[ This is nothing new, but Bruce is in the news again.
You couldnāt throw a stone without hitting a news story about Bruce and his antics. Brucieās crashed another car again. Heās cut a check for a good cause and smiled into the camera like heās never had a problem in the world. Wayne Enterprises is opening another outreach program for the dregs of Gotham.
But thereās something different about this story. Bruceās face was no where to be seen. But it didnāt need to be. The headline is bold, letters thick across the page: BAT BRAND OF JUSTICE? And underneath the picture of a man held up by two of Gothamās finest, bloodied and bruised and on his chest, right under his collar bone, a brand puckered the skin. The Bat.
It was red and angry against his pale chest.
No one had to guess what that symbol meant.
It meant when the police walked you into prison, they were going to wheel you out in a body bag. It meant the Bat didnāt think you were a life worth saving.
Alfred didnāt like it. But that was okay, Bruce didnāt need him to. Still itās abrupt when he dropped the paper in front of him instead of his breakfast. Itās been two years, Master Bruce. When is it going to be enough?.
It wouldnāt be enough until Bruce was satisfied and so far, Bruce was not satisfied.
Life is a blur, but thereās another article detailing the death of an inmate. Another Bat brand losing his life in the yard. Bruce doesnāt react when he hears about it. But apparently Alfred had.
He doesnāt know when he reached out to Dick, but Bruce isnāt surprised to see him when he steps into the kitchen to pour his morning coffee. Morning. Itās three oāclock in the afternoon. ]
[ Bruce's downward spiral was literally impossible to ignore. Which, in itself, wasn't unusual, of course he was going to be in the spotlight, he's always been there, whether it's as the rich, handsome man with connections and charities and just enough mystery to keep the press constantly fascinated, or as the infamous Bat, dispensing justice where the police can't or won't. And the change as of late hasn't been especially subtle, anyone who bothers to glance at a paper or the evening news will catch stories about the brands. About what happened to the people who had them.
Dick just happens to be one of the only people who can read between those lines. It's been a long time, and they've never been more distant, but he knows Bruce, possibly better now than he ever did back then, whether or not he wanted that insight.
And he is the only one who's walked that exact path himself.
He did think that, for the most part, he'd managed to wrangle all of those feelings into something he could live with, all of the anger, the bitterness, the loss, the guiltā to shove it all into a box, not necessarily to ignore, but to put it to use. He'd never particularly wasted much time in wondering what it would feel like to see Bruce slip and veer off of that sheer edge he's been walking, between Bruce and Batman, between vigilance and vengeance. Now that it's happening right in front of him... he hates it.
It's even worse than watching him smile and shake hands with the city's elite as if his life is just perfect.
But do something about it? Like hell.
Until Alfred called. ]
You know why I'm here.
[ He's sitting at the bar with coffee too, at a glance he even looks as if he's relaxed, as if he belongs here, if not for a certain subtle tension in his face that only hints at how it feels to be in this house, across from the man he could have called his father. ]
[ His downward spiral had not started as a public spectacle. At first he had been careful. Subtle. The first one died a quiet death in the ER of Gotham General and they chalked it up to getting on the wrong side of one the many Gotham gangs. The ones that followed were found scattered across the low parts of Gotham. Near the docks and in the Bowery and Crime Alley. People the police chased for months. People who thought they had escaped the justice system. They didn't realize they had never escaped the Bat. Not until it was too late.
When it was quiet, when there was some plausible deniability, Alfred could stomach it. Because there was no real proof that Bruce had killed anyone. He could pretend that every time Bruce put on the suit, a little bit more of him disappeared into the dark. When the brand came, he couldn't stomach it anymore. Bruce had put himself in the spotlight and it stoked a new kind of fear in the people and some of them had to learn that lesson the hard way.
Alfred didn't know what Dick could do to make things better. If he could do anything at all. But there had been light in this house when Batman had a Robin. When Bruce had a son. And when Dick left, it had gone with him. Maybe he could bring some of it back. Maybe he could reach Bruce where Alfred had tried and failed.
But having him wouldn't upend Bruce's plans for the night. It would barely slow him down.
He sets his mug down on the bar, not too close so Bruce didn't have to encroach on Dick's personal space. His remark is ignored in favor of eying the newspaper, announcing another death in Gotham's prisons. An investigation would ensue. He folds it and sets it down and sips his coffee. ]
[ It wasn't the first time that Alfred called. They've been in contact, more or less, no matter how far Dick's strayed Alfred was always there, always calling and leaving messages just often enough to let him know that someone cared, that if he needed help he just had to accept it, he never asked for anything. Until this time. Dick had never heard his voice break down like that before, it told him everything he didn't already know about the state of things with Bruce, and how far they'd really fallen, how bad it really was.
He figured that Bruce would never admit to the fact that all this started when he left, or that things would have been different if he hadn't. He wasn't even admitting that he's on the verge of hitting rock bottom, when Batman becomes the villain, not just to the criminals but to the entire city. The irony is tangible, not at all sweet but bitter and cold, though among the many parallels there's a notable difference between the two of them. He's where he is because he chose it, and he knew what he was doing for every step he took after he left. He wouldn't have the luxury of blaming any regrets on a delusion.
Does Bruce see this? He doesn't think so. Not clearly.
He eyes Bruce, eyes the paper, and seems to take a measured silence in the wake of that decisive dismissal. Bruce is right about one thing, he's gone too far down this path for a voice of reason to get to him. If that would have worked then Alfred would have talked sense into him months ago. ]
I don't think you understand. Thisā [ he gestures to the paper that Bruce set aside so casually ] is going to stop. One way or another.
[ In some part of himself, Bruce knew this was coming. Alfred had been vocal about his displeasure and had tried everything he could think of to stop it. But not even a resignation threat had brought any change. If anything, it made Bruce dig the hole deeper.
Because what would be the point? The people he loved leave and they never come back. Alfred leaving would only have been another in a long line of them. Maybe he was meant to live this life alone. At least with this, he's doing something good for a change. Taking out the trash and making sure they can never hurt another person ever again.
It's a community service. Dick wouldn't be here if Alfred hadn't called him. That much he's sure of and it makes the idea that he could do anything to stop Bruce a hollow one. He scoffs, watching his prodigal son of the lip of his mug. ]
Are you going to stop me? [ He's not incredulous or surprised. Just resigned. Like this was always inevitable. ]
[ Dick wouldn't be here if Alfred hadn't called. The part that he had to grapple with was admitting, if just to himself, that it still wouldn't have been enough if, somewhere deep down, he didn't still love Bruce. Apparently nothing can completely burn that out of him. It's why he's here talking rather than approaching this in a more efficient, practical way that he's sharpened to a fine point in the years that they've been apart. Not like the method Bruce has resorted to, but not completely unlike it either.
There's no implied or implicit threat to be found in his body language, but Bruce knows that he can keep that sort of intent obscured to deprive opponents of the chance to anticipate his moves. That's what he was trained to do, after all.
He calmly sips his coffee, wondering when Bruce will come to the conclusion that violence is the only way to resolve this. If he hasn't already. He's not sure how he feels about the certainty that Bruce couldn't expect him to revert back to old habits with him, to try to reason with him and lead him back to sanity. The assumption that the Dick he used to know did die that day. ]
Apparently I'm the only one who can. [ Is it ironic or just the most predictable path? Maybe both, considering. ] That doesn't bother you?
[ Dick isn't alone in grappling with the feelings this situation is dragging up. Bruce could feel the resentment bubbling up inside of him. The incredulity that Dick would come back and think that would be enough to change things when his leaving had been the seismic shift. The earth shattering force that put them both on this violent trajectory.
Bruce isn't sure what Dick thought would happen here. Going back to the way they were is impossible. Forging something new seemed out of reach, when Dick didn't seem to want to be in the same room with him. His coming back only reminds Bruce how much he hated that he left and let years and years go by without a word.
His coming back reminds Bruce how much and how deeply he had loved him. And all those years apart hadn't done much to stifle it. It just makes him wish Dick had stayed away. So he wouldn't have to see him like this.
He doesn't feel threatened, but that doesn't mean much of anything. Dick is dangerous. Bruce pays attention to Bludhaven. ]
Isn't this what you asked for?
[ Maybe not like this, but it's a road leading to the same destination, isn't it? ]
[ This isn't what Dick wanted or expected it to be.
He probably should have seen that coming. It's Bruce, after all.
It shouldn't matter, that Bruce thinks he somehow wanted this, anything like this, but somehow it does, and it has him shaking his head, lips pressed into a frown, as if it leaves a literal bitter taste in his mouth. Of the many things he wanted, that he wished would happen, seeing Bruce brought down like this was never one of them. What he did ask for was seemingly impossible both then and now.
Being angry about it would be so much easier. And he is, it's just not the main thing that he's feeling right now, now that he's here in Bruce's kitchen again. ]
No, it's not.
[ He sets the coffee aside, leaning forward, eyes intent on Bruce's face. ]
This doesn't end the way you think it does. I'm not going to let that happen.
[ Dick's eyes are focused on him, Bruce doesn't have to look at him to know it. His life's been built on having eyes on him. Cameras shoved in his face. People wanting to shake his hand or ask him for a favor because their venture was the next Big Thing. So he knows when someone is looking. Even if he isn't.
He sips his coffee and stares at the newspaper still folded neatly between them. The man in the picture's face is creased, the brand peaking out from the fold. Dick could say this isn't what he asked for. Maybe the brand is a step too far. But it's in the spirit of the request. He wanted Bruce to do something. And he had. It had only shifted into something dark and ugly.
The kind of man he hadn't wanted to be. But this is who Gotham needs.
He finally looks at Dick and it feels like he's seeing him for the first time. He had never imagined they would ever be on opposing sides of the mission. But here they are, close enough to touch. Close enough to fight. ]
I think it's going to end exactly the way I mean for it to.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
reunions
You couldnāt throw a stone without hitting a news story about Bruce and his antics. Brucieās crashed another car again. Heās cut a check for a good cause and smiled into the camera like heās never had a problem in the world. Wayne Enterprises is opening another outreach program for the dregs of Gotham.
But thereās something different about this story. Bruceās face was no where to be seen. But it didnāt need to be. The headline is bold, letters thick across the page: BAT BRAND OF JUSTICE? And underneath the picture of a man held up by two of Gothamās finest, bloodied and bruised and on his chest, right under his collar bone, a brand puckered the skin. The Bat.
It was red and angry against his pale chest.
No one had to guess what that symbol meant.
It meant when the police walked you into prison, they were going to wheel you out in a body bag. It meant the Bat didnāt think you were a life worth saving.
Alfred didnāt like it. But that was okay, Bruce didnāt need him to. Still itās abrupt when he dropped the paper in front of him instead of his breakfast. Itās been two years, Master Bruce. When is it going to be enough?.
It wouldnāt be enough until Bruce was satisfied and so far, Bruce was not satisfied.
Life is a blur, but thereās another article detailing the death of an inmate. Another Bat brand losing his life in the yard. Bruce doesnāt react when he hears about it. But apparently Alfred had.
He doesnāt know when he reached out to Dick, but Bruce isnāt surprised to see him when he steps into the kitchen to pour his morning coffee. Morning. Itās three oāclock in the afternoon. ]
What are you doing here?
no subject
Dick just happens to be one of the only people who can read between those lines. It's been a long time, and they've never been more distant, but he knows Bruce, possibly better now than he ever did back then, whether or not he wanted that insight.
And he is the only one who's walked that exact path himself.
He did think that, for the most part, he'd managed to wrangle all of those feelings into something he could live with, all of the anger, the bitterness, the loss, the guiltā to shove it all into a box, not necessarily to ignore, but to put it to use. He'd never particularly wasted much time in wondering what it would feel like to see Bruce slip and veer off of that sheer edge he's been walking, between Bruce and Batman, between vigilance and vengeance. Now that it's happening right in front of him... he hates it.
It's even worse than watching him smile and shake hands with the city's elite as if his life is just perfect.
But do something about it? Like hell.
Until Alfred called. ]
You know why I'm here.
[ He's sitting at the bar with coffee too, at a glance he even looks as if he's relaxed, as if he belongs here, if not for a certain subtle tension in his face that only hints at how it feels to be in this house, across from the man he could have called his father. ]
no subject
When it was quiet, when there was some plausible deniability, Alfred could stomach it. Because there was no real proof that Bruce had killed anyone. He could pretend that every time Bruce put on the suit, a little bit more of him disappeared into the dark. When the brand came, he couldn't stomach it anymore. Bruce had put himself in the spotlight and it stoked a new kind of fear in the people and some of them had to learn that lesson the hard way.
Alfred didn't know what Dick could do to make things better. If he could do anything at all. But there had been light in this house when Batman had a Robin. When Bruce had a son. And when Dick left, it had gone with him. Maybe he could bring some of it back. Maybe he could reach Bruce where Alfred had tried and failed.
But having him wouldn't upend Bruce's plans for the night. It would barely slow him down.
He sets his mug down on the bar, not too close so Bruce didn't have to encroach on Dick's personal space. His remark is ignored in favor of eying the newspaper, announcing another death in Gotham's prisons. An investigation would ensue. He folds it and sets it down and sips his coffee. ]
I do. But it's not going to change anything.
no subject
He figured that Bruce would never admit to the fact that all this started when he left, or that things would have been different if he hadn't. He wasn't even admitting that he's on the verge of hitting rock bottom, when Batman becomes the villain, not just to the criminals but to the entire city. The irony is tangible, not at all sweet but bitter and cold, though among the many parallels there's a notable difference between the two of them. He's where he is because he chose it, and he knew what he was doing for every step he took after he left. He wouldn't have the luxury of blaming any regrets on a delusion.
Does Bruce see this? He doesn't think so. Not clearly.
He eyes Bruce, eyes the paper, and seems to take a measured silence in the wake of that decisive dismissal. Bruce is right about one thing, he's gone too far down this path for a voice of reason to get to him. If that would have worked then Alfred would have talked sense into him months ago. ]
I don't think you understand. Thisā [ he gestures to the paper that Bruce set aside so casually ] is going to stop. One way or another.
no subject
Because what would be the point? The people he loved leave and they never come back. Alfred leaving would only have been another in a long line of them. Maybe he was meant to live this life alone. At least with this, he's doing something good for a change. Taking out the trash and making sure they can never hurt another person ever again.
It's a community service. Dick wouldn't be here if Alfred hadn't called him. That much he's sure of and it makes the idea that he could do anything to stop Bruce a hollow one. He scoffs, watching his prodigal son of the lip of his mug. ]
Are you going to stop me? [ He's not incredulous or surprised. Just resigned. Like this was always inevitable. ]
no subject
There's no implied or implicit threat to be found in his body language, but Bruce knows that he can keep that sort of intent obscured to deprive opponents of the chance to anticipate his moves. That's what he was trained to do, after all.
He calmly sips his coffee, wondering when Bruce will come to the conclusion that violence is the only way to resolve this. If he hasn't already. He's not sure how he feels about the certainty that Bruce couldn't expect him to revert back to old habits with him, to try to reason with him and lead him back to sanity. The assumption that the Dick he used to know did die that day. ]
Apparently I'm the only one who can. [ Is it ironic or just the most predictable path? Maybe both, considering. ] That doesn't bother you?
[ It should, for a lot of reasons. ]
no subject
Bruce isn't sure what Dick thought would happen here. Going back to the way they were is impossible. Forging something new seemed out of reach, when Dick didn't seem to want to be in the same room with him. His coming back only reminds Bruce how much he hated that he left and let years and years go by without a word.
His coming back reminds Bruce how much and how deeply he had loved him. And all those years apart hadn't done much to stifle it. It just makes him wish Dick had stayed away. So he wouldn't have to see him like this.
He doesn't feel threatened, but that doesn't mean much of anything. Dick is dangerous. Bruce pays attention to Bludhaven. ]
Isn't this what you asked for?
[ Maybe not like this, but it's a road leading to the same destination, isn't it? ]
no subject
He probably should have seen that coming. It's Bruce, after all.
It shouldn't matter, that Bruce thinks he somehow wanted this, anything like this, but somehow it does, and it has him shaking his head, lips pressed into a frown, as if it leaves a literal bitter taste in his mouth. Of the many things he wanted, that he wished would happen, seeing Bruce brought down like this was never one of them. What he did ask for was seemingly impossible both then and now.
Being angry about it would be so much easier. And he is, it's just not the main thing that he's feeling right now, now that he's here in Bruce's kitchen again. ]
No, it's not.
[ He sets the coffee aside, leaning forward, eyes intent on Bruce's face. ]
This doesn't end the way you think it does. I'm not going to let that happen.
no subject
He sips his coffee and stares at the newspaper still folded neatly between them. The man in the picture's face is creased, the brand peaking out from the fold. Dick could say this isn't what he asked for. Maybe the brand is a step too far. But it's in the spirit of the request. He wanted Bruce to do something. And he had. It had only shifted into something dark and ugly.
The kind of man he hadn't wanted to be. But this is who Gotham needs.
He finally looks at Dick and it feels like he's seeing him for the first time. He had never imagined they would ever be on opposing sides of the mission. But here they are, close enough to touch. Close enough to fight. ]
I think it's going to end exactly the way I mean for it to.
[ He sets his mug down and moves to get up. ]
Go home, Dick. I'm sorry Alfred wasted your time.