The following morning, as Bruce and Lucius were setting up for another meeting in Conference Room B, fourth floor:

"Coleman Reese left his interview yesterday."

"Really."

"Yes. I heard from a source attached to Mike Engel that during the coverage of the police chase, Mr. Reese walked out to the bathroom and never returned. Mr. Engel had to end his segment with calls speculating on who the Batman is. Guesses ranged from President Bush to Mayor Garcia to the owner of Helms' on Anderson."

"Huh."

"Mr. Wayne."

"Yes, Mr. Fox."

"What do you know about Mr. Reese's sudden disappearance?"

Bruce kept his face turned towards the laptop. "Why do you think I — "

"Because the last time we talked about this, you told me you were going to, and I quote, 'take care of it'."

Oh. Right. "I, uh — might have told him he'd get a substantial sum of money if he kept his mouth shut."

"Uh-huh. And you went to the studio to deliver it yourself, I suppose."

It felt like a trap. But when Bruce chanced a look at Lucius' face, he saw nothing outside of the mild exasperation which Lucius and Alfred both delivered to Bruce on a near-daily basis. So he nodded, and Lucius sighed.

"Do you know where he went?"

"No." Bruce pretended to think about it for a minute. "He probably left Gotham, though. He might've left Jersey altogether, for all I — "

"And what happens when the money runs out, Mr. Wayne?"

"Then I'll give him some more."

Lucius' mouth thinned at the corners. But the partners walked in then, and by the time the meeting was done Bruce was late for lunch with the head of the Gotham General rebuilding effort, and Lucius didn't bring it up again.

Three days later Jim Gordon headed out to Montauk along with Marianne Reese, Coleman's wife, to identify remains which had washed up on the shore. Mike Engel went out there too, and seemed annoyed at having to share the news story with a local reporter. Bruce watched the coverage on the kitchen television. The wind was picking up the end of Marianne's scarf and winding it through her hair. She was wearing dark glasses and nervously smoking an unfiltered cigarette. They'd left the actual identification off camera — Bruce supposed for law-related reasons, not out of respect — but now Engel stood trying to interview both Marianne and Gordon in turns. He was having very little success with either of them because Marianne kept looking at the coroner and her husband's body under a white sheet, and Gordon refused to answer about ninety-seven percent of his questions.

"Commissioner, who do you think did this?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss an open case with you."

"Do you think it was the Joker?"

"I said — "

"We're two and a half hours outside of Gotham. That's an incredibly long distance to — "

"Mr. Reese threatened to out the Batman's identity," Gordon snapped. "We already know how well that went in July. Frankly I don't know why you allowed him the second interview. Excuse me." He walked back towards the coroner and the Montauk officers, ignoring Engel's tightening jaw. Bruce watched a tear track its way down Marianne's cheek from beneath her sunglasses as Engel turned towards her.

"Mrs. Reese, I understand you're — "

"I thought it was weird that he disappeared," she whispered. "Cole and I always talked about leaving Gotham, but… together. So I didn't — I mean, I knew something was wrong. When he didn't come back." She pushed the glasses up into her hair and pinned her accusatory, wet eyes to Engel. In the camera she looked suddenly fierce, and exhausted. I did that, Bruce thought, vaguely, from somewhere low and lost inside him. I'm the reason she looks like that. He searched for his guilt as Marianne said, unsurprisingly, "This is your fault. If you had just refused him the interview — "

"Mrs. Reese, really, I'm — "

"My Coleman is lying dead under that blanket." Her voice was raised so loudly several seagulls took off from a point beyond the camera lens. "His throat is slit open because you couldn't resist the fucking money — " The feed was live, apparently, because the censor didn't catch her in time. Bruce switched the set off, the screen going black on Engel's shocked, furious face. His heart was scraping the sides of his ribs. The landline rang as he was setting the remote down and he hesitated before picking it up:

"Bruce Wayne."

"I thought you said you offered him money." Lucius. Bruce took a deep breath.

"I did," he said. He pulled out the burner just for something to do with his hands, and texted Cornell:

Did u see the news?

"Then why is Marianne Reese on television getting into the back of an ambulance with his dead body?"

Bruce ran his thumb over the side of his burner. "I guess someone killed him for it."

Lucius sighed. "Who could have known he had it to begin with?"

"Maybe someone followed him out of town and killed him because he said he was going to out the Batman's identity, I don't know." Bruce tried not to let his frustration through in his voice, but it was difficult. It was difficult because this was Lucius, and this was the second time in less than a week he was lying to him, and because, in spite of that, there was still no guilt. It was exactly the same as it had been the night after it happened. There was just… nothing.

His phone buzzed as Cornell texted him back: Yh.

"Is it possible it was the Joker?" Lucius asked, and Bruce's chest did something weird — stalled, or something. On his phone — thumbs shaking a little — he typed out thx, and then, to Lucius:

"Haven't they — I mean, since he broke out of Arkham in September? Haven't they caught him?"

"No," Lucius said. The tone of his voice vaguely suggested this was Bruce's fault. "I assume it was his men in that car chase, though, which means he was using it as a distraction to get to his real goal — "

"Why would you — " Bruce cleared his throat. "Why do you assume it was his men?"

"I saw a clown mask through the windows of the van," Lucius said. "And who else would do something so erratic at such an inopportune moment?"

?, Cornell said.

4 cvrng 4 me, Bruce said. W/e u said or did wrkd. So thx. Out loud to Lucius:

"Well, I don't know how it could've been the Joker himself, I mean, no one's heard about him since that breakout, and — I mean, maybe it's just some copycats."

"Copycats of the Joker are trouble, anyway," Lucius said. "It sounds like you should come out of hiding and suit up, Mr. Wayne — "

"Lucius — "

"It's been four months," Lucius said. It was similar enough to the conversation he'd had with Alfred that Bruce wondered if they'd talked privately behind his back. "Your vigilantism was despised in the city long before this man came and destroyed your reputation further. You need to — "

"I'm not going to do anything yet," Bruce said, and this time he didn't bother trying to hide his frustration. Or his annoyance. "I'm not ready, and neither is Gotham. I'm — working on something."

:), said Cornell, as though in reply. Bruce sighed; slipped the burner back into his pocket. On the phone the silence stretched a moment too long. Then Lucius said,

"The last time you 'worked on something' and kept it from me, we ended up spending half a billion dollars on a glorified tracking system that hacked into the privacy of half the citizens — "

"It's not like — "

" — citizens you swore you would protect — "

"I know what I'm doing." Bruce's voice came out sharper than he'd intended, and Lucius was quiet. Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, tried to breathe. How far are you willing to go? Thomas asked, Bruce asked. Are you going to push everyone away irreparably before this is done? Who will you have to go back to when it's over? "It's not like the phone thing, Lucius. It's something else. It doesn't involve money or anything. And it's going to — it'll make everything okay." He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. He could hear Lucius breathing on the other end. Finally:

"Consider coming back, Mr. Wayne. That's all I'm asking. I think we'd all appreciate it."

"Sure," Bruce lied, softly. "I'll consider it."

"And there's probably going to be some kind of memorial service," Lucius said. "You should attend that."

"Sure," Bruce said again. He slipped the phone back into its cradle before Lucius could say anything else. When he turned around he saw Alfred in the dining room door, watching him. He braced himself, wary —

— but after a moment Alfred only sighed, and walked into the kitchen to pick up Bruce's untouched breakfast.


"Master Wayne, may I speak with you a moment?"

It was late in the evening. Bruce had assumed that with Coleman's death making the news Jude would have scheduled some kind of meeting, and that he'd be heading out for the warehouse by now, but during a tour of the renovated sewage treatment facility in the Lower East Side, Bruce's burner had gone off with a text letting him know that he had the evening off. He figured either he was on a break out of whatever passed for congratulations in Jude's mind, or he'd fucked up without realizing and was about to be killed, and they were all meeting in secret to discuss the best way to go about doing it. Either way there was nothing he could do about it at the moment, so he was sitting here watching Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew and trying to decide if he should be worried about Lucius or not. Throughout the day any time they were in the same room he'd cut sideways searching looks in Bruce's direction and Bruce could tell he was trying to work things out in his mind. Part of Bruce had wanted to go to Lucius and tell him the truth — not about Coleman, but about working with Jude, just to get the suspicion out of his eyes. But he knew about how well that would go over, so he'd kept his mouth shut. And now Alfred was standing here and using the same tone he'd used the night before Bruce had gone after Ainsworth, and Bruce really didn't want to face another conversation in the same vein in one day. But trying to ignore Alfred or change the subject seemed even less of a good idea than trying to tell Lucius the truth, so he turned to Alfred and said,

"Yeah, sure. What is it?"

Alfred cleared his throat. He sat down in the chair opposite Bruce. "I wonder," he began, after a moment, "what it is exactly that you've been getting yourself up to these last few weeks."

Bruce felt the tremors of something resembling nervous energy run down his spine. "What do you mean?"

"You don't put on the Batsuit anymore," Alfred said, "now that it's so much more dangerous for you to be seen as Batman, yet — if you'll pardon my bluntness, sir, I'm not blind. I know you leave the penthouse almost every night. The last time I asked you about this, you said you go out and drive around the city — "

"That's still, that's all I'm doing — "

"Until four in the morning?" Alfred raised his eyebrows. "Every night?"

"You know I'm used to it," Bruce mumbled to his hands, clenched between his knees. "And it's a big city."

Alfred was looking at him; Bruce couldn't read his expression, and he felt his heart begin to try and climb its way out of his throat. It still wasn't guilt, not entirely, but — he knew. If there was one person he couldn't lie to. One person he couldn't hide things from —

Alfred said, "I wonder if it's enough to occupy your mind just driving around, as opposed to fighting criminals."

"It — " Bruce had to clear his throat. "It works okay — "

"Because you spent many, many years as Batman, sir. I know how important routine is, especially for you."

"I have — "

"And it's my job, sir. To worry about you."

"Yeah, I know." Bruce smiled at him, or tried to. It felt stiff on his face, though, and after a few seconds he let it fall. "I'm fine, though, Alfred, really."

Alfred hesitated. Then he said, "You know, I realized yesterday that you've been taking your father's Mustang out quite frequently. It's an old car, Master Wayne. So I decided to run it to the inspection station for you, just to make sure it wouldn't need modifications."

Bruce's whole body went cold. Something tightened in his fingers. "What the hell'd you do that for, Alfred, you know I'm good with cars — "

"It was a favor, Master Wayne." Now Alfred's eyes were growing hard. "You were in a meeting, and I did it as a favor. Frankly I'm shocked I was able to even get to the car, you have it so often — "

"You could've asked me, I would have — "

" — but when I got in the car I saw a joker card in the glove compartment, and I saw the address on the back. And I saw what was in the trunk, sir."

The UPS costume. He'd forgotten it. It had only been three days, and there hadn't been time. "Alfred — "

"I'm not blind, Master Wayne. When I was in Burma, trying to catch that bandit in the forest, I learned to spot who had worked with him and who hadn't just by their facial expressions. Men who deal in nefarious schemes have an edge to their eyes, even if they don't realize it's there. You've had an edge to your eyes for so long from being Batman that it's taken me a while to realize there is a different one now."

Bruce discovered his knee was shaking. He had to force himself to untense his muscles to make it stop. On the television they were airing a commercial for this new MTV reality show that was supposed to come out next summer, something to do with pregnant teenagers. "I — "

"Did you kill Coleman Reese?"

Something in the way Alfred asked made Bruce flinch — the bluntness of the question, perhaps, or just the tone of his voice, that tight anger Bruce knew well. "I — "

"Don't insult me by lying, Master Wayne," he said, and Bruce flinched again.

"Yes," he said. He made himself meet Alfred's eyes when he said it.

It was quiet for a long time. He didn't think Alfred had ever looked at him like that. Finally he said, "Who are you working with, sir? Tell me that much, at least. I'm sure I can guess, but I think I need to hear you say it. I think you need to say it." He clasped his hands between his own knees, mirroring Bruce. "I don't think I want to know why," he added. "Not yet."

"It's not any — " Bruce swallowed — "any bad reasons, Alfred, it's actually — it has to do with justice, and — "

"Murder isn't justice," Alfred said sharply. Then he took a breath. Bruce watched him visibly steady himself before saying, "But I certainly hope there will be justice involved, sir." He was still watching him with that same narrow, unreadable expression. "You of all people know how fine a line there is between one side and the other."

How fine a line, indeed. How far are you willing to go. Bruce wanted to scream. Instead he let the silence envelop him, fill the room, until he was nearly drowning in it. Then — and now he couldn't meet Alfred's eyes — he said, "It's the Joker. I've infiltrated the Joker's gang, and I'm going to take him down — "

Alfred stood up. "You're a bloody, reckless fool," he said. His hands were shaking. It scared Bruce, more than he'd realized it would. "I'm not going to ask you to stop, because I know how much good that would do. But I hope this is going to be wrapped up soon. I'm not interested in watching you destroy yourself over — "

"It's going to be wrapped up soon," Bruce said. He thought of Jude three nights ago, the way he'd looked beneath Bruce, how his back had arched and his muscles tensed. The things he'd said, and the bruises Bruce had left on him. The bruises Bruce had left because Jude wanted them. "It's going to be over in a month. Maybe less."

Alfred just shook his head. "You — " he began, but he didn't seem capable of continuing. After a moment he turned, walked to the door. He looked so much older than Bruce had seen him even just half an hour ago. Bruce wanted to call to him, but he didn't dare; the moment felt too off balance. He knew Alfred wouldn't leave; he hadn't left when Bruce had become Batman, and this was about the same level of self-involved and dangerous. But Bruce knew also that this was a different kind of dangerous, and how it must look to Alfred, even if he sort of knew why Bruce was doing it.

It would have to be over soon, he thought, watching the door close behind Alfred, feeling the weight of his burner in his pocket. It needed to be. Because he'd seen in Alfred's face that he didn't believe Bruce, not really. And Bruce —

— Bruce wasn't entirely sure he believed himself, either.


For a while not much happened with the gang. Bruce went to meetings at the warehouse when Jude or one of the others texted him. He gave Cornell the UPS uniform, and Cornell made a face at the old dried blood and asked why Bruce couldn't have just burned it or taken it to dry-cleaning, because he was going to have to get a new disguise now anyway. Staley laughed at Bruce, but Reznor laughed at Cornell —

"Fuck're you being such a little bitch about it for, Nell?"

— and shot Bruce a grin so devoid of malice Bruce was taken aback. He returned the smile, then glanced at Jude, who was standing a little ways away, discussing something with Cobain and Byrne. He had half his attention on Cornell and the others and Bruce saw his mouth twitch, just barely, in the corner. The tender, raw, half-born creature from the GCN bathroom lifted its head and shifted its claws before settling back behind his ribs. Warmth that had nothing to do with the sweats and beanie spread alongside it. It was the antithesis of the cold, calculated feeling that he let carry him through his interrogations and through the murder — and yet it was the same, too, or anyway it had the same source.

He discovered the longer time went on that it was still easy to not feel guilt over what he'd done. He was more amazed than he probably should have been at the almost complete lack of difference between Coleman's murder and the things he'd done to other people as Batman. The only difference really was the finality of the murder. Everyone else had walked, or limped, or crawled, or been dragged away from whatever hell he'd put them through. He thought about it as he cleaned Jude's guns, or counted the boxes that came in shipments of drugs at the wharf, or checked the list of car parts ordered against the actual arrivals in their warehouses. He thought about it, but he also thought about other things: the way Jude's hair fell against the dark violet of his coat, and how his voice would echo, snapping, off the walls of buildings or the alleyways. The curl to his mouth when Bruce did something that particularly amused him — usually some abrupt and unexpected act of violence during an interrogation. Generally this led to Bruce being invited back to the apartment in the Narrows for sex, and sometimes Bruce stayed overnight, though he was always shunted out in the frozen mornings while it was still dark because Jude "wasn't going to start buying any of that soy breakfast crap" for him. He would drive back to the penthouse and try to sneak up to change and remove his contacts without Alfred noticing, which worked about twenty-five percent of the time.

Jude still didn't quite seem to know what to think of his scars — he'd seen the ones on Bruce's back too, and Bruce had endured several tense, not totally unpleasant minutes of Jude tracing them with his nails. Finally he mumbled something about Chicago being less violent than Bruce's apparent European adventures and sank his teeth into the fucking dog bite scar on Bruce's left arm. Bruce still wasn't allowed to ask about the vicious, deep scar on Jude's own arm, but he was learning to know how to pick his battles.

Ten days after Coleman's body was discovered in Montauk, the service Lucius had predicted was announced. Marianne had had the funeral already, privately, and didn't bother disguising her anger at the memorial. She thought it was gauche, or something, that the city which had killed and then discarded her husband was mourning his death. She stood in the back of the crowd with her arms folded and a heavy dark coat on, and the sunglasses she'd worn on the news, and she didn't speak to anyone. Bruce went because he knew how it would look to Lucius if he didn't. Jim Gordon was there, for some reason, and he asked Bruce to speak, because Marianne wouldn't; also because Bruce was Bruce and likely Gordon thought it would be good for publicity. Bruce stood looking out over the crowd, the camera crews that had gathered — Mike Engel, he noticed, was conspicuously absent — and clenched his hands around the podium.

"I didn't work with Coleman Reese for very long," he said, "but I know he was a good man…" He talked for a while, rote, typical things. Every time he looked down at his hands they were covered in blood, and the nails were bloody, and the knuckles, and he could smell it in his nose and feel it in his hair. Will all great Neptune's ocean —

He remembered the way Coleman's throat had opened for him, and afterwards the dark blood congealing over the bright pink flesh, and the stench of death. He must have zoned out during his own speech because when next he was aware of himself he was stepping down and people were clapping. He saw Lucius off to the side give him an approving nod. He supposed part of him felt relief — it had been a good way to guarantee that no one would suspect him. All the same he was glad when he was able to slip away from the crowd without detection. He got in his car and drove back to the penthouse. In the garage he checked his phone.

U look good on TV.

Bruce smiled. Thx, boss.

U want 2 come 2 C.I. tmrw nite?

C.I.?

Coney Isl.

Bruce blinked. Whts in C.I.?

Wrk. A pause. Ur doing good. Big job. Not jst Rx 1234.

It took Bruce a second to realize 'Rx 1234' was Jude's shorthand version of saying 'drug counting'. He snorted. Ok, he said.

Good, Jude said, after a moment. Will send time, etc. l8r.

Bruce ran his thumb over the screen of his phone, for some reason. He was still smiling as he slipped it in his pocket and ran a hand through his hair before getting out of the car and heading for the elevator.


The following evening Cornell, Kowalczyk, Reznor, and Jude drove by the penthouse and picked Bruce up before heading out to New York. Bruce understood it was likely not in his best interest to voice his opinion that Coney Island wasn't the most logical place for a meetup, and indeed he was able to keep quiet for most of the ride, but in the end he couldn't help it. As Cornell pulled into a parking space, Bruce said, trying to sound casual:

"So isn't it… a little public here?"

In the rearview mirror Jude met his eyes with an expression that clearly said, you're lucky I still like fucking you, sweetheart. But he just shrugged and said, "Makes it easier," and then Kowalczyk said,

"Think of it like this, Wayne: if there's a crowd, no one's gonna see what you're doing. You ever read Gatsby?"

Bruce blinked; he tried not to show his surprise on his face, but Kowalczyk caught it anyway, and rolled his eyes.

"I have a Master's in linguistics from Montclair State," he said. "We're not all fuckin' gutter rats like Nell here," and then there was a pause while Cornell reached behind him from the driver's seat to smack Kowalczyk in the shoulder, and Kowalczyk ducked away, laughing. The engine cut off and Cornell and Reznor adjusted their guns in their jackets, and Jude his knife. Kowalczyk glanced expectantly at Bruce, who said, slowly,

"Yeah. Couple times." It had been one of Rachel's favorites. He could remember deliberately missing the point, age fifteen, because he was trying so hard to compare her to Daisy, already planning to leave by that point, thinking of how he'd return one day, find her waiting…

"So you know that part when Jordan's like, I love large parties because they're so intimate? Yeah, so, it's the same. Fitzgerald must've been in the mob." He grinned, and Reznor rolled his eyes.

"Fitzgerald was not in the mob, Zyk, for the fucking hundredth — "

"I can dream, okay." Kowalczyk glared at him without heat as they piled out of the car. He rounded to the other side so he could stand next to Bruce. The chill from the Atlantic was bracing, and Bruce shoved his hands under his arms. Even in his beanie his head felt too exposed.

"So anyway yeah, it's like that," Kowalczyk finished. "There isn't any privacy in places like the laundromat, or the Falcone restaurants. But here?" He spread his hands out, expansive. "We can get away with whatever the fuck we want. It's best on the Fourth and at New Year's, actually, 'cause there's a million fireworks, and no one's gonna hear the fuckin' gunshots."

Bruce bit his mouth. "Right," he said. He was watching the crowd; despite the late time of year, there really were quite a lot of people. He caught Jude watching him and braced himself for a lecture, or for another one of those annoyed, knowing looks, but after a moment all Jude said was,

"This is going to be calm, anyway. It's just an arms exchange. It's like dealing drugs under the bleachers at a baseball game."

"Yeah, as long as you don't try and fuck around with the first baseman's girlfriend while you're doing it," Cornell muttered, glancing at Reznor, and everyone laughed. Even Jude looked mildly amused. The carnival lights were reflecting on his face; Bruce could see flares of orange and blue and pink in the white streaks along his forehead. He had a sudden overwhelming urge to lean over and kiss the bright patterns they made on his skin. To squash this as they started walking he asked,

"Is that what you did?" and Reznor glared at Cornell:

"Thanks, man," but again, there was no heat behind it. He launched into a detailed, rather sordid story of how he'd lost and then stolen back his ex-girlfriend — or well, not quite ex-girlfriend, it was massively complicated — to the first baseman of his high school baseball team. He'd been a drug dealer his junior and senior years of high school and was three months from graduating on probation when he'd decided to make some cash by selling china white at a home game. His girl, who had initially cheated on him with the first baseman, wanted a hit, and things proceeded from there. Virtually everyone involved had been expelled. Reznor and the girl still fucked around from time to time when he happened to visit Hoboken.

As they headed up Tenth Street, and Bruce listened to the story, the familiar cadence of it, and the gentle, familiar teasing that accompanied it, he felt a sudden rush of — he didn't want to say affection, but it was far too close to use anything else. There was no use for it; it wouldn't help him win them over, it wouldn't add anything to his experience or make it easier to hand them over to Gordon. But it was… nice, to walk with them onto the boardwalk, and to let their voices wash over his ears, not arguing, not snapping at him, not discussing big plans or schemes or anything, just… being. Comfortable with themselves and with each other in a way that Bruce himself had not been, alone or with anyone else, in a very long time.

Eventually they reached Nathan's Famous on the Boardwalk — WORLD FAMOUS FRANKFURTERS SINCE 1916 — pressed in between Famous Famiglia and Lola Star Boutique, and saw Ashland, Rollie, and a guy Bruce didn't recognize standing against the building, waiting. Rollie was working his way through a hot dog, mustard staining his shirt. The guy Bruce didn't know — hair dyed a lurid shade of orange, fang-shaped gages in his ears — was nodding off under the awning. Bruce suspected he'd shot up before arriving.

Kowalczyk waved at Ashland, and Ashland glanced up at the movement, then nudged Rollie in the side. Rollie shoved the rest of the hot dog into his mouth all at once and elbowed the orange-haired guy into awareness, and the three of them started forward. They met at the center of the boardwalk and stood for a moment sizing each other up in the crowd.

"It's fuckin' cold," the orange-haired guy muttered, after a moment.

"Agreed," Ashland said. "Shall we go inside?"

"I'm not sure what difference that'll make," Jude murmured, "since this restaurant is open-air."

Ashland's smile tightened infinitesimally at the corners. "Just trying to make everyone comfortable."

"I'm not planning on being here very long," Jude said. "How about you, Mascis?"

Bruce shook his head. "No, boss."

Ashland turned his sharp focus on Bruce. His eyes widened, and he let out a short laugh. "You, my friend, are one freaky-looking motherfucker."

Bruce stared at him, folding his arms. Beside him he felt Jude's tension coiling all along his spine.

"The fuck's wrong with his eyes?" Ashland asked.

"They're contacts," Cornell snapped, "don't be fucking retarded," and then Reznor said,

"Quit wasting the boss's time, dude. Give us the shipment."

Ashland's eyebrow went up. "Contacts?" He studied Bruce again, more closely this time. "Wait, haven't we — "

"I have a lot of places to go tonight," Jude said, sharply enough that a woman walking past turned to look at him before hurrying on. "So could you fucking get on with it."

Still frowning, Ashland turned reluctantly to face Jude. "I'm parked on the other side," he said. "By the baseball diamond."

"Why would you park so far out?" Kowalczyk asked, incredulously.

"Coming in from different directions, I guess." Ashland looked at Rollie, and a shiver of unease passed through Bruce's mind. He didn't want to move or do anything to draw attention to himself, so he let it go, but then Jude said,

"You'll have to drive back over to meet us, then. We're right there — " gesturing — "and Cornell's not moving his car."

Orange-haired guy rolled his eyes. "For fuck's — "

"Travis," Ashland warned softly, and then to Jude, "Why don't we just have the drop off at a halfway point. Let's say the mini golf on Stillwell?"

"All right," Jude said. "We'll meet you there." But Bruce could hear in his tone that it wasn't all right, and indeed after a moment he added, "Actually, you know what? Take Mascis and Kowalczyk with you."

Ashland raised an eyebrow. "What? Don't you trust — "

"No," Jude said easily, not quite smiling. "You made a shitty deal in October and you lost me half my shipment. Of course I don't trust you."

Travis sighed. "This isn't — "

"Trav, hey." Bruce watched Travis' hand float towards his jacket, and Ashland's hand wave him down. He looked between Bruce and Kowalczyk. "What about just the freak?"

Bruce saw Jude's shoulders stiffen. "Both of them," he said, quietly. "Or else you can drive your car to the lot by Luna Park. We'll take either."

Ashland's eyebrows drew down over his nose. He glanced at Rollie and Travis.

Jude made a soft, impatient noise. "I have a lot of shit to get through," he said again, "so if you don't want to cooperate with my terms I'll take the loss and trade with someone else more — "

"No." Ashland had folded his arms; he looked annoyed. "No, it's — fine. Fuck. I'll take them both. I'm not hiding anything."

"Good." Jude smiled, soft, predatory. It was a smile Bruce would've hated to have been on the receiving end of. "Anyway, if you've got my shipment in full, that's a lot of guns. You'll need all the help you can get."

Ashland didn't answer. He flicked his head at Rollie and Travis, and then again at Bruce and Kowalczyk. "C'mon," he said. To Jude: "We'll meet you at the golf course."

"Sure," Jude murmured, and slunk away, Cornell and Reznor at his heels. Bruce watched them disappear into the crowd and the lights and the noise. Then Ashland was waving him and Kowalczyk forward, and the five of them started down the boardwalk. They walked past multiple shop fronts, some still brightly lit from within, others shuttered for the night. After a while, Ashland half-turned to Bruce.

"So listen," he said. "You look really familiar."

Bruce shrugged. "I've just got one of those faces, I guess."

Ashland shook his head. "No, it's not that…"

"Wouldn't you have remembered the eyes?" Kowalczyk asked.

"I mean — "

"He was at the laundromat, boss," Rollie said suddenly. He had a drawling, slick Southern accent; Tennessee maybe, or Virginia. He was looking at Bruce with cool dislike, and Bruce felt that sliver of unease pass through his chest again. It widened into a crevice when a moment later Ashland's face split into an unnaturally wide smile — open to the point of looking painful — and he said,

"That's right," with such exaggerated relief Bruce knew he'd been lying about not recognizing him. "Why didn't you just tell me, man?" This was punctuated by a brief, vicious punch to the shoulder.

Bruce stared for a moment down at his arm. So either the contacts didn't work on everyone, or else they didn't work at all, and Ainsworth was just so fucking stupid he hadn't realized who Bruce was despite sitting through at least a dozen meetings with him. Still, he understood what a ridiculously stupid idea it would be to admit the whole truth, so he swallowed down his nerves, schooled his face into a flat, emotionless expression, and said,

"Yeah. I was at the laundromat. I didn't think it mattered this much. I'm just here to do my fucking job. Isn't that why you're here?"

Ashland raised his eyebrows. So did Rollie. Travis, slinking along a little ways ahead of the rest of them, stiffened a little along his spine, but after a moment Ashland relaxed his mouth into something slightly more normal, and he said, "Of course it is."

"Great," Kowalczyk said, a little too loudly, squeezing Bruce's shoulder as he walked, with just enough pressure Bruce understood it was a signal: shut up. "Great, good, okay. We've established how we know each other and why we're here. Our boss really is in a hurry, though, so if we could, you know — " He gestured forward. "I mean not to rush things or whatever but it really is, like — quite a drive back to Gotham." In fact it was a little under half an hour if there wasn't road construction. But Ashland didn't comment on this; he just sighed again, and looked at Rollie, and then he said,

"Yes. Absolutely. Let's go, gentlemen."

They made their way down the boardwalk until the shops thinned out. With mounting unease the further they went, Bruce watched the interactions between Ashland and Rollie and tried not to look too closely down the narrow dark paths between the shops, the places the flashing lights wouldn't reach, the shadows. He disliked alleys enough in daytime, but at least then they were manageable, if unpleasant, places. At night anything long and narrow Bruce couldn't see into became a trap, the mouth of death. The smell of blood and rain and the shadow of his father's hand trying to block his mother's body —

They walked past the carousel and the parachute jump, and ended up on West 21st, bypassing an arena before finally arriving at the parking lot. The car Ashland led them to was an atrocity: a bright yellow Hummer, oversized, with nearly enough space beneath the carriage for a child to walk without ducking. Bruce flinched involuntarily, looking at it; Travis shot him a look:

"Fuck's your problem?" and Kowalczyk stepped in, smiling, smoothing things over:

"He collects classic cars. He's allergic to anything made after like, 1987."

Travis rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he grunted, and opened the back doors. Together he and Rollie lifted out a case and waited, arms straining, until Ashland brought around a dolly. Then they loaded it, and started back off in the direction of the park.

"There's no way that has the boss' full shipment," Kowalczyk muttered to Bruce as they walked back down Surf Avenue, a little ways behind the others. "Not even half of what we ordered would fit in that."

"Yeah," Bruce muttered back. "Something's off. Keep your gun ready."

"Always," Kowalczyk said, and then grinned. "Fuck, hey, now that Cornell's not here, don't you think Fitzgerald was in the fuckin' mob? I mean, he's writing about bootlegging and shit — "

Bruce was startled by this pleasantly friendly overture, but he rose to it gamely: "Yeah, because he was writing in the twenties, not because he had actual ties with like, Capone or whoever — "

"You never know, he had all those fuckin' friends in Europe or wherever, the… you know, Hemingway and Stein — "

Bruce thought he was having a fever dream. "People would have absolutely found out about it by now, you know."

Kowalczyk's grin grew wider. "Maybe Zelda was in on it," he said, "you know, like a crime duo, like uh, Bonnie and Clyde — "

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Leopold and Loeb — "

"You are fucking insane, dude."

Kowalczyk laughed, loud enough that Travis turned around to glare at him. When he'd looked away again Kowalczyk said, "You know what, Wayne? You're okay. I dunno how everyone else feels yet, but I like you."

Again, that feeling of — enjoyment. Inclusion. It was tangled weirdly up in something else Bruce couldn't examine and didn't want to, so he pushed it aside, and smiled at Kowalczyk. The plan was still working. He had Jude in his bed — or, well, he was in Jude's bed, but it amounted to the same thing — and Kowalczyk had just admitted he liked being around him, and Cornell and Reznor were comfortable enough to tease and joke in front of Bruce, and this was exactly what he'd wanted to have happen. He didn't know why the quiet feeling of — whatever it was, underneath the pleasure — wouldn't leave. He was right where he was supposed to be. Gordon would —

"You're way too rich," Kowalczyk was saying, "and you're obviously inexperienced as hell, but… I dunno." Abruptly he became serious, and that weird feeling blossomed further, until Bruce could no longer avoid identifying it: guilt. He was leading them on. Kowalczyk was showing him sincerity and he was lying to his face. He was lying to all of them. But it was what he'd set out to do from the beginning and why the fuck did it matter? They were criminals, they killed people —

— but he could hardly make that argument himself anymore. Coleman's body on the bathroom floor, blood spreading, staining the tiles. He'd killed Coleman in the same way as his parents had been killed and he'd never felt anything over it, not in all these weeks, because it had just been the job, it had just been part of the job. It was just that same cold, detached violence that he was doing everything else with, and —

"The boss likes you," Kowalczyk said, and Bruce's heart stopped, for some reason. "I don't just mean 'cause you're — whatever, sleeping together. I mean he likes you as a person. He's never said it out loud or anything but we can all tell. Everyone was kind of like, what the fuck, when he said he wanted you, but no one tells the Joker no, you know? So we let it go, and now it's been like, what, a month and a half? And he's still asking you to go places, and he let you fucking kill that weird little guy… And now here you are. Dealing unregistered arms with us at Coney fuckin' Island." Then his face lit back up into a huge grin: "Oh, fuck! Coney Island, man! That's in Gatsby, too!"

This abrupt change of subject gave Bruce whiplash, but it also had the effect of slamming him out of the insane, confusing guilt that was threatening to overwhelm him as he walked on. "I — yeah," he said, "I remember that," and from there Kowalczyk launched into an easy, rambling monologue about his favorite scenes in Gatsby, and how he wished they'd make an actual decent movie adaptation of it, and how before he'd joined Jude he'd wanted to teach it in classes at Ivy League universities. This lasted them all the way up Surf Avenue and onto Stillwell. Then Ashland was turning back to them:

"Do you know where the Joker wants us to meet him exactly?"

Kowalczyk shot him a look. "You heard as much as we did, Ash."

"Well, could we figure it out?" Travis snapped. "I'm fucking sick of pushing this thing."

Up ahead they could see the outlines of the mini golf course and adjacent go-kart track, closed for the night. Bruce saw Cornell's face, lit by soft pink lights in the water under a miniature windmill, and beside him Jude, standing with his arms folded, body a long, tilted line of impatience. They turned left onto Bowery, and Ashland swept his arms out, beaming.

"Here we are!" he said, with just enough forced cheer in his voice to instantly put Bruce right back on the edge. Yeah, something was definitely wrong. The unease he'd felt on the boardwalk wrapped its fingers around his throat, and his hand went to the knife tucked away in his jacket without his even noticing. "Brought your guns and your freaks back to you safe and — "

"Let me see," Jude cut in, walking forward. He looked at Travis, who was still gripping the dolly with trembling white fingers. His eyes slid over to Rollie, whose shirt reeked of the mustard he'd spilled on it, and to Ashland, still smiling that overly wide, unnatural smile.

"Why are you lying to me again?" Jude asked softly, and Travis dropped the dolly. His hand went to his gun, and this time Ashland didn't try to stop him.

"Why would I — "

"I don't know." Jude tapped his finger against his lower lip. It came away smeared in red. "I don't know anyone else that fucking stupid. Do you, Mascis?"

"No, boss," Bruce said, and flinched at his own lie. Why was he fucking feeling guilty about this?

"Yeah," Jude drawled, staring at Ashland. "'cause the thing is, I already gave you two chances. That's way more than what most people get with me. So I don't know why you would've deliberately fucked this one up."

"Hey, man, look, I — "

"You've wasted my time," Jude said. "I'm finished talking." He waved his hand at Cornell. "Open it up, Nell. Might as well see what the fuck we've got."

Cornell and Travis went for the box at the same time. Jude held his knife up:

"Nope. Now I want my guy to Brad Pitt this, okay? So you just stand the fuck down and let him — "

Travis pulled his own gun. He thumbed off the safety. Bruce saw Jude's eyebrows go up beneath the paint.

"Oh," he said, softly. "Is it like that?"

Ashland sighed. He waved his hand at Travis. "Yes," he said, "all right, look — you win. I lied."

Jude tilted his head. "There. Was that so — "

"But you did too," Ashland went on. "You promised me half the cut from last time, and then guess what? I never got shit! So yeah, I dragged you and your guys out here to make a point. This shit — " he gestured to the box — "this is mine. This is what you owe me."

Jude's tongue darted out to wet at his scars. "Mascis," he murmured, without taking his eyes off Ashland's face. His voice had hit that dangerous low pitch, the one that sounded like broken gravel. It shot straight between Bruce's legs, and he swallowed, stepping forward.

"Yeah, boss."

"Do I owe these guys anything?"

"No, boss."

"Do I ever owe anyone anything?"

Bruce shook his head. The tension was spiking in the air, coiling, ready to snap. "Never, boss."

Jude's mouth twitched. "See," he said, even more softly. His voice was so pitched he was growling. "Seems like you were mistaken after all." When he finally looked at Bruce the anger in his eyes was so electric Bruce wondered how he was keeping it contained. "You and Cornell take my guns," he said, "and I'll stay here and think about whether I feel like killing our friends or just incapacitating them."

Bruce nodded. He walked over to the dolly. Cornell was still standing at it; he was sneering at Travis, who had lowered his gun on Ashland's command, but still glared with smack-dulled hatred at both of them. They each took up an end of the box and lifted it. Bruce could hear the guns rattling inside. He felt the wind from the ocean. He smelled the hot dogs, the saltwater, the popcorn. There was a burst of laughter which carried across the rides, and jaunty carnival music started up somewhere close.

Then he heard the click of a safety being turned off, and Travis' gun was at his forehead. "Put the fuckin' box down," he snarled. "Right the fuck now."

Slowly, Bruce lifted his head. The box wasn't really heavy, but his arms were burning where he hadn't been able to get a better grip on it yet. He stared at the long metal barrel, and at the angry twist of Travis' face beyond it.

"I said put it down," Travis repeated. "You and your spic friend deaf or something?"

Cornell dropped the box so fast Bruce had to tense his arms in order to not strain a muscle from the abrupt shift in weight. His hand went to his jacket and removed his own gun, which he pointed at Travis' temple. "How about we cool it with the fuckin' racist shit, pendejo?"

"Trav," Ashland said, voice badly masking delight at this turn of events. "This is highly unnecessary — "

"Why don't you get your man to take his gun off Mascis' forehead," Jude asked, in the same quiet, dangerous voice from earlier.

Ashland turned to him. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, "should he not be trying to defend my territory?"

"Yourterritory."

"I don't recall actually giving you permission to take these," Ashland said. "Trav just wants your guy to let go of my property."

"Oh," Jude said, and smiled. "Sorry, I didn't realize he had your property." He looked at Bruce. "Mascis, please hand him back his balls. I'd been wondering where the fuck they went."

Ashland's face twisted into the same angry snarl as Travis'. "You fucked me over," he said, loudly. "I was promised fucking half and I got nothing, did you really think I wasn't gonna come back for it? You don't fucking own the entire east coast, man."

"Maybe not," Jude agreed affably, before lunging forward and slashing Rollie across the cheek. The blade went through his rose tattoo and he screamed, sinking to his knees in the grass, clutching desperately at the wound as red leaked through his fingers. Instantly Bruce let go of the box and grabbed Travis' wrist, jerking it upwards just as he fired his shot. As he struggled to wrestle the gun from him, Cornell's own gun still trained on his temple, Reznor rushed up and grabbed Ashland from behind. He wrapped an arm around his neck, forcing Ashland to lift one hand to try and get him off. The other hand was struggling to get out his knife. Jude was laughing, staring down at Rollie, who had fallen to his side on the ground. Blood ran down his arms and the front of his shirt, mixing with the mustard stains.

"I'm fucking dying," he sobbed, voice slurred — Jude must have cut his tongue, too. "Boss, I'm gonna fucking die — "

"No you aren't going to fucking die, for fuck's sake, don't be a fucking baby," Ashland snarled at him, stepping backwards at Reznor's feet. Bruce had succeeded in forcing Travis' arm down and was holding his wrist stiffly between them, locking his foot between his legs. Travis elbowed him hard in the stomach, and Bruce let out a rush of air, but he held on, grabbing at his other arm and trying to force it behind his back. Kowalczyk had run off, probably to get the car. Jude was still holding his blood-soaked knife, flipping it from hand to hand, eyes flicking between Ashland and Rollie like he couldn't decide who to watch.

"I'd call an ambulance for your man," he murmured. "Facial wounds hurt like a bitch, believe me," and his tongue darted out, this time with deliberation, to wet at his scars. "And they bleed out fast, too."

Ashland was glaring at him. Reznor had worked his knife free of his jeans and was pressing it under Ashland's jaw.

"Did you really think you were going to come out on top?" Jude asked. "Putting two of your guys up against my four?"

Ashland looked at Travis, then nodded to Bruce. "Give him the gun."

"Boss — "

"Give him the gun."

Travis released his grip on the gun. Bruce took it and dismantled it one-handed, keeping a tight grip on Travis' wrist with the other, foot still locked between his legs. He slid it into the back of his sweats and grabbed Travis' other hand.

From the grass, Rollie moaned, spitting out a thick glob of blood. "Fucking call nine-one-one, man," he panted. "I feel sick — "

"Oh, shut up," Ashland snapped at him. "No one can fucking understand what you're saying — "

"You really oughta treat your guys better," Jude murmured. "This economy is too unstable to risk losing profit like that." He looked at Travis, then at Rollie. His mouth twitched. "You two might want to consider switching teams. — Ah, well," when Travis only glared from Bruce's arms, while Rollie managed a weak middle finger. "My slots fill up pretty quick, anyway," and then he grinned at Bruce. Bruce rolled his eyes, but he smiled back. Kowalczyk came up Twelfth Street then, and Jude nodded, sort of to himself.

"Now," he said, "I really do have a lot of shit to take care of, so if you'll excuse us — " He gestured with his knife at Bruce and Cornell. "Take care of my guns, would you?"

"No problem, boss," Cornell grunted, and kept his gun trained on Travis' temple with one hand while lifting his end of the box with the other.

From Reznor's arms, Ashland growled, "I said you're not taking my fucking guns."

Jude rolled his eyes. "Don't start that again," he said, and waved his knife at Bruce and Cornell again: "Keep going." Bruce released Travis' arms to get the other side of the box, and they made it maybe five steps toward the car when Reznor grunted sharply in surprise. Bruce spun in time to see Ashland elbowing him in the chest, forcing him to let go. The knife scraped along his jaw but it didn't catch the vein and before Reznor could grab him again he was pulling his own gun. The passenger window of the car exploded as a gunshot cracked through the golf course. Glass sprayed across the ground and Kowalczyk's arm flew up to cover his face.

Shit.

All thoughts of acting the part — if there had been any to begin with — flew clean out of Bruce's head. It was Batman's training that got him on the ground, and Batman's instincts, tight and controlled, that kept his head level as he dropped the box and dove to the side.

— Or perhaps it wasn't. It had that same cold, clinically detached feeling as when he'd broken Ainsworth's fingers, or killed Coleman, or even stood here tonight, gripping Travis by the arms, holding him back. It felt like someone else. It felt like whoever he'd met in the bathroom at GCN.

Beside him Cornell was ducking too, aiming his gun and firing. He caught Travis in the leg and there was a shout, a spray of blood. Travis dropped to his knees and Cornell scrambled to the car while Kowalczyk lunged across the seats to open the back door from the inside. Bruce was trying to shift the box with Cornell without getting in the line of fire. As they struggled to hoist the box up into the car the seat by Bruce's head exploded in another shot, and though his hearing was already pretty fucked his ears still rang out in sharp protest. The world tunneled down to momentary silence and tinnitus and he watched as though through an underwater lens the movements:

Jude grabbing Ashland's wrist, slamming his fist into his face —

Reznor jumping up from behind to tackle Ashland —

Ashland spinning, still in Jude's grip, and knocking Reznor's knife from his hand —

Ashland's gun slipping from his fingers as Jude punched his ear —

Travis, still bleeding, scrambling forward on his hands and good knee to grab the gun —

The trigger squeezing —

Bits of Reznor's sleeve spraying along with his blood as the shot ricocheted off his arm, and his mouth suddenly wide open in an intense grimace of pain —

Jude's foot swinging to catch Travis in the jaw, sending him sprawling backwards as he himself started towards the car —

Bruce was scrambling into the car along with Cornell, hoisting the box up over the step. Cornell struggled in first, dragging it under the seats, and Bruce went in after, feeling the car start forward as Kowalczyk began slowly to move out. Jude swung wildly with his knife, catching Ashland across the other side of his neck, and this time Ashland fell to his knees. Jude's foot came out again, kicking him hard in the chest, and then he grabbed Reznor and hauled him towards the car. Jude backed into the seat beside Bruce, gripping his knife. Reznor crawled into the passenger seat, still cradling his wounded arm, and Bruce's hearing was coming back enough he could hear Reznor whimpering. The second the five of them were all in the car Kowalczyk peeled out, and Bruce had to grab Jude's collar and hold him hard, pressing his other hand down on the seat, to keep them both steadily in while the door swung open. Cornell had the box jammed between his feet; he fired over the backs of the seats. Bruce couldn't see if he was hitting anyone, though he did have to duck down yet again, dragging Jude with him, as the back window burst open with gunfire — Cornell's or Ashland's, Bruce couldn't tell.

Kowalczyk drove erratically across the course, plowing into various little props: plastic frogs set to devour the golf balls, wide-mouthed birds that the dark had turned evil, a wooden boy with his legs spread obscenely over the hole. When at last he was able to get straightened out and back onto Twelfth Jude slammed the door shut, body rocketing backwards against Bruce's for a second before he flung himself forward, and he snarled,

"Drive." Kowalczyk's foot went down so hard on the accelerator the tires screamed as he peeled out. Behind them the gunfire had at last ceased. Bruce knew by the time anyone came out to investigate all that would be left would be the decimated golf course and a few angry bloodstains in the grass.

In the front Reznor was still moaning softly, cradling his arm. Jude kicked the back of his seat, annoyed:

"Rez. For fuck's sake. Let me see." He leaned forward over the passenger seat for a moment, then crashed back. "It barely grazed you," he snapped. "Stop freaking out. You're not dying."

"Sorry, boss," Reznor muttered.

"The worst thing that's gonna happen is you're gonna have to buy a new jacket."

"Yeah." Reznor blew out a breath, slumping a little further down in his seat. "I know, boss."

They drove for a while in silence. As they merged onto Belt Parkway Bruce felt his hands begin to tremble; the adrenaline was ebbing out. In the front seat he could see Kowalczyk's fingers where they curled tense and flecked with blood on the steering wheel. He must have felt Bruce's eyes on him, or else he was just trying to ease the situation somewhat, because he looked in the rearview mirror and grinned.

"Fuckin' wild, huh, Wayne," he said. "Probably just a regular Sunday night for Fitzgerald though."

"Fuck," Cornell said, loudly, one foot shaking so hard against the box the guns were rattling inside. "You're not fucking still on that, are you?"

"I sure am." Kowalczyk beamed. "Wayne's on my side, aren't you, Wayne."

Bruce exhaled shakily. Jude was staring out his window, expressionless. Bruce couldn't read him, couldn't tell if he was shaken up over what had just happened — though he very seriously doubted it — and as such he couldn't get a handle on his own emotions. The cold detached not-quite-Batman persona was peeling away with the adrenaline and in its place was an uncertain, fresh, wobbly creature that thought, but wasn't quite sure, it could stand on its own. It struggled to balance itself, and felt so tender and raw Bruce couldn't quite decide if he wanted to touch it —

— except he thought perhaps he already had, back at GCN, the day he'd killed Coleman.

He was still struggling to extract the clinging grasp of the creature's desperate hands, to stow it away for another time when he could fully parse whether it was a more vulnerable part of that thing he'd felt when crouching to avoid Ashland's shots or something new altogether, when Cornell reached over the driver's seat and smacked Kowalczyk's shoulder with the flat of his hand.

"You fucking dumbass," he said. "He was just trying to be polite to get you to shut up."

Kowalczyk, merging onto the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge, abruptly juddered the wheels against the reflectors on the shoulder as he spun in his own seat to punch Cornell back. "He was not, I know a kindred spirit when I meet — "

"Watch the road," Jude said tensely. His jaw was gritted, fists curled in his lap, the leather of his gloves stretched tight over his hands. He was still staring out the window and the tender desperate rawness in Bruce's chest opened further, feeling starved —

"Sorry, boss," Kowalczyk said, turning back to face the front. It was quiet for maybe ten seconds, then he said,

"Okay, but — actually. Wayne. Tonight got pretty intense. You good?"

Bruce swallowed. He looked at Jude, who slowly, almost painfully, turned his head to look back at Bruce. "Yeah," Bruce said, quietly. "I'm okay."

"Not too much for you yet?" Cornell asked, drumming his fingers against the seat. "You ain't gonna quit on us or anything?"

"No," Bruce said. He still hadn't looked away from Jude. The tender creature was flayed open and he knew, he knew, it was the same. It was the same clinical cold new person he'd found in the laundromat, and at Ainsworth's, and at the studio. It was the same quiet focused anger that molded and shaped his rage and his violence into something tamable, and manageable, and —

And —

It was not Batman, but it was not Bruce Wayne, billionaire, either. It was a whole new side of him. It was unnamed, breathing through his mouth, blinking through his contacts. It terrified him, and all the more so because he could see its reflection in the dark glass as Kowalczyk crossed the river, wearing his face, speaking with his tongue. It felt his feelings and used his hands for violence and for pain and it didn't need or want armor to do it. It just — existed. He was deeply shaken by it. But he couldn't be, not all the way. Because it was him, too.

Jude was watching him, carefully, eyes searching his face for something. And he must have found it, or some approximation of it, because after a moment he nodded, once, and turned back to face the window. Cornell and Reznor each did the same — Reznor's nod a little jerky with his pain — and Kowalczyk smiled at him in the rearview mirror. Bruce felt more of the adrenaline rush out of him, and his shoulders molded into the seat. He felt as though he'd just passed some test he hadn't even been aware of taking.

After, they didn't speak again until they were crossing into the city, and even then it was only Reznor asking Kowalczyk to drop him off at the unnamed clinic in the Narrows where the doctors turned a blind eye to most crime and as such were good for treating basically anything. In the interim as they headed down 278 and then onto 440, Cornell rested his head on the window and fell asleep, and Bruce covertly watched Jude, and thought about the evening.

He could have let Jude die, was the thing. Not that Jude had ever been in any real danger of it, but even so — when he'd held onto his overcoat to keep him in the car, or when he'd prevented Travis from wielding his gun, or when he'd held them both down as Ashland attempted to shoot the back window out — any of those times. Any one thing shifted and it could've all gone very, very differently. Images stacked on top of each other insurmountably as they streaked across the Kill Van Kull and into New Jersey — Jude dying on the green, choking on his own blood. Jude resting with bullet holes littering his body against the Riegelmann for the seagulls and the cops to find in their own time. Bizarrely, Jude's body being crushed between the go karts on the track by Ashland and Travis while Rollie cheered them on through his ruined mouth —

Any of that could have happened. And the thing was, maybe Bruce should've let it. He'd already passed the ultimate test in the gang. He'd killed for them; there wasn't anywhere else he could go from here, no point he had left to pass. Officially he'd done what he'd set out to do; he'd gathered intel, he'd gained access to their private files and personal lives. He had their trust and he knew their inner workings and their secret warehouses and their meetups and clients and colleagues. He could go to Gordon right now, the second Kowalczyk dropped him off in the business district. He could just rush to the bunker and put on the suit and go to Gordon's apartment and tell him everything. I've worked with the Joker for a month and a half now. I know every single thing about him including where he lives in the Narrows, and you can bust him and his twelve main guys tonight and I'll give you enough charges to arrest them on they won't be able to post bail until they're dead. He could do that. He needed to. After all it was his goal, it was what he'd wanted from the beginning. It was the only reason he'd said yes to this craziness to begin with. Afterwards he could of course also confess to his sins and atone for murder and extortion and all the other things he'd done wrong in the eyes of the law and in the eyes of Batman, who very likely could be tried completely separately from Bruce Wayne, and the tender raw thing inside him that was screaming no, no, don't —

Jude's hand closed down on his thigh. At first he thought it was an accident, but when he looked at the side of his face, backlit by the distant city lights, Bruce realized it was very much intentional. Jude was as tense as he'd been when they left Coney Island, his shoulders hunched in and his jaw grinding so hard Bruce could almost hear it. But he'd removed his gloves at some point and now his cold hand was on Bruce's leg, the long nails scratching against his sweats. His fingers were stained with greasepaint and blood and looked strangely pale against the dark blue fabric. He wasn't looking at Bruce but his hand tensed against him, and Bruce knew he wanted something. He wanted something desperately, and was either incapable of or perhaps only too prideful to know how to ask for it out loud. Bruce looked, but Cornell was still sleeping, and Reznor was focused on his arm, and Kowalczyk on his driving, tapping along softly with Beck on the radio, and so, chancing it, letting the tender raw self out again, relaxing into it, breathing with it, Bruce reached down, and folded his hand over Jude's.

Instantly Jude stiffened, but he did not pull away. When after a moment Bruce tucked his fingers lightly beneath the raised points of his hand, Jude sighed, and some of the tension bled almost imperceptibly from his shoulders. He didn't flip his hand over to hold Bruce's, but he didn't shake him off, either. Nor did he remove his hand from Bruce's thigh. As they merged onto 83 and prepared to take the exit closest to the Narrows Jude shifted his thumb slightly and stroked over Bruce's pinky. It was just once or twice, and it was so light Bruce knew he was supposed to pretend not to have noticed, but he felt his face growing warm all the same.

No, he thought, as Kowalczyk coasted to a stop at Anderson, and Cornell jerked awake, blinking blearily into the interior of the car while Kowalczyk laughed at him and the string of drool connecting his mouth to the glass. No, he couldn't have let Jude die. Even if — even if this was the first night. He couldn't have let him die. Jude's hand was growing warm against his leg and he was losing a little more of his tension and Bruce could smell him, his awful scent, beautiful and terrible in its familiarity, and Bruce could not pull away. He did not want to.

Kowalczyk dropped Reznor off at the clinic first. It was a small unassuming building carefully hidden between a strip club called Candy and a post office which despite its obviously working lights and active boxes looked as though it had been defunct for decades. After some mild and mostly superficial arguing Cornell went inside the clinic too — "in case you get sick of trying to jerk off with the wrong hand", which made Reznor slug him, and then wince. He shut the door and called goodbye through the broken window before heading up the parking lot, Cornell slouching along behind him. Once they'd disappeared into the clinic Kowalczyk turned to Jude in the rearview and asked,

"You next, boss?"

"Yeah — "

"No," cut in a voice which it took Bruce entirely too long to recognize as his own. Jude and Kowalczyk were both staring at him like he'd asked if they could maybe initiate Mayor Garcia into the gang next. Jude's hand twitched almost imperceptibly on his thigh, and through the smeared paint his eyebrows lifted.

"You got somewhere more important to be, Wayne?"

Bruce shook his head. "No, I just — fuck. I think. I don't think you should go back to your place tonight."

The eyebrows lifted further. Kowalczyk turned the radio down just slightly. Ma Teresa's joined the mob and happy with her full-time job…

"You gonna offer an explanation for that scintillating statement?" Jude didn't sound annoyed, exactly, just slightly confused and more than a little tired. Bruce kept seeing him, the alternative to tonight: his fingers slipping off his coat, and Jude falling, his chest bursting open, shirt soaked in blood. He drew in a breath, flexed his new fingers — Jude's skin beneath his — and said,

"Ashland's gonna come for you. He was fucking pissed and you cut his guy's face open."

"Oh, that was a paper cut — "

"He's gonna come for you anyway, boss. Maybe not tonight, but soon. He might've had us tailed here, for all we know — "

"I'm not exactly shaking in my shoes at the prospect of — "

"If he followed us here, he can follow you home. He'll know where you live. He'll set the whole Gotham underworld on you for these guns — " kicking the box with his foot — "and he could come after the rest of the guys, he could bomb you out and you wouldn't even — "

"Wayne." Jude's voice was even, a little tense. He was evidently controlling himself, keeping himself from losing his temper like he probably wanted to. Bruce didn't really know what to do with that, so he shut his mouth. "You're way overthinking this. C'mon. Breathe. He's not gonna — " but then his eyes snagged onto Bruce's face, and whatever he saw there made him stop talking. He sighed; pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. He stared down to where his other hand was still joined with Bruce's. There was blood on his shirt collar where Rollie's face had split open and blood on his face and blood in his hair. He'd chewed his lips raw through the greasepaint and his leg hadn't stopped shaking since they'd crossed the state line and he was gathering tension into his jaw again and abruptly he said, "You know what? Actually, fuck it. Where do you want me to go instead of to my own damn house that I pay for with other people's money? What is your bright fucking idea, Wayne?" He sounded angry, for some reason, but it was completely belied by the expression in his eyes. Bruce couldn't interpret it exactly, but the tender raw creature opened up to it, and wriggled in joy at its presence, and he said,

"You can come to my place."

Kowalczyk's eyebrows lifted up higher than was strictly natural. Jude's mouth, though, twitched for the first time since they'd gotten in the car.

"Your place."

"Yeah." Bruce swallowed. Through the warped glass of Candy he could see pulsating pink and red lights, and the dim shadows of bodies dancing. "You — yeah."

Jude still had that untranslatable expression in his eyes. For no reason Bruce remembered feeling guilty at Coney Island when Kowalczyk had been chewing his ear off about Gatsby. "What difference would it make whose house we went to if we were tailed here, huh?"

"The — " Bruce glanced at Kowalczyk, but he was studiedly pretending not to listen, so he said, "I have a massive fucking amount of security at my place. I live in a penthouse at the top of Wayne Tower. You have to have a card to even get in the elevator, and the top five, well, okay, the top three floors aren't accessible to outsiders at all."

Jude tilted his head. His tongue darted out. His hand was still on Bruce's thigh. "So that's why I had such a bitch of a time getting up there last month," he murmured.

Bruce almost smiled. "Yeah, probably," he said, and now, now Jude was smiling, or anyway the beginnings of it, and Bruce said, "It'll be easier this time. And a lot more fun, maybe." He hadn't meant it to come out quite like that but Jude just raised his eyebrows and quirked his mouth a little higher on one side. Bruce discovered his face was heating up very badly. In the front seat Kowalczyk had become preoccupied with rolling the driver's side window up and down, over and over.

Jude flexed his hand against Bruce's thigh. He sighed. He looked out the window for a moment and when he looked back even before he opened his mouth Bruce could see he'd won.

"All right," Jude said. "Fine. You know what? Just — okay." Briefly he extracted his hand from beneath Bruce's so as to hit Kowalczyk on the shoulder. "Take me to Wayne's fuckin' six billion dollar house," he said, sounding incredibly annoyed.

"No problem, boss," Kowalczyk said.

"And take the back roads," Jude added, after a moment. "Just in case Wayne's right."

Kowalczyk glanced into the rear view mirror. His eyebrows were still raised, but all he said was,

"Sure thing, boss."

He backed out of the space. As he turned towards the parking lot entrance Bruce looked at Jude and mouthed: thank you. This earned him what was evidently a long-overdue eye roll, but he also settled his hand back around Bruce's leg, and gave him an expectant look. Hardly able to comprehend it, Bruce put his hand back, too. He gently squeezed, and Jude didn't bother with hiding the way his mouth relaxed.