FIC: Revenge is a kiss (AU, PG-13)
TITLE: Revenge is a kiss
AUTHOR: Demon Faith
CATEGORY: AU, Angst
CHARACTERS: Dick, Bruce
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: 2,547
SUMMARY: It's a perfect night for revenge.
NOTES: I was listening to Tina Turner's GoldenEye, when it struck my warped little mind that it suited Dick quite nicely, with a little tweaking of the universe. Here's the result.
Art by skitty_kat and coppercowries - many thanks and happy dances! You can find both pieces at the end, because I wouldn't want to spoil it for you. :)
The moon winked at her from the water and she gazed at her reflection amongst the stars, idly running her fingers through the long dark hair caressing her shoulders. It didn't surprise her anymore - the soft features and the full breasts restrained by a beautiful gown, tapered at the waist and flowing to the floor. She was stunning and she knew it. He would never be able to resist.
"Another drink, madam?"
She smiled gently and took the glass of champagne with gloved hand, sipping it delicately and scanning the crowd with affected disinterest. Her eyes caught his face and held the look for a moment, enough for him to register and look up, before carrying on their dispassionate path.
Walking away from the pool, she headed for the buffet table, greeting various people she'd been introduced to earlier in the day. Attaching herself to Romeo Karr had been a sound move, conversing at the gallery opening had enticed him in and the invite to his party had been hers within minutes. One could always bet on a middle-aged bachelor to furnish his house with gorgeous young women and she fitted the bill nicely. The game was almost too easy.
She leaned over the table and her hand hovered over the plates. She felt his presence at her back and resisted the urge to turn, feigning interest in the vol-au-vents. Heavy hands secured her waist but she refused to startle and turned her head gracefully. Bruce leered at her.
"I don't believe we've met," he said, grin spreading his face and she ducked her head, hoping a blush was creeping up her neck. She knew how to play coy, had practiced in every cocktail bar in the city, perfecting the lure.
She held out a hand. "Mary Quinn."
"Bruce Wayne," he said, with a wink - quite the playboy, the charmer, the man about town. She had seen it a hundred times before, but this time it was hers and she couldn't quite suppress the flutter in her stomach. Yet this was no time for distractions and she allowed herself to be led away from the table and seated, whilst he promised to return with "something sweet". Strawberries for the champagne, no doubt - that would be perfect.
Watching eyes were already noting her presence at Bruce's table, knew she was the chosen one for the night and she secretly revelled in it, no longer watching from a window or standing in a corner, attempting to disappear in a mist of jealousy. This was the moment she had waited years for and though it wasn't the highlight of her evening, it was certainly a delightful means to an end.
"So, Mary, tell me about you."
Rolling a strawberry between her fingers, she began. "There's not much to tell really. I moved here from New York a few months ago - bored of it, I guess." She closed her mouth over the strawberry and bit; Bruce watched. "My uncle said Gotham would make a woman of me." Leaning forward, she gave a wide smile. "What do you think?"
"It seems to be doing an excellent job so far," he said, one hundred watt smile threatening to melt her. No, this was all false. He was smiling for Mary, just Mary. If Bruce knew the truth…
The band started playing and Bruce turned, frowning at the noise. Romeo loved brass and she had persuaded him it would be perfect for the occasion. A glance at her watch told her they had come in right on cue.
Bruce turned back to her, forehead still marred by the frown, and leaned in close. "Perhaps we should find somewhere…quieter?"
Another blush and she nodded, taking his proffered hand and following him under the patio and into the shadows of the hallway. There he paused and with a smile, turned her into his arms, kissing her, devouring her, possessing.
In that moment, the charade fell away and it was Dick Grayson who moaned softly into Bruce's mouth.
Then he held her and started to dance across the darkened room, some half-remembered steps thrown together to the rhythm of the brass and Mary jolted back to existence, recalling the steps she'd practiced in front of the mirror and in Romeo's arms at the opening. It was hard to forget how to lead.
She made a show of catching her breath as Bruce led her on, through the front door and towards the valet, who hurried away to fetch the car. He stole a quick kiss, but she was ready this time and Mary smiled against his lips.
"Are you always so forward, Mr Wayne?"
"Bruce, please," he said, rich voice against her ear and the shiver was entirely natural.
Escorted to the passenger door, she slipped inside and carefully tucked her dress around her ankles before Bruce shut the door. Arranging herself in the car took a moment, but she was fully composed by the time Bruce opened his door.
The drive was longer than she'd anticipated. Of course, the Manor was far out of town but she had reckoned with the pace of the Bat- no, this was no time for dwelling on that. This was a very different journey and Bruce took his time, playing something classical - Handel, she thought, though she could not quite name the piece.
It hadn't changed at all, and she was momentarily caught up in the house, in the memory of the building. The car coasted gently to a stop and she waited, still slightly transfixed, as he opened her door.
"Welcome to my humble abode," he said, smiling again, and she realised how much she missed that smile, so rarely seen, but now lavishly bestowed upon Mary. This was no time for nostalgia. She had to keep a cool head and complete her task. Her seduction was almost complete.
She tried to forget her way through the familiar rooms, as he took her hand and sat her carefully in the drawing room. Her touch lingered on the fabric, the imprint of stains unseen - spilled milk, chocolate smear, drops of blood - pushing against her gloves, burying deep beneath the skin.
"Some wine, Mary?"
The fire smouldered in the grate and haloed Bruce briefly before he flicked on the lamp and broke the spell. She took the glass with outstretched hand, inhaling the rich heady scent. Alcohol was still new but she was adapting, growing. She had waited too long for this to go wrong now.
Bruce's pager went off.
No, no, no - he could not get called away, not when she was this close. He smiled and withdrew the slim case from his pocket.
"Excuse me - my employees have no sense of timing."
She smiled politely and sat back in the chair, watching him walk to the door and listening for his footsteps as he crossed the hall and entered the den. The moving wall was practically silent, but the soft whoosh of air was intimately familiar to her.
Time to move.
Wine left untasted, she carefully removed her shoes and free from the tell-tale click, she padded softly across the hall, resisting a flip, and moved into the den. She moved the hands of the clock without thought - still ingrained deep within after all this time - and the wall slid aside.
He'd know the wall had been opened, but it would be assumed to be Alfred. He'd be expecting Alfred. She rolled up her dress and withdrew her pistol from the discrete thigh holster, before settling her appearance once more.
The Cave was silent, except for the occasional sounds of typing. No emergency, no League summons - they were alone for the evening. She descended the stairs carefully, watching as his form came into view, a fine figure against the backdrop of billionaire's indulgence. He was beautiful. It was such a pity it had come to this.
"Alfred, see to my guest please."
She said nothing but raised the pistol to shoulder height, waiting. He turned.
The look of shock was priceless and she allowed herself a smile before pulling the trigger.
He stumbled backwards, staring at his shoulder and, with trembling fingers, he removed the small dart before collapsing against the keyboard. The screen darkened.
Hurrying forward, she put the Cave into lockdown and moved Bruce away from console, regretting the loss of upper body strength required to maintain Mary. In her last act, she manhandled him onto the examination table and used the restraints they kept for moments of madness, temporary insanity. That seemed strangely appropriate now.
Then, as dark hair and jewellery fell to the floor, followed by dress, padding, corset, Dick emerged from hibernation and headed to the shower, washing Mary and Bruce from his skin, before dressing in the sweats he knew he'd find in the locker. Bruce had always been a creature of habit.
He was stirring and Dick moved over, leaning down so that he was all Bruce could see as he woke. As he arose from the blur, Dick watched his eyes focus and then his whole body went rigid, still as death. Dick smiled.
"Dick…" was the soft gasp and the man looked like he'd seen a ghost. Dick would have laughed if he hadn't been carefully filing the experience away in his memory, drinking in the sight of Bruce's final moments.
"You thought I was dead, didn't you, Bruce?" He moved back, raising the table by remote and watching Bruce's eyes follow him as he paced. He was always restless now. "Thought your defective little bird was gone, didn't you? Well, you were wrong."
A small frown then and Bruce shook his head as if to clear it. "Dick, what-"
"Oh, don't play coy, Bruce. The games of the evening are over. Mary's gone and we're left all alone, the master and his disposable boy. Isn't that what I am, Bruce?"
"You…you were Mary." The voice was dull, emotionless, and Dick wondered what he was thinking. That he had kissed his sidekick, ward, that disposable boy, and inside, he was retching, disgusted. The Bat's mask was in place, so he'd never know for sure.
"We both fell for each other's tricks, Bruce. Perhaps that makes us equal. However, you failed to kill me and here I am, ready to kill you, to finish this. It's what I'm owed."
He could see the muscles of Bruce's jaw clench and wondered what he'd done to elicit that reaction. The years of absence had made the Bat harder to read but why did he care? He was here to kill, not explain himself. Then, why did he feel compelled to do so? The surety of the months, years of preparation was escaping him and he forced himself to concentrate.
"I thought…I thought you were dead," he said softly, and Dick wondered why he felt the need to say that, when it was obvious and how did that help him? Confirming his plan was to kill? How would this spare his life?
"And I thought…." A hollow laugh then, a laugh worthy of Arkham, and he bit it back, hid his grief. "I thought you'd come for me. How naïve I was. Waiting for my hero to rescue me. But you never came, did you? You left me there to rot!"
Turning away, he struggled to compose himself. This was a night for Bruce to suffer pain, not to relive his own. Breathe, Grayson, just breathe.
"I tried. God, Dick, I tried!"
He was crying. He wasn't meant to cry. Bruce never cried. He'd expected stoicism, perhaps a gasp as the knife slid deep, but not…this. It was an impressive act.
"Drop it, Bruce. Batman doesn't cry." He leaned in close, nose to nose with the man, staring into his eyes and meeting…pain. "You locked me away for three years, tortured me, broke me. But I just refused to die." He watched Bruce look away and smiled thinly. "And, in the end, someone came for me. But it wasn't you. And it was never going to be you, was it?"
His eyes snapped back to his and his lips formed one word. "Who…?"
Dick pulled back then, resuming his pacing. "His name is Slade. He brought me to safety, made me well, made me strong. He gave me work, and he gave me a…home." He made me feel loved.
"Dick…" his voice was tight, strained. "Slade cannot…be trusted. He's an assassin."
Laughter filled the Cave, echoing into the shadow places, reflecting his hurt and driving him on.
"Oh, Bruce, now who's the naïve one? I know Slade's an assassin, and I gladly followed him. Hell knows I had enough anger. You gave me that. You made me into everything you hate."
The cruel twist of Bruce's mouth and the darkening of his eyes should've been satisfying to him but they left him cold, distant. He had been trained by two masters of their art and right now, he could tell that something was wrong.
"Dick…please…you have to know I'd never leave you…"
The bitter taste in his mouth grew and he felt like he wanted to vomit, but he held his nerve. Was this yet another trick?
"The Batman doesn't beg," he spat, turning away. He refused to face this picture of pity. It always made the kill so much harder.
"I…I deserve your anger. I should have tried harder, I should have found you. Slade succeeded where I failed."
And there it was. Why was he maintaining this act? Why bother now when all was lost? Dick turned back to him, confused and livid.
"You orchestrated it! You planned every detail! You wanted me out of the way, the little bird in the way of the mission, and this was your only option, was it, Bruce? Play the grief card while I suffered under your minions' hands! You sicken me."
Silence then, and that strange look in his eyes, the one he couldn't quite read, and he tried hard to remember, to recall what it meant, but it continued to escape him.
"Dick…"
That was it, that was all he had to offer in his defence. How pathetic.
Then, slowly, as he continued to stare and the look soaked through his defences and touched at that small, buried part of him that was still human, it dawned on him what that look meant.
It spoke of nights of danger, a dodged bullet, bruises, and then ointment, bandages, being carried to bed and tucked in tight. It told of evenings by the fire, hot chocolate and whispered conversation, mallow and crackers. Those eyes revealed a tale of loss, grief, mourning and yet hope, the desperation that somewhere, somehow, he lived on. They screamed and pleaded and opened the jagged tear in his heart, the wound gaping and raw. It meant love.
And Dick backed away, shaking his head, head refusing to believe what he knew in his heart to be true. He had never been cast aside. He could not have been abandoned. Everything he'd based his vengeance on was a lie. He had…nothing.
He couldn't stay. He couldn't breathe. Running, dying, he fled up the stairs, away, away.
There was nothing left. Nothing. He had lived a lie.
Where now, Grayson? Where now?
Art by skitty_kat
Art by coppercowries
AUTHOR: Demon Faith
CATEGORY: AU, Angst
CHARACTERS: Dick, Bruce
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: 2,547
SUMMARY: It's a perfect night for revenge.
NOTES: I was listening to Tina Turner's GoldenEye, when it struck my warped little mind that it suited Dick quite nicely, with a little tweaking of the universe. Here's the result.
Art by skitty_kat and coppercowries - many thanks and happy dances! You can find both pieces at the end, because I wouldn't want to spoil it for you. :)
The moon winked at her from the water and she gazed at her reflection amongst the stars, idly running her fingers through the long dark hair caressing her shoulders. It didn't surprise her anymore - the soft features and the full breasts restrained by a beautiful gown, tapered at the waist and flowing to the floor. She was stunning and she knew it. He would never be able to resist.
"Another drink, madam?"
She smiled gently and took the glass of champagne with gloved hand, sipping it delicately and scanning the crowd with affected disinterest. Her eyes caught his face and held the look for a moment, enough for him to register and look up, before carrying on their dispassionate path.
Walking away from the pool, she headed for the buffet table, greeting various people she'd been introduced to earlier in the day. Attaching herself to Romeo Karr had been a sound move, conversing at the gallery opening had enticed him in and the invite to his party had been hers within minutes. One could always bet on a middle-aged bachelor to furnish his house with gorgeous young women and she fitted the bill nicely. The game was almost too easy.
She leaned over the table and her hand hovered over the plates. She felt his presence at her back and resisted the urge to turn, feigning interest in the vol-au-vents. Heavy hands secured her waist but she refused to startle and turned her head gracefully. Bruce leered at her.
"I don't believe we've met," he said, grin spreading his face and she ducked her head, hoping a blush was creeping up her neck. She knew how to play coy, had practiced in every cocktail bar in the city, perfecting the lure.
She held out a hand. "Mary Quinn."
"Bruce Wayne," he said, with a wink - quite the playboy, the charmer, the man about town. She had seen it a hundred times before, but this time it was hers and she couldn't quite suppress the flutter in her stomach. Yet this was no time for distractions and she allowed herself to be led away from the table and seated, whilst he promised to return with "something sweet". Strawberries for the champagne, no doubt - that would be perfect.
Watching eyes were already noting her presence at Bruce's table, knew she was the chosen one for the night and she secretly revelled in it, no longer watching from a window or standing in a corner, attempting to disappear in a mist of jealousy. This was the moment she had waited years for and though it wasn't the highlight of her evening, it was certainly a delightful means to an end.
"So, Mary, tell me about you."
Rolling a strawberry between her fingers, she began. "There's not much to tell really. I moved here from New York a few months ago - bored of it, I guess." She closed her mouth over the strawberry and bit; Bruce watched. "My uncle said Gotham would make a woman of me." Leaning forward, she gave a wide smile. "What do you think?"
"It seems to be doing an excellent job so far," he said, one hundred watt smile threatening to melt her. No, this was all false. He was smiling for Mary, just Mary. If Bruce knew the truth…
The band started playing and Bruce turned, frowning at the noise. Romeo loved brass and she had persuaded him it would be perfect for the occasion. A glance at her watch told her they had come in right on cue.
Bruce turned back to her, forehead still marred by the frown, and leaned in close. "Perhaps we should find somewhere…quieter?"
Another blush and she nodded, taking his proffered hand and following him under the patio and into the shadows of the hallway. There he paused and with a smile, turned her into his arms, kissing her, devouring her, possessing.
In that moment, the charade fell away and it was Dick Grayson who moaned softly into Bruce's mouth.
Then he held her and started to dance across the darkened room, some half-remembered steps thrown together to the rhythm of the brass and Mary jolted back to existence, recalling the steps she'd practiced in front of the mirror and in Romeo's arms at the opening. It was hard to forget how to lead.
She made a show of catching her breath as Bruce led her on, through the front door and towards the valet, who hurried away to fetch the car. He stole a quick kiss, but she was ready this time and Mary smiled against his lips.
"Are you always so forward, Mr Wayne?"
"Bruce, please," he said, rich voice against her ear and the shiver was entirely natural.
Escorted to the passenger door, she slipped inside and carefully tucked her dress around her ankles before Bruce shut the door. Arranging herself in the car took a moment, but she was fully composed by the time Bruce opened his door.
The drive was longer than she'd anticipated. Of course, the Manor was far out of town but she had reckoned with the pace of the Bat- no, this was no time for dwelling on that. This was a very different journey and Bruce took his time, playing something classical - Handel, she thought, though she could not quite name the piece.
It hadn't changed at all, and she was momentarily caught up in the house, in the memory of the building. The car coasted gently to a stop and she waited, still slightly transfixed, as he opened her door.
"Welcome to my humble abode," he said, smiling again, and she realised how much she missed that smile, so rarely seen, but now lavishly bestowed upon Mary. This was no time for nostalgia. She had to keep a cool head and complete her task. Her seduction was almost complete.
She tried to forget her way through the familiar rooms, as he took her hand and sat her carefully in the drawing room. Her touch lingered on the fabric, the imprint of stains unseen - spilled milk, chocolate smear, drops of blood - pushing against her gloves, burying deep beneath the skin.
"Some wine, Mary?"
The fire smouldered in the grate and haloed Bruce briefly before he flicked on the lamp and broke the spell. She took the glass with outstretched hand, inhaling the rich heady scent. Alcohol was still new but she was adapting, growing. She had waited too long for this to go wrong now.
Bruce's pager went off.
No, no, no - he could not get called away, not when she was this close. He smiled and withdrew the slim case from his pocket.
"Excuse me - my employees have no sense of timing."
She smiled politely and sat back in the chair, watching him walk to the door and listening for his footsteps as he crossed the hall and entered the den. The moving wall was practically silent, but the soft whoosh of air was intimately familiar to her.
Time to move.
Wine left untasted, she carefully removed her shoes and free from the tell-tale click, she padded softly across the hall, resisting a flip, and moved into the den. She moved the hands of the clock without thought - still ingrained deep within after all this time - and the wall slid aside.
He'd know the wall had been opened, but it would be assumed to be Alfred. He'd be expecting Alfred. She rolled up her dress and withdrew her pistol from the discrete thigh holster, before settling her appearance once more.
The Cave was silent, except for the occasional sounds of typing. No emergency, no League summons - they were alone for the evening. She descended the stairs carefully, watching as his form came into view, a fine figure against the backdrop of billionaire's indulgence. He was beautiful. It was such a pity it had come to this.
"Alfred, see to my guest please."
She said nothing but raised the pistol to shoulder height, waiting. He turned.
The look of shock was priceless and she allowed herself a smile before pulling the trigger.
He stumbled backwards, staring at his shoulder and, with trembling fingers, he removed the small dart before collapsing against the keyboard. The screen darkened.
Hurrying forward, she put the Cave into lockdown and moved Bruce away from console, regretting the loss of upper body strength required to maintain Mary. In her last act, she manhandled him onto the examination table and used the restraints they kept for moments of madness, temporary insanity. That seemed strangely appropriate now.
Then, as dark hair and jewellery fell to the floor, followed by dress, padding, corset, Dick emerged from hibernation and headed to the shower, washing Mary and Bruce from his skin, before dressing in the sweats he knew he'd find in the locker. Bruce had always been a creature of habit.
He was stirring and Dick moved over, leaning down so that he was all Bruce could see as he woke. As he arose from the blur, Dick watched his eyes focus and then his whole body went rigid, still as death. Dick smiled.
"Dick…" was the soft gasp and the man looked like he'd seen a ghost. Dick would have laughed if he hadn't been carefully filing the experience away in his memory, drinking in the sight of Bruce's final moments.
"You thought I was dead, didn't you, Bruce?" He moved back, raising the table by remote and watching Bruce's eyes follow him as he paced. He was always restless now. "Thought your defective little bird was gone, didn't you? Well, you were wrong."
A small frown then and Bruce shook his head as if to clear it. "Dick, what-"
"Oh, don't play coy, Bruce. The games of the evening are over. Mary's gone and we're left all alone, the master and his disposable boy. Isn't that what I am, Bruce?"
"You…you were Mary." The voice was dull, emotionless, and Dick wondered what he was thinking. That he had kissed his sidekick, ward, that disposable boy, and inside, he was retching, disgusted. The Bat's mask was in place, so he'd never know for sure.
"We both fell for each other's tricks, Bruce. Perhaps that makes us equal. However, you failed to kill me and here I am, ready to kill you, to finish this. It's what I'm owed."
He could see the muscles of Bruce's jaw clench and wondered what he'd done to elicit that reaction. The years of absence had made the Bat harder to read but why did he care? He was here to kill, not explain himself. Then, why did he feel compelled to do so? The surety of the months, years of preparation was escaping him and he forced himself to concentrate.
"I thought…I thought you were dead," he said softly, and Dick wondered why he felt the need to say that, when it was obvious and how did that help him? Confirming his plan was to kill? How would this spare his life?
"And I thought…." A hollow laugh then, a laugh worthy of Arkham, and he bit it back, hid his grief. "I thought you'd come for me. How naïve I was. Waiting for my hero to rescue me. But you never came, did you? You left me there to rot!"
Turning away, he struggled to compose himself. This was a night for Bruce to suffer pain, not to relive his own. Breathe, Grayson, just breathe.
"I tried. God, Dick, I tried!"
He was crying. He wasn't meant to cry. Bruce never cried. He'd expected stoicism, perhaps a gasp as the knife slid deep, but not…this. It was an impressive act.
"Drop it, Bruce. Batman doesn't cry." He leaned in close, nose to nose with the man, staring into his eyes and meeting…pain. "You locked me away for three years, tortured me, broke me. But I just refused to die." He watched Bruce look away and smiled thinly. "And, in the end, someone came for me. But it wasn't you. And it was never going to be you, was it?"
His eyes snapped back to his and his lips formed one word. "Who…?"
Dick pulled back then, resuming his pacing. "His name is Slade. He brought me to safety, made me well, made me strong. He gave me work, and he gave me a…home." He made me feel loved.
"Dick…" his voice was tight, strained. "Slade cannot…be trusted. He's an assassin."
Laughter filled the Cave, echoing into the shadow places, reflecting his hurt and driving him on.
"Oh, Bruce, now who's the naïve one? I know Slade's an assassin, and I gladly followed him. Hell knows I had enough anger. You gave me that. You made me into everything you hate."
The cruel twist of Bruce's mouth and the darkening of his eyes should've been satisfying to him but they left him cold, distant. He had been trained by two masters of their art and right now, he could tell that something was wrong.
"Dick…please…you have to know I'd never leave you…"
The bitter taste in his mouth grew and he felt like he wanted to vomit, but he held his nerve. Was this yet another trick?
"The Batman doesn't beg," he spat, turning away. He refused to face this picture of pity. It always made the kill so much harder.
"I…I deserve your anger. I should have tried harder, I should have found you. Slade succeeded where I failed."
And there it was. Why was he maintaining this act? Why bother now when all was lost? Dick turned back to him, confused and livid.
"You orchestrated it! You planned every detail! You wanted me out of the way, the little bird in the way of the mission, and this was your only option, was it, Bruce? Play the grief card while I suffered under your minions' hands! You sicken me."
Silence then, and that strange look in his eyes, the one he couldn't quite read, and he tried hard to remember, to recall what it meant, but it continued to escape him.
"Dick…"
That was it, that was all he had to offer in his defence. How pathetic.
Then, slowly, as he continued to stare and the look soaked through his defences and touched at that small, buried part of him that was still human, it dawned on him what that look meant.
It spoke of nights of danger, a dodged bullet, bruises, and then ointment, bandages, being carried to bed and tucked in tight. It told of evenings by the fire, hot chocolate and whispered conversation, mallow and crackers. Those eyes revealed a tale of loss, grief, mourning and yet hope, the desperation that somewhere, somehow, he lived on. They screamed and pleaded and opened the jagged tear in his heart, the wound gaping and raw. It meant love.
And Dick backed away, shaking his head, head refusing to believe what he knew in his heart to be true. He had never been cast aside. He could not have been abandoned. Everything he'd based his vengeance on was a lie. He had…nothing.
He couldn't stay. He couldn't breathe. Running, dying, he fled up the stairs, away, away.
There was nothing left. Nothing. He had lived a lie.
Where now, Grayson? Where now?
Art by skitty_kat
Art by coppercowries