Chapter Text
June 23rd, 1997
The scent of Gotham smog does little to refresh him from the stale, recycled air of the airplane cabin. After traveling across the entire Pacific and continental United States, Bruce would have preferred to step out to the fresh, salty spray of some small seaside airstrip or the thin yet crisp air of a mountain, but he can at least say that Gotham’s smoke and tar brings a sense of homely familiarity. It sits in his lungs, denser than any air has the right to be, and makes itself comfortable—a lingering reminder that this is his home once again for the foreseeable future.
“Mr. Wayne, are you alright? Would you like any refreshments?”
Amongst the clamor awaiting him, one voice stands out. Bruce walks down the airstairs of the plane, making eye-contact with the woman below carrying a tray in hand. She’s pretty, with a kind face and a smile that could be on make-up advertisements, but she’s also not someone that he has time to dwell on. He gives a noncommittal nod of acknowledgement, grabs some random snack, then leaves her behind as he tucks the packaged peanuts into his suit jacket.
“Mr. Wayne, do you have anything in mind for your big return home?”
A reporter sticks their microphone in his face, stretching as far as they can over the hastily-placed railing without toppling over. He leans his head away, shrugging off their question as he continues walking down the tarmac. He resists the urge to scowl and skirt away from the attention. It’s been too long since he’s been in the public eye. He shouldn’t be as unnerved as he is.
“Mr. Wayne, what made you return to Gotham after ten years?”
Another microphone, though this one at least respects his personal space. He obliges with a non-answer and waves, saying something bland about it being inevitable. He’s too far away from the microphone for them to get a good sound bite of it. The best they’ll have is a photo of his back for the tabloids.
At the end of the procession is one of his father’s old cars, a black Aston Martin with tinted windows. A familiar, if not slightly more aged, man stands beside it.
“It is good to see you again, Master Bruce,” Alfred greets. Despite all the time since they’d last spoken, his tone is even, if light. It’s as if Bruce has only been away for a few weeks, rather than years.
Bruce nods back with similar nonchalance. “Likewise.”
“Shall we be off, sir?” Alfred poses it like it’s a question, but even through his carefully-regulated tone, Bruce can hear that it’s more of a suggestion. There isn’t anything worth sticking around for, at least.
“Yes, that would be ideal.”
He steps into the back of the car as Alfred holds the door open, then watches as the first greetings from Gotham fade behind dark glass and motion blur. It isn’t long before they’re out of sight entirely, obscured by the dark and looming architecture that makes up his home town’s heart.
“You will find that not much has changed in your absence, sir,” Alfred says after several minutes of silence. He sends a glance at Bruce through the rearview mirror. “Aside from some minor repairs, that is.”
“Thank you, Alfred. I hope it hasn’t been too much trouble.”
Bruce's eyes trace over the buildings, taking in the similarities and differences to the Gotham he once knew as silence once again lapses. Most of the bigger buildings, owned by large corporations or dedicated to a singular cause such as the GCPD or mayor's office, haven't changed much. Some of the stone is darker in color and a few logos have transformed, but overall, it fits his memory. The smaller buildings, however, the little corner stores and diners, look almost entirely different. He sees a few Mom and Pop stores that seem familiar, but overall, beneath the epidermis of steel skyscrapers and grand white marble, is an ecosystem that has outgrown him. It's nothing he didn't expect in his decade of absence, but it still feels alienating to see it himself. This is his city, his blood and oath, and yet, he doesn't know it.
“Not at all.”
He’ll get to know it soon enough. He’s sure of that.
“I’m glad.”
-0-
June 26th, 1997
The memorial service for his parents is small this year.
Alfred informs Bruce that last year, on the fifteenth anniversary, the celebration was much bigger. He mentions that the entire city had something good to say about his father’s work and the positive impact Wayne Enterprises has had on Gotham. This year, Bruce observes the memorial is contained to mostly family and close associates of his parents’ with a passing mention in the Gotham Gazette.
Aunt Agatha gives Bruce a warm hug and smile, talking more about how grown he is and how he looks like his father than about her own brother that she came to mourn. Bruce doesn’t correct her; he knows where her kindness and love lies. Leslie Thompkins gives Bruce more space, saying that she’s glad to see him before giving most of her words to praising his father and mother’s legacy. Uncle Nathan doesn’t say a single word, staring at his sister’s grave quietly as he smokes the same type of cigar he has for every funeral anniversary; Bruce doesn’t bother him.
After he’s made sure to check on everyone, he goes inside and waits until the service is over. Cars eventually drive by, one after the other, like ants in a line before they disappear into the Bristol greenery. Alfred tells Bruce everyone’s goodbyes over a light dinner that Bruce doesn’t eat. With the oppressive June heat and the cool knot around his throat, he knows it will only make him feel sick.
Long after the sun has set, Bruce gathers the courage to go outside once more and sits at the foot of his parents’ graves.
He apologizes for leaving for so long. He promises that he hasn’t forgotten his oath. He swears that he will make things right once more.
The graves, of course, have nothing to say in return.
-0-
December 25th, 1999
It’s the first time Helena’s been to a party in Gotham since her parents’ murder.
The air inside Junior Galante’s home is warm and stuffy, and the dress she’s been forced into squeezes tightly against her ribs. It’s a child’s dress, bought in a rush and meant to be disposed of as soon as the party is over, with no allowance for the chest and ugly, gaudy embellishments. The food is fine but insubstantial, a selection of arancini and olives and fine wines to be paired with figs and rosemary grissini, and the panettone she’d had earlier sits like a dense, chocolatey lump in her stomach.
She doesn’t want to be back in the United States. She didn’t even want to go to Switzerland. She liked Sicily, with its rolling hills and bright blue skies and warm sun. Even in winter, it’s less miserable than Gotham’s finest day—and Christmas, no matter how joyful, makes Gotham look just as dark and horrible as she remembers.
She knows how much sin lurks in its corners, how each and every one of the hands in this room are stained with blood.
No one bothers talking to her, not really. Uncle Tomaso introduces her to everyone and they all say hello back, but they don't linger. She prefers it that way. She stands by the Christmas tree and watches, a flute of sparkling fruit juice in one hand and a plate of food she won’t eat in the other. Time crawls by.
She wouldn’t have minded if it was just a Christmas party. Even if she was forced into a dress for it, at least she could have pretended to have fun, pretend to be excited for the new century they were entering. 2000 was a large number, and though it was only one digit away from 1999, the difference between the two felt inexplicitly greater than that.
Some predicted that “2000” would mark the return of Christ. Two thousand years to herald his second coming. Helena didn’t agree with them—why would Christ want to save a world as disgusting as this? Others predicted it would be the end of the world, both in a technological and literal sense. Helena didn’t agree with them either, but ending this world at least made more sense than saving it. The smug pride, the arrogance and the ego of everyone present, has her fighting the entire evening to keep a dark glare from taking over her face. They act as if they’re immortal, as if nothing can scare them. She hopes that if the world really does end, their own demise is slow, brutal, and painful.
Helena wants to see them scared. She wants to see them beg for mercy. She wants the Heavenly Father to deny it.
Like an answer to her silent prayers, glass shatters and a demon flies in.
It’s terrifying. It’s beautiful.
Hell breaks loose as the demon—a bat the size of a man—sends the entire party into a state of panicked, desperate mania. Screams fill the air and smug smirks are replaced by whimpering cries for help. Food and decorations fall to the floor in a cacophony of clattering metal and shattering ice. Rats scramble away from their exterminator, frantic to find refuge that does not exist.
The demon is merciless and thorough in his punishment. Not a single stone goes unturned. Every one of them are served their just desserts.
Then, the demon makes his way to her.
He looms over Helena, a dark creature of vengeance stained with blood and glittering with glass. She feels the heat of his breath on her face and feels the beating of her heart in her chest. She feels God casting His judgment on her.
She’s spared.
The demon disappears into the night, and Helena is left to stand in a room that has had all of the suffocating heat sucked out of it. The winter storm outside screams and celebrates as it blows in through the hole made in the window. The chill pricks her skin, but warmth blooms inside her heart.
It takes her a moment to recognize the feeling inside her chest: hope. She allows herself to breathe, dress be damned. The air in Gotham has never tasted so sweet.
She has finally been set free.
-0-
December 20th, 1990
Talia knew this day was going to come eventually.
It was inevitable that he would want to move on, see other things. He had made his intention to do just that very clear from their first meeting, in fact. Days, wonderful days and weeks and months, had passed with him by her side, training and sparring with each sunrise and sunset until both of them were too sore to think of standing.
But she’s scared to think that today is the day she loses her true love.
The morning starts like any other; they meet for breakfast, sitting across from each other in comfortable silence as they cut into their meals. The food selection is diverse and always high in necessary nutrients, and Talia makes sure to eat enough even if her stomach rebels at the thought. She needs it, especially in the coming weeks. She can’t afford to be selfish, not now, even when her heart yearns for it.
Bruce, on the other hand, doesn’t eat very much. It’s obvious he’s distracted, likely with the same looming thought that occupies almost all of the space in Talia’s own mind.
In the time she’s come to know Bruce, he’s always been sharp, intelligent, and perceptive. What he lacks in conversational grace he makes up for in skill and eagerness to learn, and he always finds ways to surprise her. He’s handsome and hopelessly charming when he chooses to be, and whenever she catches those rare moments of happiness from him, she feels luckier than anyone else in the world.
Seeing him like this only makes her feel worse.
“Where are you going next?”
She ignores the lump in her throat as she slices into her grapefruit, careful not to rupture any pips so that juice will not fly onto her clothes. It’s an easy task, normally, but her nerves are not what they should be. She feels as if she is struggling to hold the knife still at all.
“Japan.”
Bruce is none the wiser. He’s too distracted as well.
A list of a dozen different possible teachers based in Japan instantly pops into her mind. She envies them and the time they will have with Bruce. She pities them for having to weather his tenacity.
“When are you leaving?”
She already knows the answer. She hopes she’s wrong.
“Noon.”
Of course, she isn’t.
They finish their breakfast in peace, then move to a set of warm-ups and stretches before going through a few basic sets. Unlike their usual spars, there is no fierce fire behind these blows, and no care to win or lose. They both know it’s only a formality; something familiar to aid the passage of time before their inevitable goodbye. But when Bruce wins, just like he did for the first time just over a month ago, she feels her breath catch and the pulse of his heart against her chest.
This is her first student, and yet she can’t help but feel like he is already one of the best she will ever train.
“We’ll see each other again,” he promises.
“Of course,” she replies.
She kisses him, and for a moment, allows herself to forget about the inevitable heartbreak on the horizon. He kisses her back, and she only wonders if he feels the same. He must, if his eyes speak as loudly as they did during breakfast.
“I wish you the best, Beloved.”
He looks at her.
“Thank you, Talia. Likewise.”
Words have never been his strong suit, but his eyes say more for him than any poet could. She sees the authenticity and kindness and love, and it cripples her. She cannot bear looking at him for any longer, lest she lose her composure entirely.
Talia had news to tell him, but it is something that would destroy them both if unleashed now. Bruce is not a force meant to be contained, and attempting to do so would be the harshest cruelty. She loves him too much to do such a thing.
She bids him farewell, and watches Bruce slowly fade into the horizon, pressing her hand to her abdomen as soon as he’s too far to see her clearly anymore.
<You’ll meet him too, my child. One day. I promise that as well.>