November 2008
Bruce was on his way out of the door when the business phone rang. It was a white landline mounted on the wall and generally Alfred answered it as it connected straight to Bruce's office downstairs but Alfred was polishing the Wayne family silver as he did every year so Bruce dropped his keys and his pass in the glass bowl by the elevator and walked to the stove. He picked the phone up:
"Bruce Wayne."
There was a pause. Then: "Mr. Wayne?" Lucius. "Do you have on your TV?"
Bruce frowned. "I — no, I'm about to head down for the meeting — "
"I think you should turn on your TV first, Mr. Wayne. Put on the news."
Still frowning, Bruce leaned across to the kitchen island and grabbed the remote. Next to the sink and the knives in the far corner of the kitchen there was a little cathode ray set which he flicked on. It was usually on GCN, because Alfred liked to watch it early in the morning while making breakfast, but today, bizarrely, he'd been watching the match between Manchester United and FC Barcelona, so Bruce had to take a minute to change the channel. When at last he found it he didn't even realize for a moment what Lucius was so upset about. Mike Engel was sitting behind his usual desk, wearing his usual tie, talking in his usual calm, measured voice to —
Oh, fuck.
" — and you think you're ready," he was saying, as Bruce turned the volume up.
"Yes," said Coleman Reese. He was pressing his hands together in his lap, but the camera had angled up so that the movement was only visible in his shoulders. He'd chewed an irritated red spot into the corner of his lower lip, but he was looking right at Engel. "I'm — it's time. It's past time."
"Are you sure," Engel said, folding his hands together on the desk and leaning a little forward. Bruce could just make out the outline of a bulletproof vest beneath his button down. He'd started wearing it after the events in July. "The last time you threatened to out the Batman's identity, the Joker blew up Gotham General — "
"I know," Coleman said. "And I'm not saying that there isn't a risk involved in coming forward now, but I — you know, he's disappeared. Batman hasn't made an appearance in society in over a month now, and I hear people talking at — well, where I work, and — since I know who he is, and I know where he is, and what he's doing, there's no reason to, to keep my mouth shut about it now — "
"The Joker also tried to have you killed," Engel pointed out. Bruce watched the flex of Coleman's throat as he swallowed.
"Batman was responsible for the deaths of five of Gotham's citizens over the summer," he said. "And his — the person hiding behind his mask has gotten to just go on with his life and pretend he hasn't committed — absolutely atrocious crimes, just these, these heinous acts he needs to answer for. That Gotham needs him to answer for. And if Jim Gordon and the rest of the GCPD won't hunt him down, I'll say his name on this channel, and I'll drag him out of his house kicking and screaming. Whatever happens after — I just want justice. That's all."
"Some people might say that this is bringing something into light the city would rather forget."
"Look, I know there was a lot of trauma," Coleman said. His hands were twisting harder. Bruce remembered he'd often made a habit of it during meetings when he was trying not to lose his temper. "I'm not trying to ignore that. But you and forty-nine other people were taken on a bus and nearly killed, and they're spending billions of taxpayers' dollars trying to rebuild a hospital that wasn't funded well in the first place, and I — you know, I still have nightmares about that voice. Hearing that voice in this room. And Harvey Dent died for Batman, and Batman vanished. He took Dent's sacrifice and he threw it in the trash. I'm just trying to get him to answer for that."
"Well." Engel cleared his throat. He looked at the camera in a way that made it clear he was trying to get his cameraman to cut to commercial. "This city certainly has a way of — of taking the law into its own hands. I have no doubt you will go through with this plan, Mr. Reese, and that you will be quite successful at it. When we come back, we'll take a few callers — "
"Oh," Coleman started uncertainly, chewing on the raw place of his lip, "I don't think — "
"Carefully screened this time," Engel said, cutting him off. "We'll take a few callers, and then we'll make a revelation this city has been curious about for over a year now." It went to commercial, and Bruce switched the set back off. His hands were shaking. His mind was curiously quiet, though. He took a moment to breathe; then, slowly, he put the receiver back to his ear.
"You still there, Lucius?"
"I'm still here, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce found he was staring blankly at the dark screen. He could just make out his reflection in it, the warped white lines of his body. "What are you planning to do?" he asked.
Lucius was quiet for a beat too long, and Bruce felt the silver shiver of panic flood down his arms and wrap them in cold tendrils. "Lucius," he started, and Lucius sighed, breath crackling over the line.
"Look, Mr. Wayne… he's already on the air. There's nothing we can do. I called you so you'd be prepared. I didn't want you sitting in the meeting when the news broke. You can talk through the speaker; I have it set up on the table. The board will understand if I tell them you had an emergency conference in Berlin or some other appropriate — "
"No." Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, that isn't — I'm not doing that." In July when Coleman had come forward Bruce hadn't really thought much of it; he'd saved Coleman's life because he'd pitied him, and his pathetic attempt at gaining recognition. But it was different now. If Coleman spoke out now Bruce was fucked; he hadn't been in Jude's gang long enough. He hadn't extracted nearly enough nor hardly any real information.
"Mr. Wayne, you can't be in here when Mr. Reese reveals who you are — "
"I know." Behind him he heard a quiet shuffle of feet and turned to see Alfred standing in the doorway of the dining room. He was holding the silver polisher in one hand and Bruce's mother's favorite vase in the other. It had flowers around the base. Bruce had found a dead mouse in it once. "I won't be. But I can take care of this."
"You won't be able to call the station and stall them by talking for a full half hour — "
"I know," Bruce said again. "Just. I'm sure he'll — if I go down there and see him."
Lucius sighed. It was very close to the same sigh Alfred always gave him when Bruce said or did something stupid. Bruce was sure he'd continue protesting, or else that he'd flat out tell Bruce no, but after a moment all he said was:
"If you can't get to Mr. Reese in time, Mr. Wayne, we will have to implement our backup plan."
For the third time, Bruce said, "I know." Then, before Lucius could say anything else, he hung up. To Alfred he said,
"See if you can call the station and have them delay the program. I'm calling Coleman."
Alfred twisted his mouth. "Of course, sir," he said, drily. "While I'm at it, shall I perhaps ramp up the testing at NASA? I know they've quite a hankering to get to Mars — "
"Alfred, please," Bruce said, and snatched his keys and his pass from the glass bowl again. Alfred sighed.
"Yes, Master Wayne," he said, but Bruce was already ducking into the stairwell. He ran down, taking the stairs two at a time, until he reached the elevator in the guest section of the penthouse. As he rode down to the elevator lobby which would take him to the rest of the building he fished out his business cell. He still had Coleman's number despite it had been several months since he'd left, and Bruce started to let it dial out so Coleman would see his name, then stopped. He retrieved his burner instead and flipped it open. He arrived in the lobby and slid his pass so the next elevator would take him straight to the ground floor, rather than having to bypass his security measures. As it arrived and he stepped on, he copied Coleman's number onto the Razr and hit the green button. It dialed as the floor numbers fell — thirty-seven… thirty-five… thirty-four… When Coleman answered he sounded more than a little irritated:
"I don't want any, and I can't afford to give any, whatever you want, I'm about to be on national television — "
"It's a local news station," Bruce snapped, and Coleman was quiet for a minute. Then:
"What are you — "
"You can't tell them." The floors were still falling. Not fast enough. Not fast enough. Bruce's throat felt like he'd just swallowed dry ice. "Coleman. You can't — "
"It's too late," Coleman said. "I'm here, it's done. I'm going on air again soon and — "
"How much?"
Coleman was quiet. "What?"
"I know you went to Lucius Fox for an offer when you found out." The elevator had at last hit the ground floor and Bruce stumbled out, staring frantically at the television mounted in the upper corner of the lobby. It was on GCN; they were still running commercials. "I'm prepared to give you twice that much."
"How, uh — " Coleman stuttered for a moment. In the background Bruce could hear voices; he supposed Mike Engel was trying to get him to wrap up the conversation. "What's the — "
"Fifty million," Bruce said.
Coleman made an abortive sound in his throat. "I — fifty — "
"Yeah," Bruce said. The Honda commercial was running to an end and he knew the news program was going to be coming back on soon. "Does that sound like something you'd — "
The commercial abruptly cut off, in tandem with a sudden outpouring of voices on Coleman's end of the phone. The BREAKING NEWS banner flashed across the bottom of the screen, and the line went dead as the camera cut to Mike Engel. His face had totally filled the screen. They must have forced Coleman off the phone.
"I'm just being told that we have — " he pressed his finger to his ear — "we are receiving footage of a high-speed chase occurring in the central business district down Edmonton — "
Bruce glanced towards the glass-fronted doors which led from the street. The other people in the lobby were also staring, conversations dying as they all turned to look.
" — a gray Dodge Grand Caravan, en route to the fish wharf loading docks at Marseilles, was shot through by three hooded men with a twelve-gauge shotgun. One then took over driving while the other two positioned themselves in — "
Bruce felt the blood drain from his face. He knew. He could hear the police sirens screaming as they approached Wayne Tower, and as his employees and staff rushed to the windows to watch he silently backed out, headed into the conference room, and locked himself in. He keyed over to his contacts. Pressed Jude's name. The phone rang six times before Jude picked up.
"Wayne," he drawled. Bruce hadn't spoken to him since he'd been to his apartment. The sound of his voice sparked dark overheated memories Bruce couldn't handle right now. "I'm kind of in the middle of — "
"Is this you?" Bruce asked. "The chase in the van. Is that you?"
Silence except the sound of rushing air past an open window. He was definitely driving, though there were no sirens on his end. Finally Jude said, "Don't you have a company to run? Why are you sitting around watching TV?"
"I have to keep up with my stocks," Bruce lied, and Jude snorted. Bruce could hear his blinker going, and he said, "Seriously, Jude — is it you?"
More silence. Then: "Do you know how hard I've worked to maintain order in this city?" Jude said. "And then that little fucker comes back from whatever gutter he crawled into — "
"What are you going to do?" Bruce asked. His hands were shaking. He could hear the police sirens outside reaching a crescendo.
Jude sighed. "I've got Staley, Vedder, and Cobain on an O.J. run distracting that incompetent shit of a reporter while I head to the studios."
"You're going to GCN?"
"Uh-huh."
"And then what — you're going to — "
"I'm gonna kill that piece of shit," Jude said. "I warned him in July but I guess people just aren't interested in — "
"Wait." Bruce could hardly believe he was interrupting and apparently neither could Jude because he actually stopped talking.
"What."
"I — " Bruce swallowed. "I want to take care of this for you." He breathed out. He had no idea what he was doing.
Jude was quiet. "You want to?"
"I can," Bruce said, more firmly. "I can take care of this for you. Like I did with Ainsworth." He leaned against a table with the back of his hand. He knew — if he didn't get to Coleman first, if Coleman spoke out, if Jude got to Coleman and tortured him, it would all be over very quickly.
Jude was quiet for a minute. Bruce heard his music get turned down, and the car brakes sigh as he coasted to a stop. "You have three blocks to convince me why this is a good idea," he said.
"I already called him," Bruce tried.
"When?"
"Just now. While they were on commercial. I called him and told him I'd give him money." Then he winced, realizing what a monumentally stupid thing that had been to say. On the other end Jude started driving again. Bruce could hear the wind rushing past his window.
"You bribed him to keep his mouth shut about Batman?"
"Yeah."
"Why."
Bruce really had absolutely no idea what he was doing. "He used to be my accountant, so I know I have some pull with — "
"No, I mean why are you doing this, why are you going so far for this particular cause. Does Batman's secret identity get you hard or something." A slight pause. "Should I be jealous, Wayne?" and then he laughed. Bruce forced himself to laugh, too, and then he said,
"I remember in July, the — everything that happened, all the stuff you did to ensure that Coleman wouldn't talk." Ruining his fifth Lamborghini. The whiplash he'd incurred had come four days later and lasted two weeks. When he'd fought the Joker on the Prewitt Building it had been like performing acrobatics in a straightjacket. "It really seems to bother you — "
"And what, and you want to give me Coleman's head on a platter? Serve him up with roses like St. John the Baptist? How fucking romantic of you, Wayne."
Bruce didn't exactly freeze, but he felt something stiffen inside him. It was as ever impossible to tell if Jude was kidding, though Bruce doubted he was. How far are you willing to go for this? He bit his thumbnail. Outside he could hear his employees talking and knew he didn't have much time to make the decision before Jude made it for him. "I — would that make you happy? Is that what you want?"
Jude didn't answer for a moment. Then Bruce heard the car slowing down. "Is this something you feel capable of doing?" he asked. "Because murder isn't the same thing as blackmail, whatever American Psycho might have taught you — you did see that one, right? Serial killer fucker in an office, kinda looked like you — "
"I've seen it," Bruce said. He'd watched it with Rachel when he'd come back to the States, for some reason. "And I know it isn't. But if he won't take my bribe — and hell, even if he does take my bribe there's no, like, guarantee he'll keep his mouth shut forever, I mean, you grew up in this life, you know fifty million a year isn't exactly a fortune — " It was the first time he'd ever really alluded to Jude's past. But Jude didn't say anything beyond:
"Not to you or me, maybe," and then, "The thing is, Wayne, I'm not interested in him. He's a fucking boring little dude and I don't know how you kept him employed for however long that was. So the idea of him living and having a chance to cause more trouble isn't really — it sounds like a waste of my time. And you already know how I feel about things that waste my time."
Bruce bit his mouth. There was still a little sore place inside his lip from where Jude's teeth had scraped the skin. "I know."
"So if you're offering to take care of this for me I need you to be sure you understand exactly what you're offering."
"Yeah, boss."
"It won't be like breaking Ainsworth's fingers."
"I know."
"If you can't do it I'm not gonna be happy. You really don't want to waste my time, Wayne. Not when I'm just starting to like you."
Bruce unlocked the conference room door and opened it a half inch. On the television the gray van was still driving erratically with three GCPD squad cars on its tail. Bruce could see Cobain — he thought it was Cobain — hanging out the back passenger window and firing his automatic, laughing hysterically.
"I'm not gonna waste your time, boss," he said, shutting the door again.
Jude was quiet. Bruce could hear his music playing faintly in the background. Finally he sighed; it sounded frustrated. "You have one hour," he said. "Then I get to do whatever the fuck I want to with him." And with you went unspoken, but Bruce heard it loud and clear. He started to say okay, but Jude had already hung up. Bruce stared at his phone for another few seconds, then flipped it shut. His hands were shaking. He had to go back up to the penthouse via his private elevator to get his contacts; thankfully Alfred was already preoccupied elsewhere, and didn't notice Bruce come in or leave. As he headed back down to his garage he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.
How far are you willing to go? Thomas whispered as he walked. And Bruce drew in his shoulders, and shook his head, and said, over and over:
It's just a job. It's just the job.
He remembered Rachel telling him: you have a problem knowing when enough is enough. It's what makes you so good at being Batman, but it's also what makes you so terrible at being a person. She'd been right, of course. It was the reason Bruce was so good at hiding his identity from Jude and the others, but it was also what had gotten him into this metaphorical corner.
His code. Batman's code. The one thing he'd always sworn, right from the beginning. He would not kill and he had not killed. He'd maimed, he'd mauled, he'd injured, beaten to a bloody pulp, smashed heads into glass panes — but never killed. He'd thrown people off balconies, off trains, onto metal tables, off the sides of buildings — but he'd never killed. And yet —
And yet. He was in the Joker's gang. The Joker's gang. It wasn't like joining some amateur mob crime family. It was the fucking Joker and he meant everything he did and Bruce knew it. He knew it when he decided to take this project on by himself, this whole stupid, unwieldy, dangerous project. He had no outside help and he'd known he was way in over his head almost the whole time; maybe even since September. He wanted Jude to trust him so he could infiltrate the gang further, take it out from the inside, destroy the man who destroyed his life —
— the man he'd slept with a week prior, the man he'd already fought alongside twice now and maimed for and enjoyed doing it —
— and the lives of so many citizens of this city. This stupid foul horrible damaged debauched fucked up soulless city. This city Bruce had spent so long fighting so hard to save for no reason because it never thanked him and it never kept its promises. He wanted to infiltrate the Joker's gang for this soulless throbbing black heart of a city and he didn't know why anymore and he thought perhaps he never had. All he knew right now was there was only one way to fully gain Jude's trust and that was to kill for him. If fucking him wasn't good enough… if Ainsworth wasn't good enough…
He'd known all along in the back of his mind where he never reached so he could keep secrets even from himself that only the most extreme thing would do it. How far are you willing to go. He was pretty sure he could back out now and just hole up in the penthouse with his security on full until Jude got bored of waiting for him and moved on. He had substantial information, after all: Jude's real name, and his address, and their contacts, the gang members and Ashland and Ainsworth. But it wasn't enough, not yet, and anyway he didn't want that, he couldn't stop now. Ultimately there were no other options except to break his code. To kill Coleman Reese. His head with roses for Jude's entertainment. Without cruelty —
Bruce remembered Jude in July, in Major Crimes: You have all these rules, and you think they'll save you. How he'd goaded him: Tonight you're gonna break your one rule. And in the penthouse, just a month ago:
If I pushed you, how far would you fall?
He was going to break his rule for the very man who wanted it from him the most. The man who had killed Rachel. But it was going to save so many other people in the end. In giving into Jude's wishes to break him and expose the rotten pieces beneath, he would ultimately save the very city that wanted him dead. It would only be temporary, anyway. After this was done he'd go to Gordon. He'd confess his transgressions. He'd pay for his crimes.
It was only temporary. He'd have time to fix himself later.
He called Cornell and met him some blocks away from Wayne Tower. Cornell pulled up in the Suburban he'd taken Bruce to the Richmond thing in. Bruce himself had taken a Nissan, because it was less conspicuous than the Mustang. When he got in the Suburban Cornell offered him a cigarette.
"Thanks," Bruce muttered, taking it and setting it between his lips. Cornell handed him his lighter, too, and then he said,
"So you're gonna kill for the boss, huh?"
Bruce swallowed. Nodded. Cornell snorted.
"Why'd he ask you to do it."
Bruce ran his thumbnail along the thin edge of his phone in his pocket. "He didn't," he said, watching the side of Cornell's face. "I offered. He said yes."
Cornell lifted one incredulous eyebrow in Bruce's direction. "You offered," he repeated, blankly.
"Well, he kind of suggested it, but — yeah. Essentially."
"And he — "
" — said yes," Bruce repeated.
The other eyebrow went up, briefly. "You sure must be fucking incredible at sucking his dick," he said, "'cause otherwise why is he so fucking willing to let you do whatever the hell you want."
Bruce felt heat trying to draw its way up his jaw. The memory of last week flashed through his mind before he could stop it. His teeth on Jude's neck. The noise he made when he came. "I don't know," he said. "You better ask him, since you seem so concerned about it every time we talk."
Cornell's nostrils flared. Bruce watched his jaw tense.
"Look, come on," Bruce said, "that car chase can't last forever. He only gave me an hour to get this done."
"And you're sure you can handle this."
Bruce leveled Cornell with a look he'd used sometimes as Batman on lesser criminals. "Why don't you let me and the boss worry about what he thinks I can or can't handle, huh?"
"Man, Wayne, you sure have fucking nerve; you think 'cause you have money you — "
"I think if you don't hurry up and help me we're both gonna get fired," Bruce snapped, losing the last of his patience. Cornell returned his Batman-look with a surprising degree of accuracy, but he also unlocked the doors, and Bruce pitched his cigarette onto the asphalt before following him around to the back of the van. There was the UPS outfit. Someone had sewn the gray sleeves of a Henley into the real sleeves for the cold weather. It still had its nametag, though Cornell tugged it off before handing the shirt and pants to Bruce.
"You ain't gonna pass as a 'Jorge'," he said, and laughed when Bruce rolled his eyes. He changed into the outfit the way Cornell had at Kinko's, leaving his own clothes in the backseat of the Nissan, and put in the contacts. With the hat shoved down over his forehead and the white irises he looked —
"Fuckin' scary shit, Wayne," Cornell said, shaking his head. He looked annoyed, likely at having complimented Bruce in the first place. Still, Bruce jumped down from the car, grabbed a makeshift cardboard box, and was about to go in when Cornell put a hand on his arm.
"Unless you're planning on getting Reese in a chokehold and cutting off his air you aren't killing him without a weapon," he said. From the interior of his jacket he retrieved a slender silver knife. "You can borrow mine. I want it back, though. Don't lose it in there. I'm not going to jail over some stupid mistake. It's hard getting out even with Batman fucked off to wherever he's gone."
Bruce wrapped his fingers around the knife handle and slipped it into the waistband of the UPS pants. The lining was elastic — Bruce guessed everyone shared this disguise. Carefully leaving his expression blank he said, "Where do you think he is?"
Cornell snorted. "Who the fuck cares? He made my life harder. At least the boss can do as he pleases now without him breathing down his neck all the time."
Your boss fucking loved when I'd breathe down his neck, Bruce didn't say. He just nodded, neutrally, and said,
"So after I'm done — "
"Call the boss." Cornell shut the trunk of the Suburban and flipped the keys over in his hand. "Take your car out to wherever he tells you." He hesitated. Then: "Don't fuck it up, though. Like I told you, he won't give you a second chance, even if you are sucking his cock." He walked to the driver's seat and got in. The engine roared to life. Bruce could hear the faint monotonous beat of some pop song as Cornell pulled out. For a moment he stood alone in the parking lot, feeling the wind as it wrapped a noose around his neck and pulled. It cut into the edges of his contacts, and Bruce closed his eyes. When he opened them again, GCN was still there, unmoving, unjudging.
It's just a job, he thought, and started forward.
The desk clerk in the front office seemed reticent to wave Bruce through the metal detector until he showed her his knife and explained it was for cutting the packages. "I'm supposed to have an X-Acto knife, but I just started two weeks ago, and they haven't had a chance to update their products yet," he said. "So I'm just using this one for now. But I didn't want the alarms to go off with everything else going on…" He waved vaguely at one of the televisions mounted on the wall, on which Engel's program was still playing out the chase. She frowned at the screen, then at the box under Bruce's arm.
"Who are you delivering that to?"
"Uh — " Bruce pretended to check an intake form. "It's for Mike Engel."
Still frowning, she ran her finger down a paper on a clipboard. "Mr. Engel isn't scheduled to receive any packages today."
Bruce shrugged. "I just deliver where I'm told," he said. "If it's wrong, I'll apologize personally."
The desk clerk bit her lip. She looked at Bruce. Then at the television. A fourth police car had joined the chase. The captions read:
ENGEL: AND WE ARE NOW RECEIVING REPORTS FROM COMMISSIONER GORDON THAT KANE MEMORIAL IS PREPARED TO RECEIVE THE SURVIVORS OF THE INITIAL SHOOTING —
"Fine," she said. "Just go quickly." She handed him a visitor's pass, and he slid Cornell's knife back into the uniform and walked to the elevators. There were nameplates outside the elevators; Mike Engel was on the fourth floor, along with Natoya Schiller (weather) and Tilly Carmichael (sports). He got on an elevator and rode up. On the fourth floor there was a reception desk with a few secretaries who shot covert and uneasy glances at Bruce's contacts before one finally gathered herself enough to ask who Bruce was delivering the package to.
"Mike Engel."
"Oh, he's down that way," the secretary said, pointing. "But you'd be better off leaving it in the mail room over there — " and she pointed — of course — in the opposite direction. Bruce sighed, glancing at the clock. Half an hour had already gone by. He drew in breath to try and protest, but before he could, a door opened at the far end of the hall, and Coleman Reese walked out. Bruce stared; he couldn't help it. He cut his eyes for a moment to the monitors over the secretaries' heads, but Mike Engel was still reporting on the chase. So Coleman hadn't talked yet. He was just — here.
Suddenly there was a tightness in Bruce's chest he couldn't identify. It wasn't quite panic or fear, but something related to both. It was seeing Coleman and realizing with a feeling like a wall slamming into his chest from the inside that this was what he was here to do. This real, living, flesh and blood person. He was here to kill Coleman Reese and the abstract thought had not struck him until now, standing here, staring at him as he walked past, the familiar reddish hair, the receding hairline, the slight frame, the square jaw. He watched Coleman's hands against his sides as he walked, and the movement of his legs beneath his pants, and the soft sandy whorls of hair on the back of his neck. His heart crowded his throat. The knife blade felt frozen against his stomach.
Coleman disappeared into the men's room, and Bruce looked at the clock. Another five minutes had somehow already gone by. The secretaries were staring at him.
"Sir, are you — "
He slid the empty box across the desk. "Sorry, yes," he said. "Could you just — hang onto this for me for a minute, I need to…" He bit his lip. "I have to make a phone call," and he headed off in the direction of the men's room as well.
He felt distanced from everything. He was suddenly, fully aware of each detail around him: the pale shade of the walls, the tightly knit grayish carpet, the soft hush of conversation behind the doors. The hollow thud of the water cooler as someone took a drink. Each step took twice as long to make. There were claws at his ankles, and his ankles were made of lead. As he pushed the door open and slipped inside, his hand closed around his phone. He couldn't do this. He would call Jude and beg out of it, and incur whatever penalties. His hands were shaking. He couldn't —
But when he pulled his phone out and flipped it open he discovered a missed text. It must have gone through while he was changing into the false uniform. It was from Jude:
Hit on hd 1st. Will ethr knk out or dsrnt. Qkr & esr 2 kill.
Bruce breathed out. He stared at the text, then at his reflection. The white irises stared back, hollow and unmoving. He counted backwards from ten in his head, forcing his heartbeat to slow, squeezing his nails into his palm. Maybe he could do this. He'd already smashed Jude's head into the table at MCU, and into the mirror. And he'd done worse things still as Batman, violent, angry things that had left people hospitalized. This would be over in a matter of seconds.
He remembered the cold, calculated feeling that had descended when he'd broken Ainsworth's fingers. How the detachment had separated him from himself until he was just running on autopilot, letting his training take over, letting his desire to win take over. This was more of the same. It was just pushing a little farther, and it was fine. It would be fine. He already had the capacity for extreme violence and anger within him and he knew how it felt to use it without Batman's armor and he knew he was capable of it and of liking it. This was just a job. It was just infiltration, part of the job, part of the deception. He was wearing a disguise and none of this was anything new for him, aside from the obvious. He was doing this for Jude —
— no, for the city, for the city, and it would be fine.
How far are you willing to go? whispered the voice which was Thomas' and his own, at the same time.
As far as I need to, he whispered back.
As far as he needed to.
He locked the bathroom door. A toilet flushed in one of the stalls, and Bruce moved towards the line of urinals, ready to pretend he was using the bathroom for its intended purpose if need be, but then Coleman stepped out. He startled at the sight of Bruce, cutting his gaze uncertainly to his eyes; for a moment Bruce watched him narrow his own suspiciously, trying to work out if he knew Bruce, but in the end all he said was:
"Excuse me,"
as he walked past. Bruce watched him go to the sinks and begin washing his hands. His eyes sought Bruce out in the mirror; Bruce could see his growing unease. He leaned forward to pump soap out of the dispenser and Bruce moved. He'd moved a lot farther and a lot quicker as Batman and it was no effort to cross the narrow space between the walls. He grabbed Coleman by the back of the head while he was still turning and smashed his forehead into the mirror over the sinks.
The glass splintered and fell onto the tile behind the faucets. Bruce braced his arm to absorb the impact — it ran up his elbow worse than when he had on the suit, but he ignored it. Coleman's blood gathered at the central point and flowed down the spiderwebbing cracks which were running out. His forehead was a fucking mess as he slumped forward against the counter, mouth slack. Bruce could see he was struggling to keep his eyes open. The blood was running over the bridge of his nose and gathering in his lips. He stared at Bruce dazedly, half-conscious.
Bruce slid his fingers, which had slipped from Coleman's hair at the point of impact, into his collar. He hauled him back up into a standing position and braced himself against him so that his face was directly behind Coleman's shoulder in the mirror. They stared at each other as Bruce gripped the thin top layer of Coleman's hair and slowly pulled his neck backwards. He reached into the waistband of his uniform pants and pulled out the knife. Coleman moaned softly as Bruce touched the blade to his throat. Bruce saw faint strains of lucidity trying to come back to Coleman's eyes, and the moment his face twisted in slow-dawning, horrified recognition.
The knife sank into his flesh. Bruce ripped it clean across his throat. The blood sprayed out in an arc, splattering wetly against the mirror. Coleman's body jerked against Bruce's and he gripped him tighter around the chest. The gray sleeves of the fake Henley were soaked through. A few flecks ended up in Bruce's hair and on his jaw, but most of it landed on his hands, which — fuck, he'd forgotten gloves. He watched it slide into his nails with the same detached, cold observance as he'd watched everything else. Coleman jerked again, gasping, tongue slipping out of his mouth. Then his head fell forward, and the blood began to flow steadily down over his own chest and the sink. His eyes went unfocused beneath the half-closed lids. His muscles felt suddenly heavy. Bruce had to lower him carefully to the floor, the gash in his throat exposed, deep, dark, and ugly. He clenched his jaw against a sudden rush of nausea, but it passed, and then there was just — this. This thing he'd done. Coleman Reese lay dead in a spreading pool of his own blood at Bruce Wayne's feet in a sterile, cold bathroom at GCN Studios, and there was the knife in his hand, and more of the blood on his shirt, and his face, and it was over. The fear and panic he'd felt earlier had disappeared, and in their place was something else. The cold, clinical thing that had enabled him to hold the knife to Ashland, and to break Ainsworth's fingers. It was charged and electric and dark in a wholly different way than the brutal and blind anger of Batman. Perhaps it was another person entirely.
Bruce stepped back before the blood could reach his shoes. He walked around Coleman's body and ran the knife for some minutes under running water. He hadn't thought to bring anything to sterilize with but it was fine. He splashed the blood off his face, out of his hair; he scrubbed it from under his nails and rubbed it out of the cracks of his knuckles. The sleeves he couldn't do anything about, but with some maneuvering he was able to roll them up his arms and hide the stains entirely. There was a spot on his collar but it could've been water. He looked down at his hands to check for any stains he'd missed and was surprised at their steadiness. He straightened his collar. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone again. Flipping it open, he snapped a picture of Coleman's body, the slack mouth and the congealing blood at the throat. He sent it to Jude. Then he unlocked the bathroom door, and he walked out.
The secretaries were engrossed in their own activities again. Neither of them looked up at the sound of the door swinging open and shut. On the television screens over their heads Mike Engel was still covering the chase, though it seemed to be running down, because it kept cutting back to him in the studio, as though they were tiring of the footage. He walked in the opposite direction from where he'd come, passing the mail room and the studio of Tilly Carmichael, before he came to a set of stairs. He pushed the door open. He wondered how long it would take them to discover the body.
As he made his way down the stairs — slow, even strides — he took a moment to call Cornell. "It's done," he told him, as soon as Cornell had picked up, not even saying hello. "What should we do about the body?"
Cornell cleared his throat. Judging from the tone of it he was surprised. "Uh — where is it?"
Bruce told him. Cornell snorted.
"What, you just — left him there?"
"I — should I not have?" He was at the back entrance of the stairwell now; when he pushed the door open the sunlight assaulted his eyes, white and sheer. He had to take a moment to adjust, his eyes aching, before he could see that he'd come out on the other side of the studio to where his car was parked.
"No, no, it's fine — the boss has a few people at the studio, I'll get in touch with them. Just tell the boss — "
"I sent him a picture."
"Huh." Cornell paused. "Well. You're just… striding right the fuck forward, aren't you." He hung up before Bruce could respond, and Bruce sighed. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and walked around the building. His Nissan was still in the parking lot, and he watched himself walk towards it. He could feel the cold, detached thing slowly easing itself off. Something else was underneath it. It felt wrong to try and touch it, or to look at it, but it didn't feel unfriendly, either. Just… wary.
The thing was that killing Coleman had been easy. It had been easier than Bruce had expected, once he'd gotten it started, like going through the steps as Batman. The same violence, the same fuel of adrenaline. Only it was stripped. It was exactly the way it had been with Ainsworth. He'd done it, and it had been over. And in the moment, when the blade had sunk into the flesh and the blood had sprayed and filled the room with that hot, iron scent —
— with the adrenaline fading, and reality returning, and the cold, detached thing slipping off, he recognized that same violent, jarring enjoyment he'd felt with Ainsworth. Accomplishment and purpose. The ache, the constant ache in his chest where his parents had been, where Batman had been, the need, the drive —
— satiated.
His phone buzzed and he pulled it out along with his car keys. The wind was picking up; the air smelled like snow. It was Jude on the other end of the line:
"Wayne, fuck."
Bruce bit his mouth. His skin was frigid, an odd contrast to the lightning inside him. "I told you I'd do it."
Silence. Then:
"Tell me how it was."
Bruce unlocked his door and slipped into the car. As he cranked the engine to warm the interior up, he told Jude what he'd done. It should have worried him, maybe, how calm his voice was coming out. His hands were still steady and his heartrate had slowed. That should have worried him, too. He'd thought he would feel remorse, or something, or at least guilt, but he didn't really feel much of anything except relief that it was done.
"Well," said Jude, when Bruce was finished. "Our little Bruce Wayne is moving up in the world."
"I'm trying to," said Bruce.
Jude cleared his throat. Then, shockingly: "Congratulations, Wayne," he said. "Come over later."
Bruce blinked. On the radio the DJ was expressing relief that the car chase was letting up. "You mean — " He cleared his throat, too. "To your apartment, or?"
"Yeah," Jude said. Unspoken, but still obvious: no shit. Bruce rubbed the back of his neck. In the rearview his eyes were like glass.
"It's just — you haven't ever — "
"Well, I am now." Jude was starting to sound exasperated. "Is this a problem or something, Wayne?"
"No," Bruce said hastily. "It's just — " He hesitated. He didn't want to assume anything, but his skin was already feeling tighter, his mouth drying out. He remembered the way Jude had looked underneath him and his heart began pounding again. He knew Jude would likely call him an idiot, but: "Can I ask why?"
"Why the fuck do you think," Jude said, and hung up. Bruce stared at his own phone for a few seconds, then snapped it shut and tossed it onto the passenger seat. He had no idea when he'd started smiling, nor why he couldn't stop.
Coleman had assumed he'd get away with it this time. Likely he'd assumed Bruce would be either too scared or too kind to say or do anything about it, and that at most he'd try to file a lawsuit after the fact to deal with the fallout. But Coleman Reese hadn't known who the fuck Bruce Wayne really was.
"And neither do I," Bruce whispered, and put the car in drive.
He intended to stop by the bunker and burn the UPS uniform in one of the incinerators, but Lucius called his business phone as he was driving and told him that according to Mike Engel, Coleman had left the studio abruptly and therefore the segment was cancelled.
"You don't happen to know where he went, do you, Mr. Wayne?" Lucius asked, and Bruce winced as he remembered telling Lucius he was going to "take care of" the problem. Carefully clearing his throat, he said,
"I took a page out of your book."
"What do you — "
"I offered Coleman a bribe, and he agreed to take it."
The silence which stretched on after this explanation went on far too long. Bruce went through two intersections before Lucius finally admitted to being distracted by the presence of the board members. He sounded like he wanted to say more, but in the end only urged Bruce to get back quickly, since with the threat of Coleman gone Bruce now had no reason to stay away from the meeting. So Bruce bypassed the bunker and went back to Wayne Tower, parking in his garage and shoving the uniform into the trunk of his Mustang. If nothing else he figured he could always just hold onto it until the next warehouse meeting, then give it back to Cornell to clean or burn or whatever he wanted to do with it. He changed back into the suit and tie which he'd left in the Nissan and popped out his contacts before heading up in his private elevator to the meeting. Lucius gave him a look as he walked in, but Bruce ignored him in favor of smiling at all the board members.
"Sorry for the delay," he said. "You know how things can get," which earned him a friendly chuckle from one of the women. From there it was as easy as it had been at GCN to slip on another skin, and to wear it steadily through the afternoon. He shocked himself with how calmly he spoke about various boring things: funding for new sonar research, the additions to Gotham General in the psychiatric wing, the community college he wanted to begin development on, with its sister school in Hoboken. In his nose he could still smell the sharp iron tang of Coleman's blood. He kept remembering the way Coleman's head had hit the glass, the jarring impact of it up his arm. He'd likely be sore by morning.
Todd, the replacement accountant, was taking notes and making marks in the ledger, and Bruce watched him idly. He remembered that during Todd's interview he'd asked if Coleman had only quit temporarily due to the nature of the Joker's threat. Your predecessor certainly isn't coming back to usurp you now, he thought, and barely kept himself from laughing. It felt on the edge of hysterical. It felt like it would sound like someone else's laugh coming out.
After that meeting, there were two others Bruce had to sit through, one with a clean energy company, one with a volunteer organization that wanted funding for better roads in the inner city. Bruce, who was mildly concerned about the condition of the Mustang's undercarriage after his last trip into the Narrows, was happy to sign off on that one. He felt Lucius' eyes on him throughout the day, and it grew quickly exhausting to keep the Bruce Wayne mask up, especially since he was hiding two things from Lucius now. By the time they were all finally able to leave the tower Bruce felt ready to collapse. Instead, he begged off Lucius' invitation to dinner and went up to the penthouse to watch the news.
"Our sources tell us that Mr. Reese was last seen heading towards his own red Camaro in the studio parking lot," Mike Engel said. "The unfortunate timing of the chase during what would have been a very revealing interview — "
Bruce switched the set off. So Cornell hadn't lied about their studio connections. The relief he'd felt earlier grew, alongside a faint, nagging sense of triumph. He tried to ignore it; it felt like it belonged to the cold, calculated creature that had committed murder with Bruce's face.
The evening stretched. Alfred, like Lucius, was watching Bruce too closely. He fucked around for a bit on his laptop before slipping into his sweats and announcing he was going for a drive. He got turned around twice in the Narrows — it was just gone daylight savings, and already pitch black as he left the penthouse — so that by the time he arrived at Jude's apartment it was well after seven in the evening. He parked the Mustang at the same corner from last time and walked to the front door of the complex. There were no buzzers, and the junkies on the steps were too out of it to help, so Bruce texted Jude:
Here.
Locks busted agn, came the reply, after a moment. Jst open door. Cm up. Bruce winced at this lack of security, but he also knew that Jude had a deadbolt and like six million knives and guns, so he decided to let it go. He had to brace his shoulder against the door for it to open, but eventually the wood gave under his weight and he walked inside. The stairs looked even more scuffed than they had last week, and Bruce took them two at a time, until at last he reached the third floor. He walked down the hallway to Jude's apartment. A couple argued in Spanish behind one door. The faint strains of Sesame Street behind another:
I count seven cookies! One, two, three, four —
Bruce knocked at Jude's door. After a moment the deadbolt unlatched, and then there was Jude. He'd put on a black sleeveless shirt and dark violet shorts and his hair was tied up and he'd removed most of his greasepaint and he just — he looked good. As Bruce stepped over the threshold his eyes centered on Jude's arms — he'd never seen them bare before, and was surprised, more than he supposed he should have been, at the number of his scars. Most of them were older, varying lengths and shades of white or pale red, crossing down from his shoulders to his forearms, but one on his right bicep was different, wine-dark and deep and nasty-looking. Bruce kicked the door shut behind him and reached out to touch it. Jude tensed, but didn't pull away, and Bruce traced his fingers slowly down the ridged line of skin.
"Where's this one from?" Bruce asked softly.
Jude shrugged. "Don't remember."
Bruce frowned. "It's newer than the others," he pressed, though not insistently. "I've been with you for all your events for the past month and — "
"No, you haven't," Jude said, and something in his voice told Bruce to shut up. He stepped away from Bruce just enough that his hand would fall, and dug his overlong nails into his elbow. "And I didn't ask you here to talk about my scars, anyway." He was glaring at the opposite wall, and Bruce breathed out. Jude wasn't normal, he reminded himself; he didn't think like Bruce — or like anyone, really — and Bruce needed to keep him placated. If Jude wasn't happy then Bruce would have killed Coleman over nothing, and Bruce needed this to work.
— And it was nicer to be around him when he was happy. Bruce liked the way he looked at him when it was just the two of them. He was interested in drawing that look out again, so he took a breath, and stepped forward. He reached out again, touching Jude's face this time, the deep knotted scars on his cheeks. Jude stilled beneath his fingers.
"I thought you loved talking about your scars," Bruce said, trying to keep just enough of a light tone Jude would understand he was teasing him without mocking. After a moment Jude cut his eyes to Bruce's; his features relaxed marginally. When he sighed it was exasperated, but tinted with something close to fondness.
"C'mere," Jude said, and reached up to pull Bruce's hand down. He curled their fingers together and tugged Bruce further into his space. Their noses were nearly touching. "You are fuckin' something else, Wayne, you know that?"
Bruce was going cross-eyed trying to focus. "Is that a bad thing?"
"Not particularly," Jude said. His other hand found its way onto Bruce's hip. Bruce's heart had started pounding again.
"You killed for me," Jude said, after a while. He'd pulled back a little so they could look at each other. His eyes dropped to Bruce's mouth.
"Yeah," Bruce said.
Jude's lips twitched. "Guess you fell pretty fuckin' far, huh?"
Bruce took a breath. In. Out. "Yeah," he said again.
"Tell me again what it was like for you," Jude said.
Bruce swallowed. "It, uh — it felt — " He couldn't say it. The cold beast that had slouched in his arms, ready to be born —
"You enjoyed it?" Jude asked, stroking Bruce's hair. He was nearly whispering.
"…Yes," Bruce whispered back, closing his eyes. He couldn't quite discern what he was feeling now that the adrenaline was wearing off. He just knew he was dizzy with it, nearly overwhelmed.
He felt Jude's fingers trail down his cheek. "Hey," he said, still quiet. "Look at me." It wasn't like the way he'd said it to Brian Douglas; Bruce could tell it wasn't a command. But he looked anyway. Jude's eyes were steady on his, and there was understanding in them, and a little sadness, too.
"It's better after the first time," he said, and Bruce blinked in surprise, but Jude's mouth was twisting downward. Bruce could tell he was embarrassed, or something resembling it. He could see Jude was offering him something in return for Bruce killing for him, and he couldn't imagine what that must be costing him, so he forced aside the dizziness and the sour taste in his throat and he said,
"You know my parents were shot and killed in front of me."
Jude nodded.
"So that fucked me up for a long time — "
Jude snorted. "I'll fuckin' bet — "
" — but when I got capable of thinking again, rational thought, I decided… I wasn't ever going to do that. I wasn't going to kill anyone." He flexed his fingers in Jude's hand. "I don't — know how to process how easy it was to slit Coleman's throat. And I don't know why it was easy in the first place." It was the closest he could get without actually admitting the truth. Jude tilted his head. His tongue darted out to wet his mouth.
"You know," he said, in that same, quiet voice, "Batman's got that same exact rule."
Bruce's heart dropped sixty feet into his stomach. "Oh, yeah?" he said. His mouth was completely dry. Jude's expression wasn't angry or manipulative but Bruce knew he shouldn't trust based on appearances. If Jude knew Bruce figured he only had two options, and he wasn't sure why he was put off by one of them. But Jude just nodded. His posture and his hand in Bruce's and on Bruce's face remained relaxed and easy. He said,
"It's why I like you better,"
and Bruce couldn't help his mouth twitching.
"You like me better?"
"You're not a hypocrite about it," Jude said. "You don't… enjoy the violence and try to hide it. You just enjoy it. And you admit it. I like that a lot."
Bruce's brain made a sound which was incoherent but most closely resembled: huh. He reached up and put his own hand on Jude's face. Their arms were touching. "It's pointless," he said, a little hoarse. "It's not gonna go away if I — " the words stuck; there was too much irony in them, but he made himself finish — "if I ignore it, or tell myself it's something else." He'd been doing that already for years, and look how well it had turned out. He was standing in the apartment of a mass murderer trying to convince him he wasn't the exact person they were both talking about, and he himself was a murderer now. He could still smell Coleman's blood in his nose if he focused. So in a way he was still doing it. But Jude nodded again, and he said,
"Are you going to do it again?"
"Kill for you?"
"Yes."
Bruce didn't hesitate; he couldn't, he knew the only answer. "Yes," he said, and didn't add, if you want me to, or, if I have to, because he knew that wasn't what Jude would want to hear, and anyway he wasn't sure it was what he meant. The truth was he really did have more than enough to go to Gordon with now; he could stay here long enough to get what he and Jude both wanted, and then sneak out, go to the station. Perhaps Gordon's anger would not be so brutal that he wouldn't recognize what Bruce had done for him and for the whole city, and he'd get Bruce, Alfred, and Lucius placed into Witness Protection for a while. But Bruce just couldn't — quite — make himself. He wanted to see how far he could stretch this thing. He wanted to see what else the cold, calculating creature was capable of, when it was unleashed and unmasked and given a face and voice.
He was used to masks, after all — Batman, and billionaire Bruce Wayne, but this — he knew this was someone else. All of Batman's unhinged violence under Bruce Wayne's tight, nearly ascetic control. No, Bruce wasn't going to give this up. Not yet.
He watched Jude's face relax marginally at his answer. He didn't know what it meant that he felt relief, too.
"Okay," Jude said. Then his eyes shifted. "How about we get around to what you came over for, huh?"
Bruce snorted. "So you decided I wasn't a waste of your time after all?"
"Obviously," Jude muttered, extricating his hand from Bruce's and curling his fingers around the other side of his jaw. He drew Bruce forward. His mouth was as warm and dry as Bruce remembered. Bruce licked the taste of cigarettes off the roof of it. He let himself be walked backwards into Jude's room where he was unceremoniously shoved backwards onto the mattress. As he went Bruce grabbed the front of Jude's shirt and hauled him down too. Jude landed with a thud on Bruce's lap, knees on either side of his hips. His hands dropped to circle around Bruce's wrists. He dragged their crotches together so that Bruce could feel how hard he was through the soft cotton of his shorts and the even softer fabric of Bruce's sweats. He groaned at the friction, bit Jude's mouth. Jude wasn't holding his wrists hard and it was undifficult to get out and flip them over like he knew Jude wanted. They were still kissing, hungry, devouring. Bruce was panting like a dog into Jude's mouth. He could feel all his adrenaline rushing back in a different way — the heat and thrill from their fights as Batman and the Joker, but without the suit. The intent and purpose drawn and channeled to a different outlet. Bruce could have easily hit him with how he was feeling. Instead he dragged their cocks together again and hooked his thumbs into Jude's waistband to pull his shorts off. He licked the edge of one of Jude's scars and Jude jolted against him.
"Wayne, fuck," he said hoarsely, squeezing his knees against Bruce's ribs. Without thinking about what he was doing Bruce shifted upwards and pulled off his sweatshirt. His arms were trembling from holding himself up. He was shirtless underneath and there was a second where neither of them moved as Jude's eyes narrowed in on Bruce's scars and Bruce realized —
— shocking, frozen feeling, like diving into a lake in Siberia —
— what he'd done. Then Jude reached up and touched one. It was the one on Bruce's abdomen that Jude had given him back in July at the penthouse, kicking him, the knife in his shoe piercing the Kevlar. Bruce stilled. He tried to breathe evenly.
"Where's this from," Jude didn't quite ask. His eyes darted to Bruce's shoulder — the Rottweiler bite — and then back to his stomach. His eyebrows furrowed and Bruce was fucked. He didn't dare move, hovering over Jude, their noses maybe two inches from each other.
"Taekwondo," he said, carefully. Jude's tongue flicked out.
"Why the fuck did you take such a violent fucking form of it." He reached up and touched the other scars on Bruce's arms. Bruce almost dreaded him seeing his back. "Is that where you got all of these?"
Bruce shifted a little so that he could support himself better on his elbow. He hooked one knee around Jude's thigh so that his cock was pressed to Jude's hip, and didn't miss the brief catch in Jude's breath. "How come you're asking me so many questions about them?" he said. "You wouldn't tell me about — " He touched the dark, ugly scar on Jude's arm, and Jude stiffened.
"Because I'm fucking in charge, Wayne," he said, "and I get to ask whatever I want. And you answer. I'm interested in where a fucking vegan CEO got like eight hundred million — "
"When I was overseas," Bruce said. He said it too fast, maybe, but it made Jude shut up, which had been the goal. Bruce's body was warm from arousal and he could still taste Jude on his tongue and when he closed his eyes he kept seeing the way Coleman's blood had sprayed out over the mirror. He kept remembering the way his body had felt when it trembled and then went still, and how methodically he'd laid it on the floor, and walked out. "I got them all in Europe and Southeast Asia. Bar fights and taekwondo and just — street shit."
"Street shit," Jude repeated. His eyes were still stuck on the knotted flesh on Bruce's shoulder.
"Uh-huh," Bruce said. "Some kid attacked me for my wallet in Vietnam." This was a half-lie; it had been at the training facility, and the kid had been a black belt brought in to simulate real-life fighting experiences with Bruce to test his reflexes. "He had a knife on him. And this one…" He pointed to a crescent-shaped cut on his bicep where some Falcone family member had swung at him with, bizarrely, a prison-sharpened toothbrush. He was still surprised it had managed to pierce the Kevlar. "A, uh — snorkeling accident."
That made Jude's mouth twitch, as Bruce had hoped it would. He touched it too, his long nails scratching the numb skin. Then he looked at Bruce's face.
"Snorkeling."
"Yeah. Coral reefs are nasty fuckers."
"Oh, I'm sure," Jude said dryly, "with all those little holes and — "
Bruce kissed him. He forced Jude's lips to part with his own and didn't miss the way his breath went shaky as he shifted himself onto his side for better purchase. When Bruce pulled away — just barely, their lips still touching — he said, "Are you gonna stop making inane comments now and let me fuck you, or do you want to resched— "
Jude growled, hooked a leg around Bruce's, and dragged their cocks together.
Okay. Okay, yeah.
They ended up with Bruce's knees digging into the floor through the filthy stained mattress, hand braced against Jude's shoulder. He was buried seven inches inside him and yet Jude still turned, mouth spit slick bitten red under the greasepaint, and said,
"You know, Wayne — you fell farther than I expected."
"Yeah," Bruce grunted, teeth gritted, digging his blunt nails into Jude's skin. "You said, boss."
Jude huffed out, reaching backwards to grab Bruce's other hand and push it against his hip. Bruce dug his fingers into the sex-heated skin and thrust in deeper, flesh striking flesh in the otherwise silence of the room. "It's why I like you," he said again. "Better success rate with you than with Batman."
Bruce carefully didn't react. He drew out a little, then shoved back in, gasping out at the tender tight feeling of Jude's ass around his cock. "You tried breaking Batman?"
Jude grunted, ducking his head down between his shaking locked arms. "Uh-huh," he said, a little breathlessly. Then, laughing a little: "What is it stores say? If you break it, you bought it." He looked over his shoulder again, momentarily. His eyes were lidded and hot with arousal and something else underneath. "So that means I own you."
Bruce couldn't help it: he started laughing. Jude's eyebrows furrowed tightly, but Bruce fell a little against him, still laughing. He bit his shoulder.
"What's funny, Wayne," Jude growled.
"Nothing."
"No, tell me — " and he'd been pushing back against Bruce but he stopped now, flipped Bruce over so he was being ridden. His knees caged his ribs and he leaned over Bruce, sinew and cord, flat stomach muscles taut, ready to run, years of practice. Bruce had sucked bruises into Jude's skin and he was slick with sweat and trembling holding himself up, so hard it looked painful, but he was staring him down and holding himself still, hands clenched on his thighs. "What the fuck is funny right now."
"Just — nothing, boss, sorry — "
Jude huffed again, annoyance creeping into it. "I said don't waste my time."He started to pull off and not thinking Bruce clasped his own hands around his thighs, forcing him back down. He felt himself sink all the way into Jude all at once, down to the hilt. The movement set off tight hot sparks along Bruce's spine, down into his groin. He made an embarrassing noise, back arching off the mattress. Jude was still staring down at him. His teeth were gritted. He'd made a noise too, though he'd muffled it better. He'd also overbalanced a little and his hands were resting on Bruce's shoulders now. The long nails cut his skin.
"You don't know when the fuck to stop, do you," he said. Bruce shook his head, and Jude bit the inside of his mouth, glancing at the far wall. When he looked back down his hair — coming loose from its bun and collecting sweat in the tendrils of it — was hanging around his face. He dragged his hips forward.
"Guess you're lucky you're a fucking good lay, Wayne," he said, and sank his teeth into his neck. Bruce hissed out, twisting away from the bright choking pain beneath his skin. He felt the bite run bone deep and knew there would be a bruise there by morning.
"I'm sorry I laughed," he said, snapping his hips up, driving into Jude. He made a tense punched out noise against Bruce's neck and Bruce realized — throat tightening — that this was not going to last much longer. "It's just — oh fuck — it's just. You said you own me."
"Uh-huh." He wrapped his hand around his dick and then he looked at Bruce's face. Bruce wasn't sure he was reading the command in Jude's eyes right but, chancing it, he pushed Jude's hand away to get his own around him and stroke. Judging from his expression it was a good move, the way his mouth went slack, the feral sharp lust in his eyes.
"I do own you though, Wayne," he panted. "You do whatever the fuck I fucking ask. You killed today because I wanted it."
"I'm inside you right now, Jude," Bruce pointed out, rolling his hips, making Jude hiss out.
"Fuck's that matter?" he snapped. "I want you there, it doesn't put you in control over me." But Bruce had heard the barest hesitation in his voice; felt the way Jude clenched around him. Instead of answering right away Bruce flipped them over again, hand still on him. He drove him into the mattress, strokes going choppy, thrusts erratic. They both came nearly at the same time, sweating, gasping, Bruce's teeth sunk into his own lower lip, Jude's eyes on Bruce's mouth, greedy and insatiable and starving. Bruce leaned down and kissed him savagely, viciously, bruisingly, tasting blood. He shuddered against him, grinding into the mess on their stomachs until they were both oversensitized. Bruce pulled out gingerly. He flopped to the side, pressed his arm to his eyes. For a long time after the only sound was their breathing in the dark, overheated room. Finally, Bruce said,
"I like fucking you."
No answer.
"It's okay if you like — "
"Hey." Jude's voice was sharp and Bruce looked at him. He was glaring at him, what little makeup remaining smeared around his face, hair a fucking mess. "I don't need your permission to like anything, Wayne. I don't need you to tell me whether I can or can't like something at all. I like what I like and I know you're good at fucking. If you don't want to do this anymore I can find someone else more pliable to — "
"Jude." Putting his hand on his shoulder felt dangerous, but Bruce did it anyway. Jude shocked him by shutting up. "I like sleeping with you," Bruce said. "I already told you that. I don't want to stop this."
"Then stop fucking questioning me." Jude's eyes were hard. "Whatever the fuck I don't tell you isn't your business," and Bruce knew he was talking about the scar, too. For a while they lay staring at each other, a dark challenge in Jude's eyes Bruce couldn't read. Finally, Jude huffed. He seemed almost to take pity on Bruce.
"Who do you belong to, Wayne."
Bruce knew the right answer to that. "You, Jude."
"For how long?"
Bruce swallowed. His throat was dry. "Until you decide you don't want me around anymore."
Jude's eyes darted across his face. Finally,
"So you can learn,"
and then he was off the mattress. He dragged his shorts back on. "I'm going to make a call," he said. "Don't wait up," and he was gone. Bruce heard the front door slam. He knew he should get up and leave, but Jude hadn't explicitly said to, and Bruce was suddenly tired. So he stayed lying there, smelling him in the sheets: cigarettes, filthy clothes, greasepaint.
He was pretty sure he was still in control. Jude could think he owned him if he wanted. Bruce was only doing whatever he said because he wanted it that way. It was all part of the plan. Part of the job. There wasn't anything else to this. There wasn't anything else.
Jude returned some hours later. Bruce was mostly asleep. He didn't have the energy to open his eyes when Jude walked in so he listened to him shuffling around for a bit, the sounds muffled as though through water. Then the light overhead went out, the mattress dipped, and there was a threadbare blanket pulled over Bruce's shoulders, stretched tight to accommodate two people.
Bruce knew he really should wake himself up all the way, excuse himself, and go. But it was so dark now, and he was so, so tired, and he hadn't slept right in some days, and the mattress was more comfortable than he'd thought. Jude was warm, and —
— Bruce was fucked.
In spite of his exhaustion and his half-conscious state, Bruce couldn't fall totally asleep right away. He lay listening to the gradual evening out of Jude's breathing, the sound of the L rumbling past, grabbing the room, rattling it bone deep. He watched the unfamiliar shadows moving on the wall. After a moment they took on the shape of Coleman Reese's blood. The way his throat had opened for Bruce's knife. The twitching and the glassiness of his eyes and the trickle of blood from his mouth. It had been over so quickly. And the thing was —
— the thing was Bruce hadn't even been thinking of it until now. There was no guilt, not like he'd thought there would be. There was no residual pulsing worry, no obsession over the details, no concern as to whether or not it had gone "right". He'd done the job, and he'd done it well enough to satisfy Jude. It had released whatever inside him that strayed too close to the surface. It had felt… like the culmination of certain of his most violent acts as Batman, the final push he'd needed, without knowing he needed it. He remembered Jude telling him about something similar on the Prewitt Building. He remembered also how Jude had said earlier that he preferred Bruce to Batman, because Bruce didn't lie about how he felt about violence. Because Jude had been able to break Bruce, but not Batman.
Bruce thought again of the tender, raw creature he'd shoved down, unable to look at it or touch it; the way it coexisted alongside the cold, calculating observation of the scene in the bathroom, and wondered if perhaps he himself had broken Batman.
He tried imagining how he'd tell Jude the truth. He'd put his hand on his shoulder, over the deep, brutal wound, and he'd say, I've infiltrated your gang undercover. All of this was to get information from you, and then, while Jude's mouth was starting to tighten at the edges:
I'm Batman.
The hell you are, Jude would say. But he'd narrow his eyes and Bruce knew he'd see the truth in his face. There would be a fight; things would get violent, and in the end Bruce would knock Jude out and bound and gag him before calling Gordon from the burner. He'd stay with a knife pressed to Jude's throat until Gordon arrived at the apartment. He'd watch as the police ungently hauled him to his feet and forced him into consciousness and marched him out without reading him his rights, probably saying he didn't have any —
"Wayne." Jude's voice was hoarse with exhaustion, and faintly irritated. His arm was around Bruce's waist, his fingertips just touching his ribs. "Fuck. Quit thinking. Go to sleep."
"Sorry, boss," Bruce mumbled. He didn't think about what he was doing — if he even really knew — when he reached down and curled his own fingers around Jude's. What he was doing as he drew his hand up to his mouth and kissed it in placation before letting it drift back to its original place. Jude grunted against his neck. Bruce felt his breathing even back out.
…Yeah, he was definitely fucked.
