I've fallen slightly behind on the writing, for two reasons: being busy polishing up the plot, and having this chapter to write as the second and, thankfully, the last major hurdle I subjectively faced in this story. Blame it on my uncertain grasp on Gordon and Blake, or on the tricky premise of writing Bruce's return to Gotham post-Batman era. Either way, it is out of the way now, and the rest should be a relatively smooth ride. Not for the heroes, hopefully, but for me :P
As a bonus, you get two chapters today; the reverse side of that is that I am leaving for the airport in an hour and as of this evening, I'll be off for a week in a blackberry-only wilderness, which means I'll be able to comment but not post. Then again, I'll try to type up a chapter or two while there, to post late at night next Sunday or soon thereafter.
Casus belli is the Latin for "a case (as in, reason) for war".
I fudged it on the names of Fredericks and Gordon's wife. Can't remember if either was ever mentioned.
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xxx
Strangely, what puts her at ease upon arrival in her native city is seeing a foreigner. Max Reimann is waiting for them in the small crowd just beyond Customs, and she purposely ignores Bruce's sideways glance to kiss him enthusiastically on both cheeks. Apart from being genuinely glad to see him, she has a reason to make Bruce jealous: the more he frets about this, the less he'll be on edge about being back in Gotham.
"Did you have a good flight?" She cannot immediately tell if Max is pokig fun at them or being serious. Max is good-looking in a faintly Teutonic way, taller and bulkier than his uncle but with the same twinkle in his eyes that convinces her that curiosity and a propensity for mischief are family traits.
"You've got to be kidding. We flew economy," Bruce answers him.
"What made you do that?"
"Trump was flying in first."
"Trump as in, orange face, blond toupee Trump?"
"The one and only."
"My condolences."
"We survived."
"Barely," Selina puts in. Bruce was happily asleep for most of the flight, but she only managed a couple of hours; by the time they started the landing cycle, she had made it all the way from total rookie to Path of the Jedi virtuoso in Angry Birds Star Wars, and only had to stop when her tablet battery died.
"At least I can promise you that there are no Trumps hiding in my car," Max reassures them.
By the time they've made it to the parking lot, it is pretty obvious that there is no way anyone, let alone any number of Trumps, could be hidden in that car: she is looking admiringly at a gorgeous, sleek black Chevy Corvette C6 coupe, big on presence but not on room. Talk about the sincerest form of flattery: this is obviously the closest thing Max could get to Bruce's Sesto Elemento on a budget, at least relatively speaking. She looks aside to hide her smile.
Max has an almost-exaggerated regard for Bruce despite - or is it because of? - last winter's skiing season that his pride probably has not yet fully recovered from, when he was summarily upstaged at his favourite sport by a man 12 years his senior... which kept him baffled until, a few days before he left for Gotham to do his PhD coupled with a job in research, Bruce and his uncle sat him down and told him the full story of the double - make that triple - identity, life and afterlife of the late Mr Wayne, including his extra-curricular pursuits, so that Max wouldn't make a revealing gaffe while working at Wayne Enterprises. Selina was there too, no way she'd have missed that, and enjoyed watching his jaw drop.
When Max came back to Switzerland on a short break over Easter, it was clear that what he had heard of Bruce at Wayne Enterprises had only cemented his respect. Apparently Bruce had grown into something of a legend, the man who slept through half of the Board meetings and was still scarily good in the other half, and then went away for years but ran the company just as well from behind the scenes, and became regarded as a kind of martyr when he left without a word of complaint after being ousted as Chairman on the eve of the Bane uprising - on false charges.
All this, apparently, is enough for Max to be willing to trust Bruce with what is clearly a prized possession. The issue, however, is that the Corvette is a two-seater.
"How are we going to fit in?" she asks.
"Don't worry, I'll take the subway back to the lab. I'm on my lunch break anyway, and Mr. Fox knows I'm here to pick you guys up."
Sweet of him; so much so that it makes her feel bad. And so much for Bruce hoping to hear the latest news off the Wayne Enterprises grapevine before they see Lucius.
"You sure you don't want to at least take a cab? Or we could put Mr Wayne in the trunk, considering that he's dead," she adds, glancing at her husband with carefully feigned nonchalance.
Bruce rolls his eyes while Max laughs. "Nah, I'll be fine. Seeing the westbound traffic on my way here, I think I'll beat you guys downtown."
"Thanks kid." Bruce gives him a pat on the shoulder and a wink. "For saving me from the trunk. And I'll tell Lucius that you have my authorisation to charge the parking tickets to expenses."
"What parking tickets?"
"The ones I'll run up in the next two days while we're here. When I had a car here, Alfred, my former butler, used to joke that I never stopped it downtown for more than five minutes without getting a ticket." That was, of course, Bruce's famous Aventador, which she'd carelessly left parked in the side street near her home, and no doubt collecting a nice fat fine, for Alfred to recover the following afternoon. Too bad it was apparently trashed in the uprising. "I might also rack up a speeding charge or two, but those will be on my driver's license so shouldn't be a problem for you," Bruce continues. Won't be a problem for Bruce either, she thinks with a sly smile, considering that it is his fake driver's license that he is talking about. "We'll park it downtown when we leave so you won't have to get back out here to pick it up. And make sure you let me know when you're in Switzerland next. I could use some competition on the slopes."
That, apparently, is quite a compliment, as Max is positively beaming when he leaves them to catch the subway back to work.
xxx
Bruce seems to be taking it pretty well so far; she has been watching him closely on the way to downtown Gotham, and he does not look nearly as tense as he did the night before. It is largely hepled by what they see of Gotham on their approach: far from the devastation of a year and a half ago, they are entering a bustling city humming with energy, a testament to recovery and resilience. Up close, compared to the TV footage, the city looks somewhat less glossy, more like a giant half-finished construction site, with the most common sight being a chicken wire fence with a contractor's name and scheduled completion date stuck on it and nonstop activity going on in the background. Some buildings and shops still boarded up but there are plenty of new ones opening alongside. The police are a visible presence, but they do not seem to have a lot to do, and the people do not seem to mind them; the apparent consequences of the major, and enthusiastically received, nationwide recruitment effort into the GCPD post-war.
Ignoring the valet parking option, they pull into the underground garage at the Marriott Times Square the CIA has booked them into; Bruce, ever mindful of Trojan horses, had arranged for Max to bring them a bug sweeper kit in view of this generosity.
The parking attendant stares and shakes his head in disbelief at the impossible manoeuvre Bruce has pulled, sliding the Corvette into a tight parking spot apparently within a split second of switching down from fifth gear.
"That was crazy shit, man." His awe is great enough for him to momentarily forget the customer service drill. "Who are you, Batman?"
Shit.
Amazingly, Bruce seems amused. "What, do I look dead to you?" he chuckles, then assumes a regretful tone. "No... I wish. It's just that I race cars in my spare time. In my day job I'm an accountant."
The guy is still gaping at him, which is a good thing considering how Selina is snickering into her hand.
xxx
By the time Selina, the "public face" of the Wainwright couple for the duration of their Gotham visit owing to her husband's memorable face, has heard from the reception clerk that they are booked for the Presidential suite, she has to change her assessment of Bruce's bug-sweeping intentions from paranoid to supremely reasonable. There is no way they'd have splurged on a penthouse, private elevator and all, if there wasn't trickery involved.
"Well, maybe they wanted me to feel like home," Bruce remarks sarcastically when they are riding up, still wearing his disguise of Ray-Bans and Gotham Rogues hat. The porter has ostensibly let them enjoy their privacy, taking the service lift up, but they are pretty certain they are being watched, or at least listened to.
"Which reminds me..." she asks in a low voice, though it is a pretty safe subject as subjects go. "Why couldn't we just go to your penthouse?" Back in the day, the place had gained some notoriety for the scale and splendour of the parties he allegedly held there. And that one would be a bitch to bug.
He shakes his head. "Don't have it. Sold it three years ago, at about the same time when I bought the land in Carona and built the villa."
"Good call." Even if it leaves them dependent on hotel rooms.
"I wasn't so sure at the time. But I found myself spending more and more time at Wayne Manor, to the point when I'd only go there once in a few months, and every time I went back I was in a hurry to leave. It held too many memories."
"More than the manor?"
He shrugs. "I could never sell the manor, it was my family's home. Besides," he adds in an even quieter voice, though his secret is presumably out to the eavesdroppers, "it has the cave under it."
Ah, of course; the legendary but elusive Batcave. So that's where it is. She makes a mental note to add it to her tour itinerary: before they left for Gotham, she had decided that she would sneak away from Bruce on some pretext to go back to the manor and take a better look at it, see if the place can yield her more clues about the man she has been living with. She knows what he is like - more or less, anyway; but she wants to see the place that contributed, at least to some extent, to making him what he is; a place he used to call home before the one they now share.
Once they are at the suite and have dismissed the porter, she walks around the suite, taking in the wraparound view of Gotham's resurgent core, while she waits for Bruce to finish the sweep. It is almost anticlimactic when it reveals a single paltry listening bug... hidden in the headboard of the enormous bed.
"Perverts," he spits.
She raises an eyebrow at him. "You surprised?"
He snorts. "No."
But when he picks it up and starts in the direction of the bath, presumably intending to flush it down the toilet, she gestures for him to stop.
"Wait..." she whispers sweetly in his ear, having covered the bug with her hand. "Let's give them something to listen to."
His first impulse, she can tell, is to protest; but as the shameless idea sinks in, she sees in his face that he likes it more and more with every second, until he steps back to the bed and carefully places the bug on the bedside table.
She gets her cue from that. Reaching into her handbag, Selina picks out the pair of deceptively delicate-looking carbon fibre handcuffs, the only less-than-innocent item she has smuggled in; between the likelihood of getting into trouble and the vague desire to punish Bruce for the delayed knowledge of his Istanbul stint, she figured they'd come in handy one way or another. Will they ever.
At first he is puzzled as to why she pulls his hands behind his back; but when he feels the cuffs clicking shut on his wrists, he tilts back his head to give her an infinitely dirty look... and starts laughing.
"Well, we were going to take a nap anyway... I'm all yours."
xxx
She knows by now that Bruce has a competitive streak a mile wide. Not that he usually has much competition; but of course, he has his match in Lucius. What surprises her is not the fact that Bruce takes it seriously; he is still a big kid at times when he lets his guard down, but Lucius... who would have thought Lucius would take the challenge so seriously?
"Is it that you don't want to talk about your latest hypersonic test results because you are too far behind us, or because we're too far ahead of you?" he taunts, and obviously enjoys seeing Bruce bristle.
"Lucius, if you think I'll tell you any more than is public knowledge about our testing, you're seriously mistaken. Not after you lured Max away from my company. But I assure you we match you step for step."
Lucius pretends to ignore the final statement. "Lured him? The kid wanted to come to Gotham, who can blame him? He can always go to Oxford when he's middle-aged and wants to slow down a bit..."
"And bribing a promising PhD researcher who specialises in the field with a nice long-term contract had nothing to do with his decision? I'm the owner, Lucius, I saw the terms you offered him."
"Beneficiary owner, Bruce, which means that Douglas Fredericks as Acting Chairman and myself as CEO are authorised to make tactical decisions, including hiring researchers, on your behalf for the benefit of the company."
"Fine," Bruce mutters, still sulky. "I'll still beat you to the field test date, with or without Max."
Lucius backs down to appease him, more out of affection than concern about pissing off his company owner. "I'm afraid I can't put it past you. We still have our issues, and it still sounds like a giant jackhammer, which rules out landings at civilian airports for now. In any case we're talking about different solutions: your precooled jet versus our pulse detonation. If we develop both to industrial testing stage at the same time, the world will only gain."
Speaking of global good never fails to work on Bruce, and Lucius obviously knows it.
"You have a point," Bruce concedes, and the discussion moves on to their upcoming mission. They have just finished dinner - Lucius's dinner and their late night snack, considering that they are still running on Lugano time, or else breakfast, considering that they woke up less than an hour ago from a long nap after thoroughly tiring each other out - that Lucius had discreetly ordered into his office at the top of Wayne Tower. Getting in had been something of a risk, even though Lucius had met them personally at the hidden access tunnel and taken them to the top without any employees setting eyes on him; but they wanted to be in a place that was guaranteed bug-proof and CIA agent-free, and in any case, Gotham's upscale restaurants were out because Bruce used to be a fixture at most of those.
The trouble is, they end up rehashing their dinner conversation from Lugano last night: until they go into the meeting and find out the casus belli, they won't even know what equipment or what sort of help they may need. So all Lucius can do for them now is promise to cover their backs in any way necessary, and, once they have set up the communications routine for the next few days, wish them good luck, give them hugs, and walk them out of the building on the way to their next appointment.
Which, however, is still a good two hours away: Gordon may have reached retirement age, but it does not make him cut his working hours from his usual fourteen-hour routine, and Blake, their second drinking companion for tonight, has likewise asked for a late hour pleading a movie night with the orphanage kids that they'd begged him to go along on; not surprisingly, the movie in question is Dark Hero, the film that by now has broken all sorts of box office records... that they are seeing for the thirteenth time.
But instead of heading back to the hotel, once Bruce and Selina reach the Corvette parked a few blocks away from Wayne tower, they agree, seemingly on a whim, to leave it there for the time being and go for a walk around the renovated downtown, checking out the changes. They are still taking precautions: the sunglasses stay on despite the approaching dusk, they stick to Italian instead of English, and at one point Selina even acts on her own advice to Bruce and picks up a short blond wig at a sidewalk store and manages to keep it on for the better part of an hour until the heat makes her ditch it. Still, their best disguise is probably their conduct: what with holding hands and murmuring into each other's ears, they pretty much look like garden variety honeymooners and certainly nothing like a reclusive, brooding billionaire and a brazen cat burglar.
xxx
Jim Gordon looks a good deal less preoccupied compared to the last time Selina saw him, in the aftermath of the destruction. But he also looks older, his hair all grey by now; the city may have come back bigger and better - and safer - than before, but a big chunk of the burden of reviving it fell on the Police Commissioner's shoulders. Selina and he embrace like old friends, which is natural considering the circumstances of their parting. It is also natural that she and Blake exchange more reserved greetings, a mere handshake and a smile from each. What is unexpected is Gordon's gruff, almost grumpy, greeting to Bruce.
"What the hell are you doing playing dead?" But then the smile creeps up on his face, and the transparent pretense melts away.
"Look who's talking," Bruce mock-chides him in turn.
"I was only dead for a few days, and only when strictly necessary to catch a criminal," Gordon counters.
"I left you a good successor." Bruce tips his head at Blake, and Blake's face lights up.
"You sure did." Gordon and Blake apparently had a disagreement or two early on, but it looks like they have a solid working partnership by now. "But I still think - John and I both think that you should come clean about what you've done. You deserve the credit, as Bruce Wayne - and as the hero you created. Instead they had to cobble together an invented legend to put onscreen, and have given me credit for half the things you did." Selina remembers Bruce mentioning Gordon not being a Dark Hero fan; clearly, it is still a sore subject.
"By now, it could jeopardise the Nightwing's identity if I talked too much about who did what." The Nightwing is, of course, the nickname the Gothamites have given Blake.
"My identity doesn't get a lot of air time these days," Blake comments with a chuckle. "Not a lot of criminals around." He looks torn between being pleased and disappointed at the development.
"Even with the Dent Act repealed, with the force now three times bigger than it was, we've rounded up most of them and have a 90% crime solving rate," Gordon confirms proudly. "My goal, before I retire, is to take it up to 95% if the DA's office keeps up their end of the bargain. The Gotham underworld has their collective balls in a vise. Really, Bruce, you'd be bored here." Odd how Gordon says almost exactly the same thing she said to him 24 hours ago. Not at all odd that Bruce takes some convincing on that count.
"There will always be some monster or madman," he insists.
"And I'll be right there to catch him," Blake jumps in. He lacks the bulk to merit a comparison to a warhorse but is surely chewing at the bit. Still the eager, earnest kid she remembers, but the anger that used to simmer under his skin seems to have subsided. "With the gadgets I've been getting from Lucius, it should be a walk in the park."
"Which reminds me," Gordon continues where Blake left off, "I never said thank you for the Tumbler. I know it was your idea."
Bruce smiles at him. "Like I said, you'll never have to." Seeing Gordon's wistful look, she wonders what particular inside joke or bit of shared history this exchange refers to.
"I may not have to, but I want to," Gordon insists. "And also, thanks to both you and your Italian buddy for the miracle Kevlar." This is a reference Selina does understand: as soon as Bruce and Gordon were back in touch, Bruce offered the GCPD an incredibly good deal on the ultra-thin, super-strong colloidal Kevlar now produced by Tessuti Varese, the Italian outfit she and Bruce saved from becoming a terrorist supplier a year ago. Gianfranco Varese, its current young owner, arguably Wainwright Security's most grateful and devoted client, was only too happy to guarantee them a supply of the precious fabric his company now produces at a nominal price. He would probably have offered it for free for an old friend of Bruce's, but the appearance of a commercially sound deal was necessary to avoid allegations of bribery. As it was, the contract became a great advertisement in itself, with other cities' police already queuing to buy it, this time at market prices.
"It was a pleasure," Bruce assures him.
They sip their whisky in companionable silence for a while, Gordon and Blake relaxing after a day at work, Bruce and Selina trying to take their minds off tomorrow's meeting. But the question that she fears hearing eventually spills from Gordon's lips, and she fights down a shiver.
"Do you miss it?" This is directed at Bruce. She knows that Gordon does not just mean Gotham, or Bruce's life as Wayne, or as Batman; he means any and all of it.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Bruce's face. She wouldn't have put it past him to deliver a glib answer to avoid upsetting her with the truth. But he keeps his eyes on Gordon, without glancing at her; better this way. More likely that he'll give an honest answer.
"No." He sounds calm, certain, resolute even if a bit sad. She feels the weight slip from her shoulders. "I have good memories of it and bad memories, I remember fun things and terrible things, but it was literally in another life. I'll probably keep getting into adventures from time to time, I still do, can't help it really, but it's... different. And I'm very grateful to John for taking over."
Blake looks touched to the core of his heart; but he is a smart guy, and has figured out that the best expression of gratitude under the circumstances is to reassure Bruce in the wisdom of his decision. "Can't blame you," he says, quietly. "I wouldn't have it any other way for now, but if it wasn't for my daytime job teaching the kids, it would be a hell of a lonely life. I don't know how you managed it."
Selina has nothing against an occasional sentimental display, but this is getting too maudlin for her liking. "If either of you need company, feel free to visit us in Lugano," she offers. Blake just smiles, but Gordon looks interested.
"I will once I retire, in a year or two," he declares. "You know I was reaady to resign before the uprising, I even wrote a speech telling the truth about Harvey Dent with my resignation as the last sentence. Official structures have a way of locking you in and keeping you prisoner, and I wasn't sure I could take any more of that." He shrugs. "In retrospect, though, I'm glad I didn't. This past year has been busy as hell, but probably more rewarding than the previous ten put together. Now I'm ready to retire for real, I just need to make sure that my deputy is ready to take over. She's a smart girl, and tough as steel, but there are things you have to learn on the job, and it's best to have someone older and hopefully wiser while you're learning them to stop you from making too many blunders. But I'm looking forward to seeing more of my kids."
"They both OK?" Selina asks.
Gordon's face lights up in a broad smile. "They're doing great. They are my best allies in working things out with Barbara, they keep calling me and insisting on the four of us spending time together. It's still tough, with the counselling and all," he scowls, "but it's worth it if we can get back together in the end."
"I hope you do," Bruce calls out to him.
"Yeah, you and me both," Gordon chuckles. "This young man," he tips his head at Blake, "is lucky to have all these troubles ahead of him, but I'll warn you right now, John, you have to spend time with a girl or else she'll up and leave."
"I have to find one first," Blake shoots back sulkily.
Ah, a sensitive subject. "Maybe you could use some help," Selina suggests. She can't play matchmaker for the life of her, but she can at least point Blake to a good mentor. Of sorts. "Not from us, but there's a young guy I know." She sees Bruce nod in recognition of her stratagem. "The nephew of Bruce's business partner, about three or four years your senior," she explains. "His problem is usually the opposite, having too many girls to choose from. No idea how he finds the time between being an aerospace researcher and an avid skier, but somehow he manages. He's been in Gotham since this February and is staying for the foreseeable future. I'll send you his phone number," she fishes out her phone, "and tell him to expect your call. If nothing else, you can always just go for a beer, he's a fun guy. And he holds a job at Wayne and knows who Bruce is - was - so maybe he can help you out when you need it."
"Thanks." This is the nicest smile Blake has given her yet.
By then it is 5 AM Lugano time and unlike Bruce, Selina lacks the ability to sleep anywhere at any time and is used to European hours. Leaving her husband in the company of crime-fighting heroes may not be the best idea, but it will spare her the embarrassment of falling asleep on the couch in Gordon's living room - and if Bruce's Turkish adventure is any indication, chaperoning him wouldn't help anyway.
"Sorry guys, I'm turning into a zombie here," she tells them, getting up and stretching. "I'll walk to Times Square, it's no more than half an hour from here," she adds, seeing Bruce fishing for the Corvette keys in his pocket. "I want to get some fresh air." She goes through the goodbyes routine with Gordon and Blake before a final stern look at her husband. "Don't stay too late. Jim has to be in the office by 8 am tomorrow, and remember, our meeting is at noon."
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