Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bruce Wayne is remarkably unafraid for someone with a gun to his head. Most people panic and show fear. Some try the whole false bravado thing, although it inevitably cracks. Some end up angry, spitting mad that someone would dare fuck with them.

The kind of person who looks unfazed and actually is is fairly rare, and yet Wayne seems to fit perfectly into that. He does little more than raise an eyebrow, waiting a moment before turning his head slowly to look at Slade, taking him in.

He's not there as Slade, of course. He's not going to break into Wayne Manor—a place with more cameras than rooms—in civilian clothes. He's in his full Deathstroke gear, the ikon suit ready to take whatever Batman wants to throw at him.

Whatever Wayne wants to throw at him, that is.

Wayne doesn't throw a thing at him, though. He gives Slade a skeptical look to go with his raised eyebrow, obviously expecting Slade to start talking.

Slade's happy to oblige him.

"I believe you have something I want."

"I imagine I have several billion things you want," Bruce says, all sass. "You're going to have to be more specific."

"You know exactly what I'm talking about." Slade narrows his eye, pressing the gun a little bit closer. Close enough to really hammer his point home. It works, apparently, because Bruce's easy smile fades, replaced with a grimace.

"Indulge me."

"I don't think I will," Slade says. "Now you're going to open the access door to the cave you keep in that clock."

He nods his head towards the clock in question. It's a calculated move, letting Wayne know just how much Slade knows (almost everything) without letting him know exactly what he knows. It leaves Slade with all the cards, just the way he likes it.

Wayne's eyes sweep over to the clock, the wheels in his head spinning. Probably deciding if he wants to fight Slade or not. Trying to decide if he has a chance.

He doesn't, and they both know it, so Slade just holds his ground until acceptance settles in and Wayne heads towards the clock.

The entrance to the cave is an elaborate mechanical affair, with numerous interlocking parts. Wayne disables them seamlessly, no funny business, and then starts off down into the cave. The whole thing is grand and pointless, a spiral staircase made of stone that Slade suspects is at least as old as the manor itself. It looks genuinely old as they head down it, the kind of thing probably constructed more than a hundred years ago. Maybe even longer, really.

But there's no question he's come to the correct conclusion when they reach the bottom of the steps. The batcave as it's supposedly called is a massive structure, a natural cave with obvious man-made additions. There are platforms built into the rock, littered with all sorts of bat-junk. Fancy cars. Display tubes with mannequins and costumes. A giant fucking penny and a goddamn life-size dinosaur statue.

It's all a bit ridiculous.

Okay, it's all a lot ridiculous.

"The receiver, if you please," Slade says. He doesn't have the faintest idea where Wayne would be hiding it, and he isn't in the mood for fumbling around in the cave looking for it, either. Wayne looks out of place—he's wearing slacks and a plain blue t-shirt, rather than his actual Batman gear—but he obviously knows his way around, because he heads up towards a wall of monitors, stopping in front of what Slade guesses is a computer.

"I'll tell you again, I don't know what it is you're after."

"I know that you're Batman."

No point beating around the bush. They're in the cave, and they're very much alone. Wayne's butler is gone, off on a weekly shopping trip, and unless there's some major deviation from his schedule, he'll be gone for at least another hour.

Wayne's irritating little smile returns.

"Oh," he says, sounding severely unimpressed. "Well, I'm not."

Slade could go on for hours listing off all the evidence. The construction of the manor. The secrecy. The gravel on the roads up to the manor. His connection with so many of the Batman's major villains. The fact that Batman and Bruce Wayne are never in the same room (save a few clearly orchestrated efforts). The number of times that Batman has shoved his nose in Wayne Enterprises business he couldn't have known about without an inside man.

But none of it really matters.

"I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I'm currently standing in the Batcave, located beneath stately Wayne manor," Slade says. He is a professional. He does not get irritated, but he sure does feel a little flicker of annoyance at the fact that Wayne is dragging things out. Things should be over and done with already, and they're not.

"I'm still not Batman," Wayne says flatly, "and I don't know what you're after. All I can do is drag things out and wait for him to arrive so that the two of you can sort things out on your own."

Slade considers the possibility, but only for a moment.

"You have the exact same jaw," Slade says. "Physically, you're identical. I've also seen you fight during a kidnapping attempt two years ago, and that's a match as well."

"He trained me," Wayne says with an overly weary sigh. "That's why. He insisted I be able to defend myself if anything like this happened, and here I am, having it happen. He just wasn't expecting someone like you to be the one who caught me off guard."

Someone like him. Someone competent and dangerous, he imagines. Wayne could probably fight off an idiot like Penguin or any of his cronies, but Deathstroke? That's something else.

Not that Slade believes it for a second.

"You're wasting my time, Wayne, and I really do hate having my time wasted."

"Again, I'm sure—"

Wayne stops, cocks his head, and listens.

Slade, without making any decision to do so, listens as well. How can he not? There's the sound of something. Movement in the cave. Bigger than the bats that supposedly live there.

Then the Batman appears.

It's not from any one specific location. It's more like he just steps, fully formed, from the shadows. How long has he been there? And—

Slade's brain catches as he tries to work out what's going on. Wayne's still standing by him. Slade still has a gun on him.

But Batman's still there, looking the same as he always did.

Someone else in the suit, then, helping cover for him. It's the best—only, really—explanation, especially considering the few rare occasions where the two were seen together. But who? No one fits the build without a lot of padding, which means it has to be someone Slade hasn't even considered, someone with minimal connection to Wayne. Paid help being trusted with Wayne's secret? It seems unlikely, but it's the only solution Slade can come up with.

He's missing something.

"Let him go, Slade," the false Batman calls. His voice sounds perfect, and Slade feels an uncharacteristic chill run down his spine.

"Enough of this," Slade snaps, leaning into his anger to help settle the uncharacteristic discomfort he feels. "The receiver. Now."

"It's already been handed over to the League," Not-Batman says. "It's out of your grasp."

What the fuck is going on? Why does he sound just like him? Why does he move just like him?

Slade decides to see what else is like him and moves to engage. A voice can be faked. Prosthetics can be worn. But you can't fake skill. Not enough to be able to beat Slade in a fight.

He ignores Wayne. It's stupid and pointless, but Wayne seems intent on playing at not being Batman, so he allows himself the indulgence. Probably he'll keep pretending to be useless. Probably he'll stay out of it.

It doesn't matter anyway, because Batman—Slade can't keep thinking of him as a fake, not like this—meets him blow for blow. He's good. At least as good as Batman has always been. It's a real fight, fast and desperate. Batman's come into it prepared, his gear on and his equipment ready. It's like he knew the fight was going to happen.

So Slade does something stupid.

He doesn't block the next punch. Doesn't even try and deflect it. Instead, he closes the distance between them, jerks his hand up, and catches the edge of Batman's mask, ripping it upwards.

It doesn't quite tear, but it pulls half-off. Enough to show his face, even as he reels backwards, hand going up to cover it.

It's Bruce.

Bruce Wayne's under the mask, only Bruce Wayne is also standing maybe ten feet away from them, watching them fight.

"Twins?" Slade chokes out, trying not to sound as bothered as he is. How the fuck could I have known? How could he have figured that out?

And how the fuck did the Wayne's keep that hidden?

"No," Bruce says. "But you're the closest anyone has gotten."

And then he lunges.

Batman has always been good, but the two of them working together are something else. It's obvious that Batman has trained him, and that they have experience fighting together. He doesn't hold back, either, and he's managed to scrounge up some kind of gear, because when Bruce grabs Slade, his hands are covered with gauntlets.

Slade isn't going down. Not without a fight. Wayne isn't as good as Batman is, but he's still good. They're working together well, putting up a real fight, but they're holding themselves back. Neither of them is willing to kill.

Slade is. And he's not going to get caught.

There's something immensely satisfying when his sword finally hits home. It punches through a crack in Batman's armor, going right out through the back. It's a fatal blow, a final end to the battles they've been having for years.

But the satisfaction doesn't last.  It's ephemeral, vanishing as fast as Slade can feel it. It doesn't feel like a real win, not even when Wayne retreats. There's too many unknowns, too much he doesn't understand. How did he hide it? Why did they hide it?

Up close, his body pressed up against Batman's chest where he holds the sword, Slade notices something else, and the hair on the back of his neck stands up.

Batman doesn't have Wayne's blue eyes.

His irises are a pure, inky black. At a distance, it looks normal enough, but up close, his face half exposed, Slade can see it. Can see the unsettling little differences, the little signs of something being off.

"What the fuck is going on?" Slade snaps.

Batman's arm darts up, wrapping around Slade's neck before Slade even realizes he should be moving. It doesn't make sense. He doesn't understand. Batman should be dead, the sword literally piercing right through his heart.

But he's moving like it isn't. He's moving like a little thing like a sword speared through him is nothing at all.

"Oh," Wayne says behind him, "he's never very pleasant when he's supposed to be dead."

The Batman isn't human.

Slade knows that much. He knows by the fact that he should be dead, by the inky black of his eyes. The more Slade looks, the less human he seems to get. Was his skin always so pale? Were his lips always so red? Were his teeth always so sharp?

He's too close to a thing that he's not sure was ever human. He's too close, and when he tries to pull away, the Batman is inhumanly strong, his eyes too wide, his mouth leaning forward.

Wayne steps up, hovering nearby, and shakes his head. It's a normal, mundane thing, and it seems almost to break the spell, because almost instantly the Batman seems more human, less... whatever the hell he was before.

"Not this one," Wayne says. "You said you wouldn't, and I'm sure he can help. He's a man of his word, and I'm sure he'll give his word he'll help us out."

"He's hurt us, in the past," the Batman says, and his voice is right on the cusp of being human... but still not quite there.

"He has," Wayne agrees. There's a casualness to it, like he's had the conversation before. "But I'm sure he won't. Not now that he's seen you."

"Wayne, what the fuck is he?" Slade asks. He's not sure if it's the right thing to say. His sense is telling him to shut up and keep his mouth closed, but his desire to know is overpowering.

Is this why Batman had all those near misses, where Slade was sure he'd be dead (or at least hospitalized), and he'd somehow shown up again? Is this why he's so relentless?

Because he's not even human?

"He's Gotham," Wayne says, and it all makes sense all at once. "I let him take my form to make it... easier for him to act on the world, but he's protective. You can imagine why."

Gotham.

The thing that wears Bruce Wayne's skin isn't a person. It's a city wrapped in a human shape, and when Slade hurts him, that humanness goes away.

He doesn't ever want to see that again.

"You'll help, right?" Wayne prompts, and Slade can't ignore the way Batman—Gotham's—grip tightens in response.

Waiting for a no.

Waiting for an excuse.

"Of course," Slade says because it's the only possible option.

The arm at his neck slowly relaxes, and Slade jerks back. The Batman is normal again. He is, in all ways but fact, Bruce Wayne in a suit.

But now that Slade knows what's there, he can't stop seeing the dark of the Batman's eyes. Only the cowl being returned to its proper place is enough to break the spell of them.

He'll take that vision with him to his grave, one way or another.