them and then squats down to Gwen's level, eyes narrowed.

"Don't take this personally, sweetheart," she drawls, "but how have you not been killed for all you know?"

Despite the threat in her words, Gwen decides to take the glint in the cat's eye as a compliment.

X X X

"Leave us."

Vincent Gallo knows the moment Bane enters the room, he's a dead man. It's an odd sort of realization and, as it settles into the pit of his stomach, he considers his two options: fight or flight. To fight would surely be useless, as the masked terrorist is - easily- twice his size and stronger even than Gallo can imagine.

Bane also has nothing to lose, Gallo notes. He cannot say the same for himself. Flight is out of the question.

"No! Stryver, stay where you are," Daggett orders. "I'm in charge here."

The inane statement almost makes Gallo roll his eyes, but he refrains, and instead takes a few steps back towards the hallway, pulling out his phone at his side.

Bane's voice rumbles across the silent room, making Gallo flinch as he quickly taps out a text to his daughter.

"Do you feel in charge?" Bane asks as he lay a hand on Daggett's shoulder, and Gallo slinks further back into the shadows, quickly finishing the message and sending it before anyone can stop him.

Daggett looks over at him from across the room with a mix of horror and disbelief. Gallo steels himself for what happens next, and isn't surprised when he feels a rough hand shove him forward onto the floor from behind. One of Bane's lieutenants steps forward and presses a boot into his back. He grits his teeth to keep from making a sound at the sharp pain that lances up his spine.

"You and your associate's money and infrastructure have been important - integral even," Bane continues, his hand turning to grip Daggett's shoulder. "Until now. . ."

Gallo feels something cold and hard press up against the base of his skull and he closes his eyes in preparation for what comes next.

He hears Daggett scream - a horribly, ragged sound. He hears the click of the trigger as it's pulled behind him.

And then nothing.

X X X

Bruce has to admit, it's a surreal kind of experience, riding in the front seat of a squad car with a cop who knows about the other guy. Talk about one for the books.

He also has to admit there's something keenly familiar about Blake, something that reminds him so much of himself before all the years of self-exile and crusading for the city. While Raz had taught him to let go of the anger of his troubled past, Bruce can't deny that its mark will forever remain. His anger and pain defines him, and it always will.

Angry in your bones, he recalls Blake's words at the mansion. It's an ugly, yet eloquent, way of putting how he feels when reflecting on his childhood, yet he knows this is where he and Blake differ; while Bruce has made peace (for the most part) with his past, Blake still buries his pain behind a mask.

That'll have to change, and Bruce wonders if the kid's up for the challenge or not. Only time will tell.

"It was damn good to see him back," Blake says, smirking a little.

Bruce allows his fragile ego a brief moment of pride before it's deflated by memories of eight years past. "Not everybody agrees," he comments, looking down.

"They'll figure it out soon enough," the rookie shrugs, shaking his head. He opens his mouth to say something, then pauses. "The girl you saved the other day, at the exchange. . .she believes in him, too."

Bruce arches an eyebrow, not missing the shift in the cop's tone as he spoke the latter part of his statement. "Does she now?" He says.

Blake's mouth pulls down into a nonchalant shrug, and he keeps his his eyes resolutely on the road. "Yeah, she does," is all he responds with.

Bruce refrains from smiling, and glances out the window at the passersby as the squad car continues to roam up midtown. "What's her name?" He asks.

There's a brief pause on Blake's end, until he finally answers. "Gallo. Gwen Gallo."

Mulling over the name, recognition prickles at the edges of his mind. He's read it somewhere before, in a report connected with Selina's case file.

"Her father. . ." Bruce begins, and Blake continues for him, in line with his train of thought.

"Works for Daggett," the younger cop supplies. "And probably Bane, too. Indirectly, at least. I think this net of theirs. . .it's cast a lot farther out than you or I know."

Though his words are troubling, Bruce knows the kid is right. There are so many puzzle pieces moving around on the board right now, and he's only just beginning to fit them together. He just hopes it won't be too late for the city - or for the Batman - when he puts all the pieces in place.

He drags a hand along his jaw in thought, brow furrowed. "What do you have on Bane's whereabouts?" He finally asks.

"Not much," Blake admits. "I've been digging up tunnel records for the city. I could use some help, actually."

"Tunnel records?" Bruce echoes, turning to look at the rookie.

Blake nods, glancing over at the man. "It's just a hunch, after I fished Gordon from one of the outflows."

Bruce nods, impressed with Blake's initiative. "Sounds like more than a hunch," he tells him, and he knows the kid doesn't miss the approving note in his tone. He motions to the upcoming intersection. "Drop me in old town, will you? I've got a friend I'd like to see."

X X X

Gwen's sitting in the waiting room of the precinct when her phone goes off. She pulls it out, glancing around at the receptionist and a pair of passing policemen before reading the message on the screen. The words make her cold immediately:

Follow the money. I love you. I'm sorry.

Her throat tightens as she realizes her father's the one who sent the message. She presses a hand to her mouth, her mind jumping to the worst because, despite all of Mary's encouragements to always spot a silver lining in a storm-ridden sky, it is her father's approach of always considering the worst case scenario that kicks in during that very moment.

She wonders if he's fled the city, or if he's dead. . .she closes her eyes, pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead.

Think, she tells herself. If she doesn't focus, she'll break down. She dials her father's cell and presses the phone to her ear, anxious as the dial tone sounds and it continues to ring and ring and ring.

She dials it again, no answer.

She tries her mother next, who thankfully picks up on the second ring.

"Where's Dad?" She demands, fighting down panic.

"I - I don't know, Gwen. He left for the office a few hours ago." Her mother sounds scared, her voice rough and uneven, as if she's been crying. "I'm glad you called. I was thinking we should take a trip, a change of scenery. I can get us on a flight out of Gotham International tonight. What do you think, honey? Will you come with me?"

The words gradually become white noise in Gwen's ear the longer her mother speaks; her father's message, her mother leaving town.

She sits back in her chair, her voice distant as she speaks. "You're running," she accuses. "From what? What did Dad do?"

Her mother begins to cry on the other end of the line, and Gwen wants to believe she has no idea what's going on, but it's been her experience that only guilty parties crack under pressure, especially when confronted with the truth. Her father hasn't been the only one lying to her.

"What did he do, Mom?" Gwen asks again, this time her voice taking on a hard edge. "Do you have any idea how many people have suffered since that night?"

"I'm sorry, sweetie," her mother gets out between sobs. "Please don't be upset with him. He - he was only trying to pro - protect us."

Gwen scoffs, feeling tears prick at the back of her eyes, tears of anger. "Protect?" She repeats, disgusted. "How is that protecting us?"

"They needed your father's construction crews," her mother answers. "His money, his resources. They didn't care who provided it. If your father refused. . ."

It doesn't hit Gwen until a second later and a puzzle piece falls into place, part of a conversation she shared with Blake weeks ago. Her mother's broken voice echoes her thoughts.

"He left everything to you, Gwen," she says, voice crackling over the line. Noise. It's all noise to her. "They would've come after you, if he'd said no. . ."

The words leave her feeling hollow, and Gwen hangs up without saying goodbye, without telling her mother that she'll leave the city with her. She sits there in the precinct, her phone in her hand and stares out of the window that gives way to the busy city street.

She looks on, with the cold realization of her father's actions.