author's note: thanks to HowlynMad for all the reviews!
December 2008
At the start of the month Kowalczyk got a tip while distributing car parts at the wharf by the Kill Van Kull. He texted Jude and the others and they met at the usual warehouse. Bruce parked his Mustang across the street from a group of skinny teenage methheads the youngest of whom could not have been older than fourteen. They stared at him with vacant dark eyes as he got out and locked his doors. They were trying vainly to warm their hands in a tin barrel. One of them wiped his nose on his sleeve and stared hungrily at Bruce's car until his companion jabbed him in the ribs. He whispered something that made his eyes widen. Bruce tugged his beanie lower over his face and walked in.
The tip had been from someone claiming to have large shipments of coke. "He wants to meet at Il Sangue Del Drago," Kowalczyk said, reading off the slip of paper. This was the largest and most profitable of the former Falcone restaurants which Jude had repurposed for himself following his takeover of the underworld. The basement was directly beneath the kitchen and always smelled of garlic. In the pre-Joker days it had been used to launder money for one of Salvatore Maroni's shell companies in Europe.
"Is he a Falcone?" Jude asked. He was standing so close to Bruce he'd nearly wrapped his arms around his waist. Bruce had worn Jude's favorite dark plum-colored Burberry and a checkered scarf; he wondered how they looked together.
"He didn't say."
Jude's jaw was tense against Bruce's shoulder. "You know I don't like unknowns, Zyk."
"I know, boss."
Jude sighed. "Weiland."
"Yeah, boss."
"You and Byrne still have that meeting later in Schenectady?"
"Yeah."
"Okay." Jude nudged Bruce against his spine and Bruce turned a little bit. Up close the green of his eyes overpowered the hazel; it was nearly overwhelming. "You're coming, Wayne, obviously."
"Wouldn't miss it, boss."
Jude snorted. Then, "Nell, Rez, and Zyk, 'cause it's your tip, and I think that's enough. Everyone else, if you don't have a job you can stay here and count our shipments; we just got fresh ammo last Friday." He looked around: "Any questions?"
"I have a question," Kowalczyk said. As the others dispersed he glanced at Bruce and the corner of his mouth pulled up. "Are you planning on trying out for a remake of Dead Poets Society?"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Cornell groaned. "Would you shut the fuck up with your pretentious ass shit?"
"Wayne loves my pretentious ass shit, don't you, Wayne."
"Dead Poets Society is my favorite movie, actually," Jude said, icily. "It's the first one I ever saw in theaters."
The smile fell off Kowalczyk's face. For maybe five seconds they were all dead silent; then Jude glanced sideways at Bruce and his mouth twitched, and all of them burst out laughing. Thus Bruce was in a good mood — thus they all were — as they left shortly after in the Suburban. They parked two blocks over from the restaurant. Bruce put his contacts in and slipped his sunglasses over his eyes, and they went through the restaurant and into the basement, where Bruce stood with his back to the wall, arms folded. One arm he pressed to Jude's. Jude was being quiet, a little tense, the way he usually was when they were meeting someone new. Cornell and Reznor had their guns and Kowalczyk had his knife and Bruce thought everything was going really well.
Then the door to the basement opened. Bruce saw two elongated shadows first, followed by —
"Oh, fuck," Kowalczyk breathed softly. Ashland smiled at him, thin and cold:
"My sentiments exactly."
Beside him Rollie was seething, nostrils flared, mouth curled into an animal snarl. His rose tattoo had been badly fucked by Jude's knife; the scar was deep and thick, paleish against his dark skin, and twisted in an ugly way from almost his temple to just shy of his nose. He sought out Jude first and Bruce prepared to step in front of him in case Rollie started shooting, but Ashland put his hand on Rollie's shoulder:
"Not yet," he murmured. "Remember what we're here for."
Travis came down next, walking to a pool table in the center of the room and resting his hand on the edge. Then the two skinheads from the laundromat walked in and stood like sentries in the corner. Jude pressed his fingertips to the inside of Bruce's wrist once, then pushed away from him and off the wall. "Trying to intimidate us, huh?" he said. The basement lighting always made his greasepaint stand out, reflecting shadows beneath his eyes amidst the dark makeup, and in the red of his scars. "You didn't have much luck with me last time, did you."
"Ashland doesn't have to listen to this shit — " Rollie started angrily. Jude's eyes cut to him and his mouth pulled up at the corner.
"Ooh," he said, "you look like shit. What happened, did you have a run in with a baler? Oh wait — "
Rollie lunged. Ashland grabbed him by the back of the collar. Jude was laughing, sharply. Bruce stepped forward until he was at Jude's back. His fingers sought his knife in the pocket of his coat. Jude's favorite coat. What is this, fate? he'd said, when Bruce had worn it to a meeting the first time. Why the fuck do you have the same coat as me, Wayne? And they'd been relatively alone, and Jude had been looking at him with soft amusement, so that it was very easy indeed to twist his fingers into Jude's own coat and pull him forward and say,
Maybe I just wanted everyone to see who owns me. Jude's irises had darkened about ten shades and he'd ended the meeting early so he could get Bruce to drive the two of them back to his apartment so they could fuck. The truth was Bruce had bought the coat long before joining the gang. But even when he admitted this to Jude quietly afterwards as they lay smoking on his mattress (Bruce couldn't bear lying to Jude, which he knew was both ironic and cruel) Jude just laughed, and smoothed Bruce's hair back from his face, and said,
Yeah, but something drew you to it, huh? You knew you were mine even then? And though Bruce had made a show of rolling his eyes and telling Jude not to be cheesy, he thought perhaps there was some truth to the statement.
Jude's favorite coat. Bruce had never worn it to an interrogation before. He was sure Jude wouldn't really give a shit if he got it dirty — not Jude, who walked around with blood- and grease- and sweat- and gasoline-stained clothes until the stains had faded into the fabric — but all the same, he didn't really want to. It meant something, though he was sure it wasn't supposed to. There was no benefit to feeling attachment to an article of clothing, it would serve no purpose in the long run. But here it was. Here it was and here he was, standing behind Jude with his hand on his knife. Here he was staring Ashland, Rollie, and the others down, feeling annoyance with himself — how could he not have seen this coming — and with Ashland for trying this shit again. As though he hadn't had his ass fucking kicked six ways to Sunday back at Coney Island.
"So you lied to me," Jude was saying, calmly. He folded his arms and tilted his head. "Again."
Ashland mirrored his stance. "I didn't lie before," he said. "I brought you what I owed you. I kept what you owed me. That's fair. What isn't fair is you attacking my fucking guys for no reason — "
"My memory of that day is a little different, I guess," Jude interrupted, still calm, "but I don't have the time or the patience to deal with you right now, because you've wasted my time and now I'm going to have to find another partner to make up for the money I'll lose thanks to you." He pulled out his own knife. "You did lie to us about having cocaine, didn't you?"
"Yes, but — "
"Good," Jude said, and shoved his knife into the center of Travis' hand. "You see," he said, over the screaming, "you just never fucking learn. I can keep teaching the same lesson over and over but your guys are probably getting pretty fucking tired of me maiming them every time we meet."
"Real easy fix for that — " Rollie started, angrily, but Ashland held up his hand:
"Don't you want to know why I lied?"
Jude snorted and gestured at Travis, who was attempting gingerly to extract the knife from the mangled tendons of his hand. "What do you think?"
Ashland's mouth tightened. "That's really too bad," he said, "especially since it concerns your man there," and he pointed at Bruce. Bruce was glad he'd kept the sunglasses on; he didn't think he'd quite hidden the panic in his eyes fast enough, though he managed — years of training — to keep the rest of his face neutral. Beside him Jude folded his arms and raised an eyebrow.
"Mascis?"
"See, that's just it." Ashland tapped his fingers against his lower lip. "That's not his real name, is it."
Cornell made a noise. "Well, none of us are using our real names, Ash — "
"Well, none of you are as famous as your coworker here," Ashland said, "are they, Bruce Wayne?" and the brief respite from panic was replaced pretty much instantaneously by deeper, colder glass shards of it. Bruce had thought Ashland was going to out him as Batman, but somehow this was worse. He wasn't sure how to react or what to say. He thought perhaps glancing at Jude would be a bad idea, so he didn't. All the same he was aware of the way Jude tensed, and how the amused smile was wiped clean off his face.
"Why the fuck would I have hired Bruce Wayne?" he asked, after a moment.
Ashland shrugged. "He has a fuckton of money and companies and his name is on every — "
"Boss doesn't give a shit about any of that," Reznor snapped. By the pool table Travis had at last removed the knife and was holding his hand up to his chest.
"Boss," he whimpered, "I want — "
"Shut the fuck up," Ashland snarled, "you're fine. Fuck. You're whinier than Rollie."
Rollie's mouth briefly twisted downwards. Bruce reached up and pushed his sunglasses into his hair. He'd imagined this conversation, under vastly different circumstances, if anyone had ever called him out while he was Batman. I don't know what you're talking about. Wayne's a nice guy but we don't look or act anything alike… have you seen his billionaire act? He's insufferable.
"In fairness I don't think I would have guessed it if I hadn't seen you at the laundromat before you got those contacts," Ashland said. "Everyone else I talk to on the east coast is fucking terrified of you two — the Joker and his fucking freak — "
"Do not," Jude said, quietly, "ever fucking use that word in front of — "
" — his freak sidekick, but I figured it out. It's taken me way too long, but I've figured it out. You're Bruce Wayne. You're Gotham's favorite philanthropist and you're slumming it up in the shittiest part of town until you get bored — "
"Hell of an assumption to make," Bruce said. His hands were shaking where he'd shoved them into his coat pockets. His throat felt like ice.
"You can't prove this, Ash," Cornell said.
"No one would believe you anyway," Kowalczyk said.
Ashland shrugged. "Then it's a good thing I've had Mitchell recording this whole conversation." He pointed to one of the skinheads. Jude sighed.
"Nell," he said, and Cornell pulled out his gun and shot the other skinhead in the chest. He was dead before he'd hit the floor, eyes and mouth wide in shock, blood pooling from beneath his starched white shirt.
"I already told you I don't mind teaching you the same lesson again and again until you get it," Jude said, watching Ashland's face run through a gamut of emotions the chiefest of which Bruce recognized was fear, and then anger. "I don't give a shit what you do to me. It's been a long time since I figured out how to stop caring what happens to me." He walked forward one step, and then another, until he was at Travis' side. He took his knife from the pool table where it was still resting and wiped the blood on Travis' shirt. Travis watched him, pale, furious, still clutching his hand to his chest. Jude took the knife over to Ashland and touched the tip to his chin. His tongue came out to wet at his scars. Softly:
"But I'm not especially a fan of people threatening my family."
In the corner, Mitchell collapsed to the floor beside his brother's body, hands trembling as he pulled from his ruined shirt the remains of a recording device. Ashland's jaw tightened against the knife. Bruce saw him hold his hand up again to stop Rollie from moving forward, but barely.
"I can still go to the press with this," he said. "I'm sure they'll be really curious to hear how Bruce Wayne stood by in the basement of a mob restaurant and watched a man get killed — "
"What's your fucking point, Ash," Cornell asked, sounding exhausted. He'd trained his gun on Rollie.
"I just want what you owe me," Ashland said. He was still staring Jude down across the blade of the knife. "I've never been paid back for all the shit you've taken from me. So I'll take my guns, or I'll take the equivalent in money — I know you have endless amounts in your daddy's trust fund, Bruce, it's all I can think ab— "
"Be pretty hard to tell the press shit if you can't talk," Jude murmured. Ashland's eyebrows furrowed over his nose. He opened his mouth to respond and Jude slammed his foot down on Ashland's, wrenched his jaw open further with his free hand, grabbed his tongue, and sliced clean through the middle.
The next few seconds — Rollie lunged at Jude. Cornell knocked him out with the butt of his gun. He went down simultaneously with Ashland, who was making horrible choked sounds, blood spilling from his mouth. Travis pulled a gun from his jacket and shot Jude in the shoulder. He started laughing as Bruce took out his knife and rushed forward to grab Travis' wrist — the already-fucked hand. He slammed it down on the pool table again and with one swift movement cut the tips off three of his fingers.
"Hope you don't jerk off with that hand," Jude cackled as Travis sank to the floor, screaming. Ashland was trying to spit blood but his mouth wouldn't work right; the blood came out thick and ropey mixed with his saliva. Even through that Bruce could tell he was still trying to get Travis to shut up. Himself he was only concerned with one thing. But as he moved to Jude's good side and got an arm around his waist to try and lead him out, as Reznor and Kowalczyk rushed ahead with their guns out just in case while Cornell moved to open the door, Bruce heard a noise from behind him. He spun, and as though in a dream he saw Mitchell aiming his brother's gun for Jude. He didn't have time to check if one of the others had already seen. He shifted his position, reached into Jude's overcoat, and grabbed his gun. The whole world tunneled down into the perhaps half-second it took him to take off the safety — hand trembling violently. Then he shot Mitchell through the throat. He made a series of choked noises similar to Ashland's and fell first to his knees, then on his face. Bruce shoved the gun back into Jude's coat, tightened his grip around his waist.
"C'mon, boss, we have to get out of here," he gasped. Jude was leaning slightly into him, still laughing. Ashland and Travis were both screaming as Bruce got Jude up the stairs and through the basement door. The few kitchen workers inside stared as they came up, panting, soaked in blood. Bruce threw a wad of hundreds on the floor:
"Clean up down there and keep your mouths shut," he said, and he and the others rushed out into the frigid night.
Outside they moved fast and didn't stop moving until they'd gotten into the car. "Boss, fuck, I'm sorry," Kowalczyk said, as Reznor pulled away from the curb and headed north. "I fucked everything up — "
"You didn't know, it's fine," Jude said.
"Boss, you wanna go to the clinic?" Cornell asked
Jude had been leaning increasingly hard against Bruce's side the farther they walked, and after they'd all gotten seated. Now gently he extricated himself from Bruce's arm so as to inspect the gunshot wound. When he pressed down the torn fabric darkened again with a fresh stain of blood in the passing streetlights. Bruce winced, but Jude didn't seem to notice. "Bullet's not in there," he said, with remarkable calmness. "So I think I'm good."
This seemed impossible to Bruce who had seen Travis shoot Jude from a distance of about half a foot. But he didn't say anything. For some reason he kept seeing in his mind the spray of blood from Mitchell's throat. It hadn't been anything like Coleman's. His throat had — exploded, or something, like a Tarantino film, and Bruce had done it. Bruce had killed one of Ashland's men and he didn't feel anything except relief that Jude was here now because of him. Jude was leaning against him again breathing a little unsteadily and Cornell was saying,
"How about you, Wayne? Are you good?" and Bruce heard himself say yes as though from a great distance. Kowalczyk laughed:
"'course he's good, Nell, he's just channeling Gat— " and Cornell reached back from the passenger seat to smack ineffectively at his shoulder.
"We'll have to take care of this," he said to Jude. "If Ash lived he's going to send people after you — hell, even if he didn't live Rollie'll probably — "
"Get Rez to turn the car around so you can go back in there and shoot all of them if you're that worried," Jude interrupted. He sounded borderline annoyed. In the dim glow of the passing streetlights Bruce could see faint lines of tension forming between his eyebrows. "Look, it's late, I don't like that I've been fucked over a third time by the same man, and I'm tired. We can discuss strategies tomorrow."
"Boss — "
"Tomorrow, Nell," Jude repeated, and then he looked at Bruce. "You got any late-night soirees going at that penthouse of yours, Wayne? Or can I get in as your plus-one?"
Reznor snorted. Bruce's heart kicked into overdrive. "Of course you can come over, boss — "
"Then it's settled," Jude said, and raised an eyebrow pointedly at Cornell until finally he sighed and turned back to face the front. They rounded three more corners in silence until at last they reached the warehouse, and Bruce got out. He tried not to help Jude out but it was difficult. He was holding his arm very stiffly against his side. Bruce slammed the Suburban door shut and Reznor drove away. When the car was gone Jude made a noise and Bruce realized he was leaning against him now with his full weight. His breathing had gotten even more unsteady and he said,
"Does your old man still hate me?"
"I — yes, I'm sure he — "
"So he won't want me taking a bullet out of my arm in his bathroom."
Bruce didn't yell because it would've been counterproductive, but it was a near thing. "It's my bathroom," he said, "so he's not going to — "
"You got first aid shit in there?"
Bruce swallowed. He wondered how suspicious it would look if he said yes. Then again Jude was asking, and it was close to midnight, and he'd said he was tired —
"Yeah," he said. "I don't know if I have everything you'll — "
"It's fine," Jude interrupted. "I know how to make shit work. I was in nursing school for three semesters. You drive, though. I'm — " he paused; licked his mouth — "I don't want to wreck your pretty fuckin' car," he said, finally, which was how Bruce knew he was in a fair amount of pain. He still didn't say anything, though, just nodded and helped Jude round the car to his passenger door. He wanted desperately to ask about nursing school — had it been in Chicago? Or here in Gotham? Or somewhere else? It occurred to Bruce as he shut the door and walked back to the driver's side that he still knew very little about Jude. It was probably counterproductive even to wonder about this sort of thing. In the end it would add nothing to his case, or to convincing either Gordon or the rest of the city that he'd infiltrated the gang undercover to bring it down. Finding out intimate details of the Joker's past was not on anyone's list of top priorities. It should not have been on Bruce's.
"Getting to your place sometime tonight would be good, Wayne," Jude said, jerking Bruce out of — whatever the fuck was going on in his head. Jude had been in nursing school. Bruce had killed someone tonight. He'd killed a person for the second time in his life and all he felt was relief that the man who had talked him into it the first time was still sitting next to him now. Jude was sitting there in Bruce's father's Mustang looking at him and his tone had been mostly gentle and so was the expression in his eyes, though it was tinged slightly with impatience. In the far distance Bruce thought he heard sirens, and at last the tender raw creature knocked him out of the way and turned the key in the ignition. Under the roar of the engine and the radio he heard Jude say,
"There you go, champion," and as he pulled away from the curb and headed for the business district he discovered he was smiling.
Jude sat stiffly for most of the ride. He couldn't lean against the door with his arm and even alone he was clearly trying not to show any signs of discomfort. At a stoplight Bruce said:
"I can pull over and get some fentanyl out of the trunk if you — " and Jude said no, grinding his jaw, and Bruce left it alone. By the time they reached Wayne Tower his breathing had gone short and sharp like a wounded animal. Bruce kept feeling his heart trying to climb its way into his throat. He parked in his private garage and helped Jude out of the car. They walked together — Jude still leaning — to the elevator. Bruce scanned his thumbprint.
"Bet you use that to impress all the ladies," Jude mumbled, smiling against Bruce's shoulder.
"Yep," Bruce lied. In fact there had only ever been one lady Bruce had shown his private elevator to. Rachel hadn't exactly been what Bruce would call impressed, but that was hardly a surprise. Sometimes he'd caught himself wondering what it was he'd have to do to make her say good job, Bruce. I'm proud of you. Let's get married.
The elevator doors slid open and Bruce helped Jude on. Jude grumbled a little but also didn't shove Bruce away. Bruce hit the button and they started up. Jude rolled his shoulder experimentally.
"It's not bad," he said. "I've had worse."
In the cramped space the iron stench of blood was much more apparent, as was the sweat, and the fried odor from the restaurant. "Why did you lie to Cornell?" Bruce asked. "He would've taken you to the clinic."
"I know," Jude said. "Ainsworth has guys there sometimes, though."
Bruce frowned. "Really?"
"Uh-huh. I just don't ever feel like dealing with all that."
Bruce felt his ears pop. He swallowed. "Why do you hate him so much?"
Jude gave him a look. "Why do you think?"
Something cold crawled into Bruce's throat and lay down. "Does he hurt you?"
Jude didn't answer.
"Jude — "
The elevator stopped. The doors slid open. Bruce's private elevator came out on a different part of the penthouse than where Jude and the others had appeared back in July, but Jude still grinned, looking around:
"This looks familiar." As they stepped off the elevator he said over his shoulder, "Sorry I fucked up your pretty house, Wayne."
Bruce thought about fighting the subject change, but there wasn't a point. He'd done it to Rachel enough times. Besides it was Jude's favorite thing, and it said more about whatever the situation than if he elaborated. Bruce made a mental note to look into Ainsworth more closely after — everything — and said,
"It's all right. You can just give me half our earnings to pay back for the damages."
Jude snorted as Bruce led him around the corner to the stairwell. He put his thumbprint in again and the lock clicked. As they stepped inside Jude tugged one glove off and reached up to wipe something off Bruce's jaw. His finger came away bloody.
"The way you talk to me…" he murmured, familiar, almost wonderingly. "Didn't you just learn what happens to people who go behind my back?"
"Oh, I'm not too worried," Bruce said. "I think you like my tongue too much to cut it out," and Jude laughed. It hitched a little as they started up the stairs and Bruce tightened his grip around Jude's waist, feeling his heart tighten as well when Jude leaned into him again rather than try and shake him off. They made their slow way up the stairs, past the gym. Bruce could feel heat radiating off Jude's arm. He saw again the way Mitchell's throat had just exploded open. It had been easier this time. It was only the second time, but it had been easier. He hadn't even had to think about it. There had been a threat, and Bruce had taken care of it. And it had been easy with Travis, too; he hadn't even had to channel the tender raw creature, it had already been there, furious, possessive — how dare you hurt him, how dare you shoot him. You have no right. He remembered the way he'd focused and felt the black rage of Batman when he'd broken Ainsworth's fingers back in October. And how cold it had felt without the suit, and how methodical. It had been much the same in the restaurant. The blade had sunk through Travis' fingers and he hadn't hesitated and he hadn't even really thought about it. It was just another part of the job, but he'd wanted it. There had been a triumphal burst at the moment when the blood spurted out across the pool table and Travis started screaming — and as ever all his anger funneled outward, so that he was acting on blank, focused instinct —
They reached the door to his suite and Bruce put his thumbprint in again. The lock clicked and he pushed the door open to the kitchen. Alfred was standing at the counter wiping down some pots from his dinner; he half-glanced up and started,
"You're early, Master Wayne — "
Then his eyes lit on Jude.
Bruce shut the door behind both of them. He couldn't quite look at Alfred's face.
"I know I usually keep him out much later than this," Jude said. As he stood still mostly within the circle of Bruce's arm a trail of blood ran down from inside his coat sleeve and dripped dark syrupy crimson on the floor. "Sorry, Mr. Pennyworth — "
"I'll take care of it," Alfred said, with only the barest thread of tension underlying his voice. "Unless you require my assistance, Master Wayne — "
"No," Bruce said. "It's — we'll be fine, Alfred, thanks — "
Jude's sharp greenish eyes were flicking between them with interest. "Do you two need a minute?"
"No," Bruce said, at the same time that Alfred said,
"Yes, actually," and Bruce tried not to sigh. Jude raised an eyebrow at him, and he must have made a face, because Jude said,
"It's okay, I remember my way around," and slipped down the hall. Bruce listened for the sound of his bedroom door snicking shut; then he turned to Alfred, feeling defensive:
"There wasn't anywhere else I could bring him," he said, "he wouldn't go to the clinic in the Narrows and he's still got the bullet lodged in his arm and — "
"I suppose this is still part of the plan," Alfred said, walking to the sink and retrieving the bleach and a rag from underneath. His tone was mild, but there was an accusatory flavor beneath it Bruce disliked.
"Of course it — "
"You must understand how it looks, Master Wayne," Alfred said. "It's been well over a month by now, sir."
"I know." Bruce glanced down the hall. His door was shut. He wondered if Jude found it strange that he had so much medical paraphernalia in his bathroom cabinet. "It's just taking longer than I thought — I have to make sure, you know, that there's no suspicion, and that I've gotten enough information…" The defense sounded pathetic even to his own ears. The plan only crossed his mind every few days, like remembering a half-forgotten dream and thinking momentarily it was real. He looked at Alfred who was wiping the blood off the floor with the rag before pouring bleach on the spot where it had been. Something clenched behind his ribs. Alfred straightened up and looked at Bruce with that same mild disapproving expression.
"If the point of this charade is infiltration and exposing the Joker's gang, sir, I feel that you should be interested in obtaining his identity — "
"He's not in any of the databases, Alfred, you won't find any records of him through bloodwork — "
"I'm sure that you'd be capable of running a simple scan through the databases — or perhaps you could ask Mr. Fox to — "
"No," Bruce said, panic stealing into his voice, "Lucius doesn't know anything that's going on, you know that — "
"Then might I suggest, Master Wayne, that you get along with your plan. I know you have a tendency to get lost in the details — "
"I'm not lost in the details," Bruce muttered. He sounded — and felt — twenty-two again, placing call after call overseas to Alfred, midnight in France, six in the evening in Gotham. I know it sounds crazy, Alfred, but if I can just train enough —
And what is "enough", Master Wayne? How will you determine the stopping point?
I — In the room next door someone had knocked something off a shelf and let out a string of curses in sharp unrecognizable dialect. When I'm better. When I'm the best.
Alfred hadn't said anything. But he hadn't had to. Bruce had heard the skepticism well enough in his silence, and two years later in Rachel's, when he'd called her from Amsterdam to tell her the same. He couldn't moderate; he'd never known how. The end goal was always larger than the details and as such many of the details became overwhelming in their quantity and in their unexpected appearances. He had not expected so much obsession to develop in perfecting whatever martial art or fighting technique he was learning at whatever moment. A large part of why he'd stayed away for over a decade had been simply because he couldn't stop picking at the scabs of anything he didn't do right immediately — which, it turned out, was basically everything. It had been exhausting essentially bleeding himself out trying to be better at Batman every day, trying to stifle the urges he felt to hurt and to maim and to rip apart and the black furious anger and the long-compartmentalized hurt and aggression left over from that night in the alley. None of it had any place in the long-term effect he was trying to achieve, and so he pushed it aside and shoved it down and told it to stay behind the mask and the cape and in the tight coil of his fists and the violent swing of his legs. It was less exhausting living this way with Jude. It was less exhausting to just have the rage there, and to let it come and go as it pleased. And to use it as an excuse to say: but I haven't found enough information yet. But I haven't infiltrated enough yet. But I don't have enough of his trust yet.
Alfred was watching him now with his mouth thinned out and the bloody rag still clenched in one hand. "I certainly hope not, sir," he said, and then, "You'd better head back now. You don't want your guest starting to get suspicious of your whereabouts."
Bruce swallowed. Nodded. Swallowed. "It's going to be over soon, Alfred," he said. "I'll make up for all of it when it's over."
Alfred didn't say anything in return. After a moment Bruce turned and walked down the hall. There was nothing else he could do. When he was nearly to his door he paused. He felt something frigid and terrified run down his arms, but he couldn't help himself from turning back anyway, and saying,
"You know, he's already told me who he is. I don't need his blood. I know his name,"
and then opening and shutting his door, very quickly, on Alfred's surprised, furious face.
The bathroom door was cracked open. Jude had deposited his overcoat, his shirt, his suspenders, and his shoes on the floor directly outside. The room already reeked of blood and the fabric was all torn and stained to hell where the bullet had gone through. Jude was standing at the sink as Bruce rounded the corner and peered inside. He'd taken from the cabinet a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and a pair of tweezers and was attempting — leaning against the sink, tongue stuck in the corner of his mouth — to remove the bullet from his arm. It had slashed through the other, older wound, the one Jude had claimed he didn't remember its source. He had his elbow halfway in the sink and Bruce stood for a moment — helpless — and stared at the lines of his body, and the scars running across those lines. Jude's eyes caught onto him in the mirror and he smiled and —
— Bruce was so fucked.
"Want some help?" he asked, stepping over the tiles and coming to face Jude. He twitched his good shoulder up, which probably meant yes, or at least that he didn't care. Bruce tugged on a pair of gloves, took the tweezers and Jude's arm, and wiped the skin down again to clear off the excess blood. The wound was still radiating heat and as Bruce pressed down with his thumb to try and feel the bullet Jude winced.
"Sorry."
Jude shrugged again. "Your butler really hates me," he said.
Bruce worked the tweezers into the skin. He was used to doing this to himself and bracing against the pain but seeing it from an outside angle was a wholly different experience. When he got the metal on the bullet Jude's eyebrows pinched together; beyond that he seemed almost relaxed. Bruce remembered beating Jude half to shit in the interrogation room, and how rough he liked their sex. He wondered how high Jude's pain tolerance ran.
"He's just taking a while to get used to the idea," Bruce said, as he carefully extracted the bullet from the ruined flesh. Blood ran down from the wound and over Bruce's gloves and he had to continuously stop to refresh his alcohol wipe and rub at it again and again. "I mean, you are the Joker, after all."
Jude made a sound. It might have been a laugh. Bruce pulled the bullet completely clean from Jude's arm and dropped it in the sink. It landed on the ceramic with a quiet clink.
"Hold this steady to the wound, okay?" Bruce said. "I'm gonna get the stitches," as he switched his hand with Jude's to hold the alcohol wipe over the bullet hole. He reached into the medicine cabinet again and fumbled for a moment before finding the needle and thread. "Is blue okay?" he asked, "or would you prefer green, I'll have to go to another room to get that — "
"Whatever you've got is fine," Jude said, watching Bruce's fingers. His eyebrows were furrowed. "Why do you have all this shit in your bathroom," he asked.
"I, uh — " Bruce sterilized the needle and began threading it. "When I started going out more with you I figured I'd better stock up."
"Huh," Jude said.
"And I already knew a bunch of stuff about first aid from when I was training in taekwondo," Bruce said, sticking the needle into Jude's skin. This earned him an eye roll, which was a relief; he never knew how well his lies would go over, and they were getting harder to think up and to maintain. He finished stitching the wound up and tied the thread off before tearing it neatly — as he did his own — with his teeth.
"Sexy," Jude said. Bruce laughed. He put up the alcohol and the stitches and he threw out the gloves and the needle and the wipes and then — his heart slamming in his throat, not really thinking — he leaned in and kissed the skin just above Jude's wound. It was still overheated and tasted faintly antiseptic, and like blood and sweat. His mouth fit on the old scar where it was bisected by the new one; the skin was ridged and knotted beneath his lips. Jude went completely still and Bruce thought he'd made a mistake, but then Jude said Bruce's name, barely audible in his throat, and Bruce kissed his skin again, a little to the right this time, and then picking up his head he kissed his temple.
"You're part of my life now," he said. "Whatever I have to do to fit you in — "
Jude rolled his eyes again, but he tilted his head like a dog so Bruce would kiss his hair, and then he said, "Hang on a second, I want to take this shit off — " gesturing at his face — "it's itching."
"Sure," Bruce said. Carefully he extracted himself from between Jude and the sink and moved past him and back into the bedroom proper. He stripped off his clothes, tossing them on top of Jude's. He pulled on clean shorts and a pair of sweats and collapsed onto the couch. He shuffled through the stations until he found a cooking channel. Jude came out some time later with his hair pulled up and his face mostly clear of makeup. He sank down onto the couch beside Bruce, still in his dark violet trousers and obnoxious socks. He rested his cheek on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce tried not to feel guilty.
"Did good today, Wayne," Jude mumbled, after a long time.
"Thanks, boss," Bruce said. On the television Rachael Ray was chopping onions.
Jude slid his hand down Bruce's thigh; tangled their fingers together between their legs. He was a solid warm weight against Bruce's side. It was dark and quiet and Bruce could have fallen asleep like this.
"How'd it feel this time?" Jude asked. He didn't have to specify what he meant.
Bruce exhaled, softly. He shifted his shoulder a little so that Jude would lift his head, and then he turned his own and kissed Jude's temple again, and then the corner of his scar. The skin was rough and ragged beneath his mouth where it had healed badly. Even bare it still tasted like greasepaint. He saw Jude's eyes close. He loved his scar, he thought suddenly. He loved both the scars, and all the ones on his arms. He wasn't sure when that had happened. He wasn't sure how he felt about it either, except that there was a lot of it, and he wanted it. Whatever it was, he wanted it.
"Extraordinary," he told Jude, and felt the scar lift beneath his mouth as Jude smiled.
At four in the morning Bruce wandered into the kitchen to get some water for himself and Jude and found Alfred sitting at the counter. Old instinct tightened Bruce's chest — when he'd been a teenager Alfred staying up this late never meant anything good — but Alfred only smiled wanly as Bruce entered.
"Morning, Master Wayne."
"Morning," Bruce replied cautiously, walking to one of the cabinets and retrieving two glasses. "Have you slept?"
Alfred's smile grew even more wan. "It is difficult to sleep with that man in this house," he said. Bruce flinched.
"Alfred — "
One hand went up. "Please don't apologize," he said. "I know you wouldn't really mean it. And it won't change anything, will it. You'll still continue on this — suicidal path."
Bruce's jaw tightened, and he turned away to fill the glasses. "Yes," he said.
Alfred sighed. "I only hope you know what you're doing."
Bruce shoved down whatever bitter response threatened to crawl up his throat and said, "I want to start having some of the meetings here."
To his credit Alfred barely reacted. "The meetings with the Joker's gang?"
"Yes." Bruce shut the faucet off and turned. "I'm so close, Alfred. I just — if I could just do this one more — "
"One more what?" said Jude's voice from down the hall. Bruce flinched again, listening to his footsteps pad softly on the wooden floor. Momentarily he appeared in the kitchen doorway with his hair rumpled and Bruce's pajama bottoms hanging off his hips. The bruises Bruce had sucked into his neck and his chest were wine-dark and glaringly obvious even in the dim light.
"I want — " Bruce had to clear his throat. "I want to start hosting some of our meetings here. Not big things," he added, noticing the expression on Jude's face. "Just — some stuff. Some small stuff. It's — I told you you're part of, of my life. I'm — if it's okay with — "
Jude walked over to take his glass, then leaned against the counter on his elbow, watching Bruce with his head tilted. "I wouldn't mind," he said, voice oddly soft. "If your old man doesn't mind."
They both looked at Alfred. Please, Bruce begged with his eyes, but he could already see he'd won even before Alfred nodded. He looked exhausted, the same way he had the morning he'd found them in bed together. Bruce couldn't decide what he felt guiltier over: lying to Jude, or lying — however subtly — to Alfred.
"Sorry if I interrupted," Jude was saying as he tilted his glass back against the broken line of his mouth. "I just — wanted to apologize again for bleeding on your floor."
Bruce watched Alfred push something down. He raised an eyebrow at him, but said only, "It's quite all right, sir. Master Wayne has tracked mud through my kitchen for thirty-two years."
Jude laughed, delightedly. "Bet you've never given him one day off, either, have you, honey," he said, and it took Bruce a shocking few seconds to realize he was being addressed. He felt his jaw working around several incoherent answers before at last settling on:
"He's never volunteered to take one, so."
Jude whistled.
"I doubt you could take care of yourself or this house on your own, sir," Alfred said, a bit dryly. Jude laughed again, a sharp sort of hysterical cackle. Bruce elbowed him in the ribs to get him to walk back to the door, but he couldn't help glancing at Alfred, smiling tentatively, and was relieved to see Alfred's face slightly relaxed. He was looking from Jude to Bruce with something unreadable in his eyes.
"Night, Mr. Pennyworth," Jude said, as he and Bruce walked back down the hall. "Thanks again for offering us your house."
Bruce looked back for Alfred's reaction. He still had that unrecognizable expression on his face. "Goodnight, sir," he said to Jude. "Goodnight, Master Wayne."
It wasn't until after he and Jude had drank their water and crawled back into bed that Bruce realized that the look had been bordering on the verge of tolerance. Tolerance which had no place in a temporary infiltration plan.
But, terrifyingly, helplessly, it made Bruce hopeful, anyway.
Very quickly it became apparent that Jude's idea of hosting "small things" at Bruce's penthouse was not the same as Bruce's. Two days after their conversation with Alfred Bruce was trying not to fall asleep during a shareholders' meeting for the new psychiatric wing at Gotham General — Ainsworth had his fingers still bandaged, for some reason, and splayed out on the table in an obvious and rather pathetic attempt to garner sympathy — when his burner phone buzzed with a text. Cornell:
Boss says ur vegan.
Yes, Bruce texted back, one-handed; keeping his eyes on the director of the board in hopes she wouldn't declare the project null and void due to a lack of interest on his part.
"The west wing is nearly done with initial construction," said the foreman. "If you'd care to look at the blueprints — "
"Yes," Ainsworth said. Bruce echoed him automatically. As the PowerPoint was being set up his phone went off again:
U like chi tkot?
?
Chinese takeout.
Bruce almost laughed. On the projection screen the foreman was pointing to various developed sections of the hospital, and Bruce watched with one glazed eye and glanced at his phone with the other:
Yes.
Ok, said Cornell, and then that was it. The meeting ended and Bruce endured several long minutes of discussing logistics with Ainsworth who kept staring confusedly at his face, which made Bruce feel at once both concerned and also kind of powerful. He thought about asking Ainsworth how his hand was but decided against it. Then he left, and Bruce drove out to meet with the Neumann branch, and to look at his tech building. As he walked through the facility looking at the various unused machines and parts an idea began to form itself vaguely at the back of his head; when he left it was after six, and he called Jude as he got in his car.
"Speak of the devil," Jude drawled, sounding pleased.
"You were talking about me?" Bruce asked, as the heater began to warm up the car. Little frost particles diffused slowly along the edges of the windshield.
"Just a little," Jude said. In the background Bruce heard Reznor yell "hey Wayne!" and he smiled.
"Anything good?"
He heard Jude smile, too, without seeing him, which felt — he didn't know how, precisely. "Nothing I couldn't repeat in polite company," he said. Then: "What's going on?"
"I have, uh — a business proposition."
"What a coincidence," Jude said. "So do we."
"Oh?" Bruce reached over and turned down the radio where Jude had left in his Jesus Lizard cassette: Tonight at the knife stick up place, I spoke as a child and choked on that line...
"Yeah, but it has to be discussed in person," Jude said.
"Sure," Bruce said. "I'm already downtown — "
"No," Jude said. "Not at the warehouse."
Bruce watched a single snowflake drift down across his plane of vision. "Oh?"
"Yeah." Over the phone Jude shifted. "Is your butler still okay with us coming over?"
Something felt spinning in Bruce's mind. It's working, he wanted to think, he trusts me, they all trust me, but instead he felt genuine excitement, and underneath it a thread of the familiar guilt. "Yeah," he said, "yeah, he's — "
"Great," Jude said. "Can Nell take the Suburban into your garage?"
"Yes," Bruce said.
"Okay," Jude said. "See you soon." He hung up. Bruce blew out a breath. Then he put the car in drive. He arrived at the private garage and waited for the Suburban to show up so he could let Cornell in; then the four of them rode up together in the elevator. Cornell was holding a bag of Chinese takeout. Reznor seemed impressed by the thumb scanners.
At the top of the stairs Bruce hesitated, but it was only momentary; he hadn't called Alfred, but he would have to just ride it out. This was the easiest way in any case to prove that Alfred was okay with this, with Bruce's lifestyle and with his choices. He let them into the kitchen where indeed Alfred was standing as per usual with Mike Engel on the television talking about a factory which Bruce was pretty sure Cobain and Staley had blown up just north of the city. Alfred turned and to his credit his expression did not slip.
"Master Wayne," he said. "Are these your — guests?"
"Yes," Bruce said, forcing himself to maintain eye contact. "Cornell, Reznor, this is Alfred."
"Nice to meet you," Reznor said, and shocked Bruce by stepping forward, hand outstretched. Cornell set the bag of Chinese on the floor and said,
"It's nice of you to let us come over. I hope you don't mind I brought food; Wayne said you cook most of the time but I thought we shouldn't impose."
What the genuine fuck. Bruce was pretty sure his mouth had fallen open; Jude was standing beside him with a small, amused smile and gently he nudged Bruce in the ribs as Alfred cleared his throat, dropping Reznor's hand and shaking Cornell's:
"It's — quite all right, sir. I believe I'll take my dinner in the dining room and allow the four of you to get on with your business." He raised his eyebrows at Bruce, then retrieved a pan from the fridge and walked out of the room. Reznor waited until the dining room door was shut behind him before turning to the television and pointing with a grin:
"Boss, look."
Cornell rolled his eyes as he bent down to pick up the food. "He can fuckin' see it, Rez, shit — "
"This is a nice fuckin' house, Wayne," Reznor said, looking around. "This where you grew up?"
"No," Bruce said. He glanced a little at Jude as he spoke; he wondered if he remembered the manor. He thought perhaps Jude had come over once, when Bruce was in junior high. Leo had been visiting for the summer and there had been a massive banquet, the first since Thomas and Martha's deaths. Bruce had spent most of his time pretending he wanted to be there in the crowd, pretending every second spent in his parents' massive ballroom without them didn't make him nauseous, pretending there wasn't a glass wall between him and the rest of the world which would never come down... he'd seen Jude, or a flash of his curls, at some point, but by then he'd been exhausted and couldn't stand it anymore and excused himself from one of Thomas' business partner's sides and ran upstairs. He was eleven and spiraling and people were already after him to head the company someday. "My family's home was out — " he gestured in the direction. "It burned down in the spring."
"Shit, that's rough," Cornell said, pulling out the paper containers with their red lettering.
"It's all right," Bruce said, and was moderately surprised to find he wasn't entirely lying. "It's convenient to live on top of the tower. People can't get up here 'cause of the scanners, and when the day's over all I have to do is go upstairs." Also, weirdly, it felt symbolic to have the new house in conjunction with his new life in the gang. He didn't know if Alfred would have been as open to him inviting them over if they still lived in the manor. He didn't know if he himself would have been as open — at least, not with the others. With Jude, maybe... but in any case the penthouse was wholly separate from his life Before. He'd been Batman only eight months when the incidents in July had happened, and his world had crashed down once again. And only four of those months spent here.
They talked for a while about the various parts of Wayne Tower. Bruce got Reznor to talk about Cobain's job on the news to irritate Cornell, who apparently had been stationed elsewhere at the time, despite wanting very badly to blow the factory up himself. The food Cornell had brought was good; he'd gotten Bruce veggie chow mein and steamed rice which he shared with Jude. Bruce offered to pay him back for his meal and Reznor snorted while Cornell went three different shades of red before explaining that he had a "thing" with the line cook and would go down on her and/or snort coke with her behind the restaurant after her shift later in lieu of actual money.
"It's not weirder than your fuckin'... whatever, thing with that bitch from your high school," Cornell finished, glaring at Reznor, who just laughed harder. Beneath the kitchen island Jude tangled his foot up against Bruce's ankle; there was no reason for it, he was clearly just comfortable, perhaps even content, and Bruce didn't know what to do with that beyond pressing back with his own foot, and smiling when Jude did.
Eventually when the food had been finished and the takeout boxes thrown out Jude reminded Bruce he'd had a business proposal. Cornell was closest to the television and reached over to turn the sound off — the news was over; they were playing Wheel of Fortune, and Reznor had been mouthing along guesses to the answers — and then Bruce said,
"I was downtown today at Wayne Tech, and I noticed we have a lot of unused material there, like car parts and electronics. So I was thinking — I don't know if we already have something like this here but we should set up a shell company. And since my company's legitimate we can use it as a front and launder money or ship out parts from the tech building." He'd been using parts of the enterprises as a front for his Batman-related stuff for eight months now without repercussions; there was no way he could tell them he already knew his company served as a very good shell without giving too much away but the only person who would suspect anything amiss would be Lucius, and of course he was only in charge of R&D, and that had gone unused for months now... He looked around at their faces and was relieved to see that none of them looked suspicious. Jude looked sort of amused.
"What?"
He shook his head. "Vegan underworld CEO," he said, and Cornell and Reznor both laughed. Bruce shrugged, trying to stay nonchalant; he said,
"Like I told you the other day, boss. I've done research."
"Well, I think it's a good idea," Reznor said. "We've got a fuckton of warehouses already completely full anyway, and Wayne's got a point, this is a legitimate company. So we could claim taxes or whatever."
"I don't think that's how it works, idiot," Cornell said.
"The fuck would you know, you haven't filed taxes in your whole fuckin' miserable life — "
"So it's a good idea," Jude interrupted, glaring at Reznor until he sighed, and shut his mouth. Jude looked at Bruce in this way that dug the guilt in worse, because it was impressed, and trusting, and something else Bruce didn't have the words for. How far are you willing to go, Thomas whispered in his ear, first time in a while. How far have you already gone. Can you come back. And then another voice, more like Bruce's own:
do you even want to.
After that night Jude started coming every day, or nearly. Bruce would get off work at four or so and there would be a text waiting for him: in lby, or sometimes, got brd, brk in2 ur grg :) This would have been exasperating except that when Bruce got down to his garage Jude was always standing there in civilian clothes, sans makeup, hair tied back, and he always looked a little frayed and a little desperate and it was easy, easier than it probably should have been, to let it go, and to let him up on the private elevator, or else to go up from the lobby, ignoring the people who stared. Bruce made him a key card which he could only access the lobby elevators with; he sometimes showed up afterwards unexpectedly in the elevator lobby at the topmost public floor, but more often he still simply broke into Bruce's garage and waited there, playing Snake and scratching his knife back and forth along the concrete floor, for Bruce to show. The first time Alfred gave Bruce a look which clearly said, what are you doing, Master Wayne. But by the end of the first week of December Alfred was no longer giving Bruce looks. He mostly stayed out of their way, electing to be on the gym floor or else on the guest penthouse floor when Jude would arrive. He spoke civilly to Jude when Jude addressed him; otherwise he didn't interact with them at all. Bruce didn't push. He had no idea what he was doing.
"What are you doing, Master Wayne?" Alfred asked, one evening when Jude didn't come due to some holdup in Atlantic City. He and Bruce were sitting on the pool deck; the water was heated, but Bruce hadn't gotten in, except for half of one leg.
"What am I doing?"
"With the Joker, sir. And his men."
Bruce bit his lower lip the inside of which tasted bizarrely of chlorine. "I told you, Alfred, I'm gaining — "
"I think you've more than gained their trust, sir. And the information you need."
Bruce opened his mouth, but the words he wanted — he didn't know what they were, but they were stuck in his throat, regardless. He stared at the reflection of the water on the ceiling; the antishadows of it moved and stretched and waved, something out of Hitchcock. After a moment he heard Alfred sigh, and then he said,
"Just make sure you're keeping your head about this, Master Wayne. And be careful. That's all I ask."
"I'm being careful, Alfred." Bruce slid his hand across his stomach, over the old scar where Jude's shoe-knife had cut him open in July, and where just two nights ago Jude had sucked and bit the skin until it bruised and bled once again through his ministrations. The bruise was the exact shape and size of his mouth and Bruce wasn't stupid enough to hope Alfred hadn't seen it but all the same he finally slid into the pool and kicked away from the wall. "I'm used to this shit, remember?"
"Language," Alfred murmured, though Bruce was thirty-two. Bruce smiled at him.
"Thank you for keeping my secret," he said.
Alfred didn't smile back. "Don't make me regret it, Master Wayne."
The following evening Jude came over to have Bruce take his stitches out. Bruce asked why Jude couldn't do it himself or else why they couldn't have done it at Jude's apartment and Jude said, I didn't hire you to ask fucking questions, Wayne, and things somehow devolved from there. By the time Bruce got around to actually performing the task at hand it was nearly three in the morning and Jude had bruises sucked into his neck and shoulders and nail marks running down his back where Bruce had scratched him when he'd asked. Bruce was marked up similarly and his hair was fucked and his hands were shaking from overwork and so he fucked up the stitching removal. He had to call Alfred in to help fix it but when he pressed the intercom button Jude leaned against him from behind, a solid warm line, and dropped his face on Bruce's shoulder, so that the knots of his mouth scars fell on Bruce's skin. Bruce was therefore distracted and when Alfred said,
"What's wrong, Master Wayne,"
Bruce said, "I fucked up Jude's stitches,"
without thinking. It wasn't until Jude had gone still against him that he realized what he'd said but Alfred was already saying he was on the way. After he clicked off Bruce winced, turning,
"I'm sor— "
"'s all right, honey," Jude said. The nickname felt like a wash over Bruce's ribs. "I don't think I mind if your old man knows," and that was all that was said about it. When Alfred arrived he cleaned the wound and pulled the rest of the stitches, and bandaged it up, and didn't comment on the state of their skin, or their hair, or Bruce's bed, where the sheets were rucked and half on the floor. As he was preparing to leave Jude said,
"Thanks for getting up, Mr. Pennyworth, I know it's late,"
and Alfred said, "It's quite all right. If I'm not overstepping any boundaries I am curious — are you Mr. Leo Baker's son?"
Jude kind of — stiffened, or something, and Bruce braced himself, wary, but after a moment he said only, "Yeah, that's my father," and Alfred nodded, and said goodnight, and walked out. An hour or so later Jude announced he wasn't sleeping, he was too hungry; he wanted breakfast, and did Bruce want to accompany him. Bruce was so relieved Jude wasn't angry with him for revealing his name he said yes, despite it was barely twenty degrees outside, and they pulled on their sweats and Bruce's beanie and headed down to the garage. Jude directed Bruce to a Denny's in the Narrows where he introduced him, shockingly, to a pretty young waitress he said he'd known for almost a year. Her name was Evangeline and she was studying organic chemistry at the community college in Hoboken. She called Jude "Mr. Joker" and told Bruce shyly that her younger brother really looked up to him. By the time they left Denny's the sun was rising in salmon pink gradient behind the business district. Bruce dropped Jude off at the warehouses, then drove back to Wayne Tower to wash off the night. As he stood in the shower, face turned to the spray, eyes shut, taste of coffee still bitter in his throat, he thought about how well the plan was working. Jude was coming over all the time. Cornell and Reznor liked Alfred, and Alfred tolerated all three of them. Bruce hadn't yet received death threats or woken with a knife to his throat. The plan was going really, really well —
— except that this was the first time Bruce had thought about the plan since discussing it with Alfred at the pool.
He dried his hair staring through the fogged up mirror at his reflection. Without the white contacts in he was still only Bruce Wayne, but he was the sort of Bruce Wayne he'd sometimes envisioned existed when the suit was fully on and the mask was down. The Bruce Wayne that had no public face and lived behind the shadows. The Bruce Wayne that reveled in violence. The Bruce Wayne that celebrated cruelty.
He covered the most visible of the hickies with foundation before heading downstairs for his first meeting of the day, but he couldn't stop pressing his hand to his neck all morning, feeling the dull ache beneath his skin, in the exact shape of Jude's broken, beautiful mouth.