Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne was the only person to have ever challenged Minhkhoa Khan, the Ghostmaker. Bruce Wayne was a formidable combatant; he was a brilliant detective, and he was the Batman.

Bruce Wayne was a man constantly fighting his emotions.

Minhkhoa Khan did not understand emotions, not really. He could logically understand how they worked, what caused them, and how people generally acted while under their influence.

Bruce Wayne did not belong under the categorization of regular people. Bruce Wayne twisted and fought his emotions. He wrangled them under logic, and locked every emotion deemed too much behind numerous barricaded doors within his mind.

Bruce Wayne, who to Minhkhoa’s informed opinion had reached a new low in the mishandling of his own emotions.

“You can’t be serious Bruce.”

“When am I not serious, Ghostmaker”

Bruce Wayne the one and only equal to ever have existed to Minhkhoa Khan was equally as bad in handling the emotions of others. In other words, Bruce Wayne was incapable of handling them like a normal human being, which neither of them had never really been.

Bruce Wayne the man in the myth was sitting on his ergonomic chair – posture proper – staring intently at numbers and faces dancing across the screens of his supercomputer. A pool of blood had been gathering under him. A pool that consisted of older and newer blood.

“we’ve had this conversation before”

“You disappeared”

“Are your apprentices aware of your current – frankly - pathetic state?”

Something in Bruces posture changed slightly – nothing no one would have noticed - Minhkhoa Khan did notice. Bruce was leaning minutely to the left armrest of his chair. Bruce was holding onto the last of whatever was keeping him going.

“I see – pray tell, what got them hissing and slamming doors at you this time?” Minhkhoa Khan was perfectly aware of the cause of Bruce’s current state.

“What do you want Ghostmaker”

“You know my name, Bruce”

“What do you want Khoa”

Minhkhoa liked the sound of that Bruce exclusive nickname from the man's lips. The way Bruce said the favored monicker brought khoa no satisfaction. Bruce sounded resigned – like he was waiting for khoa either to disappear or to-

“I’d like to patch that wound of yours; you have been making a mess.”

Bruce turned to face him. His cowl was off – likely left laying around somewhere close to the bat mobile. There was a bruise on Bruce's face – which in itself was not unusual – what was unusual was the placement of the bruise. It laid ugly and on the bad side of healing on top of his cheek bone. His cheek bone that was always covered under his well-engineered cowl.

Bruce looked wrong. His sharp eyes always shining with unadulterated, often idiotic hope, were lacking their ever-present shine. The eyes Minhkhoa dreamt of had been replaced by a mockery of them. Bruces bright eyes were dull and tired under the sweat, dirt and bruises.

Something bad had happened, had been happening. Something that related to his flock of unworthy apprentices – children how Bruce preferred to refer to them. Minkhoa always knew Gotham would break Bruce. Gotham and its inhabitants did not deserve to have the only person that was Minhkhoa Khan’s equal.

This was a perfect opportunity.

Bruce was not moving; his breathing was steady, his eyes clear if dull, yet his hands now resting on his lap trembled ever so slightly.

If Khoa were anyone else, he would surely have gotten thrown out of Bruces space already. He however was Khoa and Bruce would never kick him out these days, as long as he didn't kill anyone while in Gotham that is.

There was a pattern Khoa had observed. Khoa knew Bruce knew, but he had yet to have acknowledged the facts.

Bruce Wayne did not talk to his associates, he patrolled without his bright colored sidekick, He patrolled, but his routes avoided his associates, he patrolled less – when did patrol he always returned wounded, he wasn't on comms, he had not made any appearances in the world of the average people.

Minhkhoa Khan observed all of this and saw an opportunity.

“Take off the suit, it's disgusting – I'll go get the med kit” Khoa kept his tone casual – if not entirely friendly. Bruce did as he was told – mechanically. Khoa side stepped spots of dried blood on his way to the med bay. He didn't hurry exactly – he simply walked at an efficient pace; it wouldn't do for Bruce to bleed out.

The med bay was a mess before him. Bloody un disinfected – dull needles; used bandages and fully stocked and untouched cabinet filled with best pain killers' money could buy.

Khoa grabbed a full bottle of disinfectant, strongest painkillers he could find, cleanest available needle and thread along with not too grimy roll of bandages. He did not sprint back to Bruce; he did not.

Bruce was down to his under-suit pants. His skin covered in ugly bruises worthy of battling for the ugliest bruise ever to be seen. On top of his scarred flesh were new badly healed and healing ill stitched wounds. What were not clear bullet wounds appeared to be from knifes and whatever sharp things the goons of Gotham got their hands onto.

The sight was ugly. On his left side was his first wound to be addressed immediately and properly. Khoa did his best to stitch up Bruce as gently and efficiently as he could muster; it would do no good to bestow Bruce with more rough treatment than necessary.

Stitching up Bruce was a familiar job. They had used to do this a lot – him and Bruce. They had used to do a lot of things with just the two of them. A lot has changed since then.

“You stink like sewers and corpses, Bruce”

Bruce was staring blankly beyond the yonder. Tired wasn't a strong enough word to describe Bruce. Khoa turned Bruce to face him.

Bruce Wayne was a man of many contradictions. Minhkhoa Khan knew his tendency to avoid touch, he saw the way Bruce flinched ever so slightly whenever his butler had laid a hand on his shoulder – Khoa saw the way Bruce brazed himself for impact whenever one of his rag tag group of apprentices and associates demanded physical contact of him.

Khoa remembered colder and warmer nights spent together with Bruce. Huddled skin against skin. Bruce had melted into his touch; Bruce had always pressed closer. Khoa missed those times; Bruce had even initiated contact then. Khoa liked the feel of Bruce against him – Bruce holding onto him like he needed Khoa.

Bruce never initiated any kind of physical contact – hell, for a man so emotional as Bruce was – the man didn't even seek out anything resembling of closeness nowdays.

Minhkhoa of course logically knew what was happening. Bruce's “children” and other associates never failed to mention how overbearing Bruce's care was, how suffocating his presence – how he never ever understood.

Khoa had sorted through footage and recordings of commlink conversations between the people Bruce surrounded himself with. They tended to group up and bond over things Bruce had allegedly wronged them on.

Khoa was deeply aware that Bruce knew of every word, every conversation, and every remark. He always kept on top of things important to him. Miknhoa knew; Bruce occasionally checked on him as well. Bruce showed his care in lurking around the corners watching you. Khoa knew Bruce liked to see the people he cared for were sufficiently safe and sound of mind with his own eyes.

Khoa cradled Bruces face as gently as he knew how. Bruce froze under his fingers – his eyes found Khoa’s – his eyes blinking away tears. Khoa was never good with Bruce crying – he hated it when Bruce did cry – logically he knew crying – for some reason – tended to aid miserable people and got them feeling better after.

Bruce always cried silently; this fact hadn't changed over time. Silent tears mixed in with Bruce's blood on khoas hands; they left tracks running across his knuckles down onto Bruce's chin.

“Come with me, Bruce”

Bruce shuddered, his hands rose up to meet Khoa’s detangling Khoa’s fingers off his face ever so carefully, Bruce lowered their hands entangling them together and held them down on his lap tightly.

“You know I can't-”

“I want you to come with me Bruce”

“Khoa I-”

“Let's get out of here, you know you want to”

Bruce lowered his teary eyes onto their entangled hands. He looked straight out of a Victorian painting like this.

Bruce's voice was quiet and rough in the way one's voice got with a few weeks of unuse. The few weeks Minhkhoa had observed Bruce – it wasn't stalking if the object of being observed was perfectly aware of what was happening and perfectly capable of putting a stop to it.

Bruce was faltering, Khoa knew Bruce was miserable, Bruce knew he was miserable, and Khoa offered him an out, an out that always existed for Bruce. Khoa pulled Bruce down from his stubidly ergonomic chair and embraced the sad man.

Bruce froze his muscles tightening – He melted into Khoa. Bruce pressed his sad face against Khoa’s neck, dirtying his impeccable white suit. Khoa didn't mind so much. There were things he’d only ever amended for Bruce.

Bruce clung onto him tightly and gave a single faint nod against his neck. Minhkhoa Khan had won for now. He removed one hand off Bruce and fumbled for the packet of pain killers, opened it and unwrapped 4 tablets of naproxen. He knew Bruce despised opioids.

“Take these”

Bruce did not bother to question what was being given to him, he simply swallowed the pills dry straight off his dirty palm. The show of blind trust was ridiculously Bruce, after everything here the idiotic sad man was cling onto Khoa and trusting the pills on his hands that could have been anything.

Khoa gathered Bruce in his arms and rouse, the man was lighter than the latest update on his file suggested. He needed to get some real food into Bruce once they’d take off.

Quickly mindful of now completely slack Bruce in his arms – Minhkhoa Khan took off from the blood stained ergonomic chair, unkept med bay, and the cave that screamed of misery. He’d take better care of Bruce Wayne – with him Bruce was going to be better, one way or another. With Khoa Bruce would not be too much – not anymore.

Chapter Text

“You deleted some footage off the cave records”

Bruce was walking into his bedroom – their bedroom. Minhkhoa had gotten Bruce to shower after threatening to bathe Bruce himself if Bruce could not clean himself up.

“I knew you might look. I didn't want you to think badly of them, it was my fault”

“You know perfectly well what I think of them, Bruce,”

Bruce lowered his eyes to the steel floor of the haunt. It was better to drop the subject for now. Khoa did not want Bruce to retreat – not now. Change of priorities was in order. Bruce was clean; getting some food into Bruce was a worthy distraction.

“Could you make us that soup we used to make while on the road?”

Bruce lifted his sad eyes off the floor – a win in Khoa’s books- and furrowed his sad brows in thought. “You know the recipe”

“I swear you make it better with some technique you’re withholding from me – I never get the mouth feel of it right” Blatant lies, Minhkhoa had never even attempted to make the soup by himself; it was wrong to even think of trying it. He simply kept the ingredients for the soup in hand – just in case.

While on the road they used to do a lot of plain hunting and gathering. Minkhkhoa would take on setting traps, fish or just do good plain old hunting. Bruce would set up their camp and forage around for ingredients to enhance whatever animal khoa would bring back with him.

The soup Bruce favored to make for their meals was versatile. It fit whatever protein Minhkhoa would manage to catch and whatever else they currently had on hand.

They always carried rice with them – on Khoa’s insistence. Rice was one of the only ingredients of the soup that varied rarely.

When they were in no hurry, Bruce would make a broth out of bones of the animal minhkhoa would bring him. He’d cook the meat enough for it to be shredded to his taste. Bruce was particular about the texture he wanted for the meat, but he never complained when Khoa made it different to his particular taste.

Along with rice – salt was the only other stable in the soup; it got food to taste bearable as well as preserved meat well enough for a while.

Bruce would thicken the broth he’d make using the rice and a mixture he made off the broth liquid and whatever natural starch they'd foraged. Sometimes it was arrowroot, wild calla, or just plain cambium when they ventured into colder climates.

Sometimes the only spice in the soup would be salt, sometimes when Bruce or Minhkhoa felt like it they gathered wild ginger, woody avens, spruce tips or yarrow to spice up the soup.

Often when they did travel a little slower in between teachers, Bruce would be watching over the bone broth and the cooking meat and Minhkhoa would wander around the area they were stopping by, looking for something that could add a nice taste in the soup. Wild ginger and spruce tips were Bruce's favorite. Bringing either never failed to get a smile out of Bruce.

Before they’d move onto a next teacher on Bruce's list they’d make the soup, but with ingredients they often did not have in hand while on road.

On such occasions the soup was made with the best cuts of meat on the market, local spices that they liked the smells of and most importantly of all with butter and heaviest milk they could find.

The last such soup they’d made had been in Dubai. They hadn't been willing to stick around Dr Captio for longer than necessary.

Minhkhoa had purchased a whole chicken in his glee and haggled for the best butter and thickest milk he could find.

Bruce had gone for cumin as the choice of spice for the soup; he’d even purchased real flour to thicken up the soup in.

They’d cooked together in a small motel room they rented for the occasion. Khoa had handled the chicken while Bruce played around with the cumin. Khoa had absentmindedly watched Bruce ground the seeds into a fine powder. Bruce had had yarrow he’d dried some time ago on him. He had mixed small amounts of it amongst the ground cumin.

Together they had prepared a proper bone broth with great impatience from Khoa’s side, but they had done it. Khoa’s job had been to get the chicken shredded and ready to be dumped into the broth.

Bruce had prepared the thickening mixture for the soup. It was always better with real flour. Bruce had mixed in the salt and spices, melted the butter and stirred in the spice and flour mixture. Khoa remembered black pepper had been a new addition to the stable. The milk was mixed in last.

Minhkhoa admittedly had been more focused on what Bruce had been doing than on the chicken. He had slightly over cooked it, and he had added a little more rice than what was their usual amount. Minkhoa could remember the slight grimace Bruce had made when he’d eaten a particularly hastily shredded piece of the chicken.

The soup had been the last one they’d made together. It hadn't been perfect, but they had made it together. Him and Bruce.

A careful hand was laid upon his knee. Bruce's touch was light – knowing. He had an uncanny ability to read Khoa. There was a time when Minhkhoa had resented that ability. He hadn't liked Bruce knowing him so well; he had resented how Bruce would appear like an idiot when it came to handling people in their missions, but he had tricked Khoa expertly on that bridge.

“You spaced out”

Khoa was faced with Bruce’s sad eyes closer to him than expected. He smelled Bruce’s shampoo this close – the shampoo Khoa kept around for Bruce, the one he knew Bruce to favor. Khoa inhaled the scent of it, of Bruce – free from Gotham grime.

“Will you make it?” Khoa did not sound hopeful – he was simply giving Bruce a distraction, a job for Bruce to feel useful.

Bruce gave a teasing hum – a hum that Khoa bet would not have been understood among his – family. “It has been a while since I’ve had the time for cooking” Bruce admitted, his voice a quiet murmur, his eyes cast almost bashfully away from Khoa.

“The butler still keeping you out of the kitchen?” Bruce hung his head. Minhkhoa wanted to close the distance. He wanted to crawl inside of Bruce – he wanted to have nothing between the two of them. Minhkhoa – carved to have Bruce in every way the man would allow it and then some. He wanted to lay his claim – to own – to possess Bruce completely. He wanted for Bruce to look at him with his eyes that would be completely free of-

He had been silent for too long. “Of course he is.” Khoa was back on track. Bruce looked at Khoa with utter sad fondness – an expression he wore whenever someone he claimed family wronged him. Minhkhoa hated the way Bruce let Gotham have him.

“You know Alfred doesn't take kindly to me intruding in on his kitchen.”

Minhkhoa knew yes. Bruce had offhandedly made one comment of not knowing how to cook before sometime into his travels before Khoa. Bruce had told him of various little restaurants he’d begged and groveled to learn in on. Bruce never out right spoke ill of his butler, but Minhkhoa could gather the context well enough for himself.

Bruce enjoyed cooking. He got serene look about him whenever he found a recipe particularly fun to cook – Khoa liked to watch Bruce cook, Khoa liked to watch him do many things, whenever Bruce knew he was being observed or not – more often than not Bruce always knew – paranoid as he was.

“You are not prohibited off cooking here, are you?”

“I suppose I am not; I remember where everything is.”

Bruce moved away from Khoa – to the kitchen area. Khoa wanted to pull him back – to – he held himself back with gritted teeth.

True to his word Bruce – the little stalker – did know where everything was; he moved around Khoa’s kitchen with familiar ease. He took out two pots he required, one smaller one larger – fit to hold a soup for two people. He set them down onto the stove and moved to the fridge

Khoa kept the fridge stocked with various proteins, vegetables and easy to digest protein shakes with thought out recipes for maximal nutrition gained. Minkhoa watched Bruce intently – he zeroed in on the way Bruce kept from raising his left arm too high. Bruce took a bottle of premade bone broth – turned to face Khoa, an amused quirk in his lips accompanied by a faint rise in his right eyebrow.

Khoa shrugged “I like fast results”

Bruce gave a knowing look and a soft hum and turned back to the fridge. He picked out a packet of lean chicken breasts along with heavy cream and butter. He set them on top of the counter and took out rice from a low cabinet.

Bruce had to bend down to reach it – tall as he was. The pants Minhkhoa had set out for Bruce didn't quite hug his figure the way khoa had intended them to. He looked small in the pants; Khoa picked out for him. The T-shirt Bruce had opted to steal off khoa wasn't tight on him either. Bruce had lost more mass than he’d anticipated.

Broth was expertly set to simmer along with the chicken, and Bruce moved to rummage through Khoa’s extensive spice cabinet.

Bruce was entirely set on his task. He bore an akin similarity to the younger version of who he had been a few decades ago. With Bruce’s back to Khoa he could imagine them as they had once been. Young and ambitious, Bruce more angrier – more hopeful.

Even then he’d carried melancholy distinct only to him. You could take Bruce Wayne out of Gotham, but you could not take Gotham out of Bruce Wayne. Khoa accepted this fact with a great deal of bitterness.

Minhkhoa could Imagine the Bruce in front of him to be the same 19-year-old Bruce who’d taken a liking to stealing Khoas T-shirts instead of wearing his own. This time Minhkhoa would not lose Bruce to Gotham, this time Khoa would keep Bruce.

A steaming bowl was set before him with a deliberate clink. Bruce looked at him meaningfully from across the table and extended his right arm, offering Khoa a spoon. “You are spacing out a lot today”

“Just speculating on that deleted footage”

“You are misdirecting”

“So are you”

Silence fell between them. A silence of mutual understanding to not breach the topics on hand just yet. Khoa took up the offered spoon and briefly brushed his fingers against Bruce’s.

“It's good,” Khoa offered. He didn't lie; it was good – really good. Bruce had kept it simple. The chicken was perfectly cooked – shredded meticulously to Bruce’s liking. Khoa could taste rosemary, garlic and black pepper complimenting the tiny shreds of chicken and soft rice. Minhkhoa loved the faint undertones of butter and bone broth that shone under the carefully thought-out spices.

The texture of the soup was pleasant- easy on the mouth. Texture was not something Minkhoa was particular about; he knew it was something that bothered Bruce a lot.

Bruce hated any and all large chunks in his food and drinks. Minhkhoa found he reacted the strongest to tough chunks of meat on the larger side, mushrooms and large chunks of anything really that didn't fit the sizing of majority of a meal.

Minhkhoa discovered these distastes the clearest during their time under Oblonsky. They'd attended many high society events with the most absurd food. Minkhoa had puzzled out Bruces’ particular distaste to mushrooms at one such dinner party.

They had pretended to be socialites – Minhkhoa pretended; Bruce got back to his roots – they posed as new money sons of an upstart company. It was a boring dinner party. Khoa didn't remember the people he’d talked to nor the information they’d supposedly gathered. What he did remember was Bruces’ resigned look of horror when their plates had been brought out.

Traditional perfectly good mushroom stroganoff. Bruce had looked at his plate with such resignation covered dread it had been a miracle that no other socialite had commented on it. Bruce had valiantly choked down the majority of his plate before Khoa had impulsively taken to stealing the biggest chunks of mushrooms and onions off his plate. Bruce had shot him a relieved look full of gratitude, his blue eyes shining at Khoa. The whole room had lit up. From then on Minhkhoa kept stealing from Bruce’s plate. He had gathered a pattern-

Bruce pushed his half-finished plate towards Khoa. “I’m not hungry, and you are enjoying of your portion way too much”

“You need to eat”

“I’m not hungry”

Minhkhoa eyed Bruce’s half-finished plate. There wasn't any ingredient Bruce had avoided. Had his appetite been withered this significantly or was Bruce’s issue purely a mental one.

“Drink a shake then, you will be too skinny for your suit soon, or have you already added padding into it” Bruce glared at Khoa – he had a way of glaring with his entire body, putting the full weight of his presence into the glare like a punch straight from a meta. Minhkhoa grinned back.

Bruce furrowed his brows a notch deeper, Minhkhoa grinned a little wider and jerked his chin towards the fridge. Bruce muttered something that Khoa didn't quite hear – but he was sure it was something heinous.

Khoa enjoyed Bruce’s half eaten soup while Bruce chugged one protein shake straight out of the bottle sullenly. Bruce's grousing was interrupted by a large yawn. “You didn't mix in something to tranquilize me, did you”

“You’d truly be way off your game if you hadn't tasted the high amount of tranquilizer that I’d needed to have mixed in, Bruce”

“I feel tired”

“Why don't you blame your lack of sleep for that?”

“I slept” Bruce covered the next yawn with his hand.

“Passing out does not count Bruce”

Bruces insistence on not sleeping was another ridiculous thing about the man. Humans needed sleep to function – Khoa knew it – Bruce knew it, Yet the man tented to avoid sleep like a plague.

“We have nowhere to be, come – I still require sleep – Unlike the great vampire bat.”

“That has never been funny, Minhkhoa”

“Get a tan and you might stop getting mistaken as a vampire straight out of the Victorian era”

“You think you are so – funny”

“I know I am” Khoa gifted Bruce with a gleeful smirk before darting away from the kitchen, leaving the dishes untouched for later. He ducked out of sight just in time before a spoon ricocheted off the haunt's kitchen wall.

Bruce chased him down the corridors while aiming whatever he managed to get on hand at Khoa. Bruce was not quite laughing behind him, but his eyes were glistening once more in the thrill of the chase. Minhkhoa enjoyed the look on Bruce. He’d have icon to pull out the footage later and preserve it.

Bruce didn't smile anymore like he used to. Khoa remembered Wide toothy smiles that Bruce would shoot him. Their time spent under Kirigi’s guidance had been the time Bruce’s smiles were the widest, his fits of laugher the brightest.

Bruce had begun to smile less and less over the years. Khoa didn't remember the last time he’d heard Bruce laugh the free bubbling bright laugher of their youth. Bruce had become a man of hums, grunts and faint quirks of his lips. Bruce's smile wasn't in his mouth anymore; it had become an expression in his eyes – faint and unsure like he wasn't quite sure if he was allowed even that.

A loud crash sounded behind him. Minhkhoa stopped in his tracks and turned around with speed that could have rivaled the speed of a meta. Bruce had tripped on his own feet and was breathing heavily while he clutched at his side – the side Minhkhoa had stitched.

“I’m sorry”

“What for?”

“I’m staining your T-shirt"

Bruce was pushing himself up off the floor; his side enveloped by the dark red of his blood. The contrast of Bruces blood and the white shirt created an appealing picture in front of him.

“I don't care about the shirt – Bruce, come “ Minhkhoa did not care about the shirt, he had many similar to the one Bruce was bleeding in on. He supposed someone could have been upset over a T-shirt that held some meaning to them. Minhkhoa was indifferent to most things in his possession. He could always just replace things that no longer served him. What he had been incapable of replacing was Bruce.

Minhkhoa picked up Bruce. He did it only to prevent Bruce from injuring himself any further. If Bruce were to push himself up – which Khoa had no doubts Bruce could have managed eventually – he would have just ended up aggravating who knows what injuries he hadn't deigned to file into his injury log. Minhkhoa needed to wrangle Bruce into an x ray of some sort, just to be sure.

Minkhoa carried Bruce to the extensive – clean – and properly maintained med bay of the haunt. “This is how a med bay should look, you know” Minhkhoa frowned – Bruce didn't react to his probing – His head was laying limply against his shoulder. His face was glistening with sweat.

Minhkhoa sat Bruce down on the med bays pristine cot and quickly sliced his T-shirt off Bruce with the knife he always kept by his belt. The stiches Minhkhoa had sewed in Bruce’s skin had held – what hadn't held was a piss poor stitching job of a long slash that went by Bruce’s collarbone up to his left shoulder. Minkhoa didn't remember making note of the wound, in particular – his focus had been elsewhere then.

Minhkhoa applied firm continuous direct pressure to the wound. It took 18 minutes of layering up cloth against the wound till the bleeding stopped.

He washed his hands quickly and gently washed Bruce’s wound and its surrounding area properly – He bet the utter idiot had not bothered with any kind of cleaning when stitching his wound. Minhkhoa grimaced remembering the state of Bruce’s med bay – it was a wonder how the man had survived this long without Khoa’s supervision.

Minhkhoa took out antibiotic ointment and applied a thin layer over the wound. Satisfied, he wrapped Bruce up in bandages and carried him over to the bedroom. Bruce wouldn't appreciate waking up in the med bay. He set Bruce down, laying on his back.

“Icon monitor his vitals, alert me should changes happen to his condition”

“Yes sir, there have been few attempts to breach the ghost-net, both attempts were prevented quickly”

“Good, set course to Brunei"

Brunei would be a good place to have Bruce recover. Minkhoa had a spot there by the sea he often liked to visit. Most importantly Brunei was small, far away from Gotham and it had relatively little governmental corruption. Brunei did however have a little side problem of migrant worker exploitation as well as weak enforcement in human trafficking. Maybe Bruce could even manage something resembling a healthy tan there.

“Icon, preserve footage-”

“I took the liberty of preserving the footage of Bruce Wayne and you already sir, I found it touching”

When had he programmed his AI to find things touching – He didn't know, and he didn't particularly dislike Icon taking the initiative and preserving footage of him and Bruce.

“Icon try to salvage possibly deleted footage recorded in the Batcave from the last three weeks”

“What are you trying to find, sir?”

“Proof of violent and or harmful interactions to Bruce, Alert me quietly if you manage to find something.” Minhkhoa didn't think Icon would find anything – Bruce had an unerring sense on how to hide things he didn't wish for anyone to find. “Dimm the lights and enter silent mode”

The lights of the haunt dimmed into a comfortable warm tinged darkness. Minkhoa tied up the med bay, cleaned out dirty dishes and set everything back to its proper place. Tomorrow he’d make Bruce go through a proper and throughout inspection. Tomorrow they’d be well on their way far away from Gotham. Tomorrow Bruce would be a bit better – a bit more like himself – wounds infected or not never kept the man down for long.

Khoa changed into clean shorts, unceremoniously threw his dirty shirt into a far corner of their bedroom and fit himself against Bruce’s right side tightly. Bruce didn't stir as he wrapped his arms around his waist – not even when Khoa pressed his face against Bruces bare skin. He pulled the covers over them and inhaled the scent of Bruce deeply. Bruce still faintly smelled the soap he favored. Minhkhoa fell asleep listening to the rhythm of Bruce breathing softly against him.

Chapter Text

Minhkhoa awoke to cold sheets and a colder room. Bruce was nowhere to be seen. It had been foolish to expect the man to stay put. He could only hope Bruce hadn't managed to aggravate his injuries any further.

The kitchen was empty, so was the med bay and the training area. He didn't hear Bruce in the bathroom either. Bruce was extremely hard to locate when he didn't want to be found; he could find the darkest corners, the highest crannies he could stuff himself into and disappear completely.

Bruce hid the best inside of Gotham. Minhkhoa could never find Bruce anywhere in that blasted city if he wanted his lonesome brooding time. Bruce never failed to gloat his superior stealth.

During their time under Luka, they had made a game out of who could sneak closer to their prey without spooking them. Minhkhoa hadn't ever won against Bruce in that game.

Trying to find Bruce when he decided to hide was like playing chess with him – the best way to play chess against Bruce Wayne was to burn the board and play something else.

Bruce’s need to hide had been the highest Minhkhoa was aware of during the time Bruce had first managed to stubbornly get under Kirigi’s training.

Minhkhoa remembered observing the odd obviously American student who showed up beaten black and blue. Bruce then – Jack, always showed up on time for training – no matter the injuries he’d bear, but he’d vanish off into thin air the second they were dismissed.

Minhkhoa had often spent his free time trying to find where the fascinating young American ran off to lick his wounds. He never found out where Bruce ran off to.

They had quickly grown close under Kirigi’s guiding hands. Being the youngest students there marked an automatic target on their backs. Ever the protector Bruce stuck close to him. After the first-time other students had tried to gang up on them, they had grown closer than close; they had grown attached to the hip. Bruce hadn't vanished for a while.

Gradually as they moved from cruel to crueler teachers, Bruce began to vanish. By Canada and by extension of Luka Bruces disappearances had become more common. Bruce had been a naturally good shot.

Every fourth night Khoa woke to cold sheets in the place of a warm body he had fallen asleep clutching onto. Bruce had hated it when Luka complimented his marksmanship.

After Canada for a while Bruce might as well have been a ghost. It wasn't productive to dwell on what was done, but Khoa couldn't help but wonder how things would have turned out if he had just allowed Bruce to spare Luka, for Luka to track them afterwards. Would Bruce have seen Khoa’s reasoning that sometimes it really was better to just kill to avoid future complications.

Minhkhoa would have loved to know when Bruce had first begun to disappear into the paths only known to him. Where had he hidden the first time? Why had Bruce decided that hiding away from everything was the best solution? How had he come to that conclusion, how had he honed his skills of disappearance and when?

Unfortunately, records from Bruce’s childhood were nonexistent before his debut in high society. Even then, any records of Bruce Wayne outside of a gala were impossible to find – Minhkhoa had tried.

Bruce Wayne was a mystery that never failed to intrigue him. Whenever Minhkhoa thought he’d known everything there was to know about Bruce, Bruce would make the most insane off-handed comment to ever have been heard that shifted Khoa’s entire picture of him.

Minhkhoa remembered fondly their weeks' worth of traveling by foot in Canadian wilderness. Together, only the two of them huddled and freezing in their combined sleeping bags. They had been trying their hardest to not fall asleep. It had been the coldest night they’d ever had to have spent under the night sky.

Bruce had attempted to lighten up their somber mood in a fashion typical to him. He made a comment about having to had slept in worse conditions. Khoa had called on his bullshit – utterly miserable and ready to make fun of whatever pampered rich boy adventure Bruce was about to share. Instead, Bruce had shared a piece of his childhood that hadn't quite clicked to minhkhoa then.

“My guardian hosed me down in the winter when I got myself kicked off a school again – then he’d lock me up down in the manor's cellars – This is nothing compared to that! We are enjoying a clear night sky and the freshest air here!” Bruce had laughed and refused to elaborate further on the topic.

That morning he had woken up to Bruce’s head under his chin – their legs tangled together – their arms around each other. Later that day they reached Luka’s forest cabin.

Minhkhoa needed to check himself for mind control soon. This was getting ridiculous.

There weren't many small corners one could hide in on the haunt. Minhkhoa designed it modern and practical – brutalist even. The haunt consisted of cold stone and colder steel square room with minimalistic furniture. The only room to differ from the design of the rest of the haunt was the trophy room.

He had carefully mimicked details of the Batcave while designing it – he had gotten a bigger dinosaur than Bruce just because he could – nothing to do with Bruce's adoration of the dinosaur. The trophy room, while still modern, had a more complex design.

He took a seat under the definitely larger than Bruce’s dinosaur. He checked the tiny device connected to his wrist. There was a report from Icon he received a few hours ago.

It read a brief description of the pattern of Bruce’s deterioration. Icon had gone past the requested three weeks to the last three months. His children had been seen twice during that time. Footage of them arriving in a group on motorbikes and leaving in a hurry.

Icon had spent a great deal of effort searching through on alternative route of entry to any recordings of that night. Icon had managed to find a listening device left on recording nearby Bruce. A device Bruce had forgotten on. Among the many hours of silence, the device had recorded Icon had found the missing sound of the deleted footage.

Minkhoa took out an earpiece and clicked listen. He could hear the barely there taps of Bruce’s fancy keyboard. The sound did not last for long as the roar of multiple motored vehicles broke the quiet of Bruce’s cave.

Angry murmurs belonging to many individuals – fast and harsh steps that wanted to be acknowledged.

“Of course, he wouldn't even look at us” A scoff – rough low male voice.

“That's b. Hey, b we know you know that we are here, hell you knew that we were coming” Angry threatening tone full of forced cheer.

“Father, you re-applied the trackers we agreed upon for you to not activate. You have breached our trust.” Young voice, matter of fact, stating the basis of their shared grievance.

“B you could have just asked how we were doing instead of stalking us”

“Why the fuck did I even come, we know how b-man is – god he is so infuriating- won't you even deign to look at us?!” A dramatic sigh, angry female voice bordering on screaming.

“He is aware of us” quieter – female, straight on point.

Multiple voices mixing into barely comprehensible mess of father, b, Bruce, old man – whys, cants, insults, complaints and demands all at once demanding to be heard over each other.

Bruce remained silent. Angry steps closed in on the microphone – slight squeak of a chair violently turned – the sounds of fists hitting flesh.

Minhkhoa had heard enough. He stopped the recording. He ordered Icon to give him a summary of the rest of the voice recording. He couldn't bring himself to listen to it- to Bruce allowing himself to be talked over – for him not being given a chance to form a response – for him to allow the children he took in to use him as a fucking punching bag.

He remembered Bruce speaking of wanting family that would not have to be perfect, but one that would at least love him.

Icon gave him an emoticon for thumbs up. Minhkhoa threw the earpiece out of his ear and spoke impulsively.

“My dinosaur is definitely larger than yours, Bruce” Khoa tried his best smug expression – He was being ridiculous – this was stupid. How could they- Bruce had only ever wanted one thing-

Bruce materialized to his side in all his Victorian ghostly glory. Minhkhoa offered him the nutrient shake. “You don't even know what species your dinosaur is-”

Bruce used to talk with his hands when he was invested in a topic. To Bruce dinosaurs were majestic and brilliant creatures – to Minhkhoa they were a sure way to get Bruce distracted and going.

Bruce didn't talk with his hands anymore. They twitched minutely in the casual position he was consciously keeping them. Minhkhoa shoved the shake against Bruces right hand. Bruce took it – a win.

Bruce started sipping at the drink while he talked. His left hand held casually close to his body while the right now holding the shake was held in front of his chest. He took a sip at every third suppressed twitch.

Bruce was shirtless; the only thing covering his torso was the bandage spanning across his left shoulder and collarbone.

He didn't see any fluids leaking through the bandage – the stich work by khoas own hands on Bruce’s side was looking as well as a stitched wound could. Bruises on Bruce’s skin remained ugly. The bruises from some of which if not every was inflicted by the damned children the man had taken in.

He really needed to have Bruce checked for that bruising; it was excessive. Bruce had taught the children where to hit and hard.

“You aren't listening to anything I'm saying are you”

“You should talk more; I like the sound of whatever you are saying” Minhkhoa could pat his own back for yet another successful distraction. Bruce stared at him, wide-eyed.

He took the empty shake off Bruce’s still hand – linked their arms and dragged a stunned Batman along with him to the med bay

He checked Bruce for fractured and broken bones quickly. Bruce walked on fractures and broken bones like they didn't bother him; one could never know if his bones were broken if one didn't have an x ray to subject him into.

Bruces ribs were bruised – multiple aimed powered strikes to them, made by the children Bruce had raised and protected – but they were not broken. Bruce had a slight half healed fracture on the sole of his left foot. His left arm had been out of its socked and brutally set back – likely by Bruce himself.

The majority of his ill stitched wounds did not require more attending. They would scar ugly, but Bruce would remain functional – if a bit more textured. Minkhoa would enjoy running his hands along Bruce’s skin.

“Did you mean that?” Bruce asked. His eyes locked onto Minhkhoa’s bare face – his beautiful eyes pleading.

“Of course” Khoa scoffed. He did enjoy listening to Bruce talk. His voice was a pleasant timber – Khoa would listen to any sickly idiotic book full of useless miss information if it had been narrated by the sound of Bruce’s voice.

“I don't understand” Bruce sounded small, his eyes searched for something in Khoa, Bruce was mapping out every single slight bit of body language – every micro expression and no doubt utterly over thinking everything he saw.

It was best to be honest with Bruce – Bruce was too attuned to everything Khoa for him to mirror and mask around Bruce. Bruce had figured out his lies a few months in their alliance at Paektu mountains.

Why couldn't Bruce just have accepted the perfectly fine personality Minhkhoa had crafted for him – this would be so much easier if he had a role to play, something bit more impersonal. Everything would be so much easier if he didn't need to be just Khoa for Bruce.

“I do like the sound of your voice” Minhkhoa wanted to add a biting remark – a joke- something insulting, anything to distract. He had done so many times over and over again – Khoa wanted to keep Bruce – to be better than his associates – that required stepping into the state of being that was Minhkhoa Khan.

Minhkhoa Khan unmasked was barely hidden apathy and obsession – he was intense, self-serving and uncaring of how his actions affected anyone else that wasn't Bruce Wayne.

He couldn't say what he really wanted of Bruce. Batman was a symbol – a myth – Bruce Wayne was a man. A man that was the only thing worth consideration in his life. Around Bruce Wayne he could almost forget that he couldn't love anyone – not really – but what was love if not obsession – if not making an effort to consider how his actions affect the object of his everlasting obsession.

Bruce Wayne was no object – no matter how he presented himself to the public, no matter how deeply Gotham had laid its claws in him – Bruce Wayne was a man Minhkhoa among many others wised to lay their claim on.

Minhkhoa had observed Bruce Wayne always loving what could never love him back. He loved Gotham, he loved many people who weren't willing to love him as he was. He loved people who wanted to change him, Talia, Selina, his butler, his children and many others that strayed in his path and into his pathetic loving heart.

Unlike them, Minhkhoa wanted Bruce Wayne. He wanted Bruce’s inability to be normal; he wanted his ideals, his mission – a mission that had been theirs before it even began. Minhkhoa would return Bruce to Gotham if he had to – but Khoa would not return Bruce to his associates – not completely. They didn't deserve Bruce, Gotham didn't deserve him, but Bruce loved what didn't love him back.

Minhkhoa couldn't love Bruce in the way he had once craved to be loved, but Minhkhoa could try to save the man who wanted to save everyone – Minhkhoa could be better.

Khoa kneeled before the cot Bruce was sitting on and pulled Bruce close. He’d read that physical contact helped to soothe some people. "I want you, Bruce” He wanted to provide a list on how he’d be better than anyone else in Bruce’s life – he wanted to make Bruce understand how much happier he could be with Khoa – Khoa wanted Bruce to smile like he used to.

Bruce shuddered in his arms and nestled his head against Khoa’s neck – hiding. “I don't think my children want me there anymore”

“What did they do”

“I-”

“Bruce, what did they do”

Minhkhoa knew enough of what they had done – he wanted Bruce to admit how badly they treated him – he wanted Bruce to realize how bad his children were to and for him.

Bruce snaked his arms around Minhkhoa and latched onto him tightly. “We had an – argument,” he amended his hold on Minhkhoa tightening. Minhkhoa knew Bruce hated this – being vulnerable just as much as he did if not more.

“On what” He probed – not quite demanding.

“I re-started tracking each one of them – I just wanted to check on them – I didn’t want to violate their privacy - I just- Khoa it had been three months since anyone of them visited – I just wanted to-”

Minhkhoa tightened his hold on Bruce, he lifted left hand to cradle Bruce’s hair. “I never come over and fight you for tracking me, do I?” Minhkhoa had discovered affirmation to supposedly was another important thing that was proven to be helpful when providing support.

“No, but-”

“Bruce, you don't butt in even when you know I am killing people left and right”

“You don't just kill people left and right Khoa-”

“You only ever butt in when I'm injured, or you think I am being reckless and Icon if failing to get some sense into me” It was best to use real life examples related to them both.

“I-”

“Bruce I really do like the sound of your voice – but listen to me for now” He felt Bruce nod against his neck.

Minhkhoa sighed. This really was outside of his expertise. He’d tried to have Icon explain these things to him. Minhkhoa just couldn't understand the unpleasant looking feelings Bruce was fighting against. He couldn't understand why Bruce wasn't angry. “Bruce, I can see the bruises on you. You – let them hit you like a punching bag”

Minhkhoa wanted to scream his outrage for Bruce. For Bruce who was the center of Minhkhoa Khan’s - the Ghostmaker’s world. Was this what you wanted from a family worth fighting a better future for? Was this what you dreamt of keeping you afloat while you let Gotham take more and more of you? Was this what you envisioned when you spoke of the most ridiculous dream you could come up with? A dream that was just for yourself.

He felt Bruce inhaling – preparing to justify the behaviors of his – children. “No Bruce, I don't feel things like you do, but even I can see that is not - even for a – family like yours” Minhkhoa was fumbling for words, doing his best not to scream at Bruce – how could you let them do this to you! - Minhkhoa still remembered his parents – his father coming home late and-

“I provoked them”

“Shut up Bruce. I want you here, stay with me – at least for a while. They don't want you there like you said” Minhkhoa was bordering on manipulation – he was aware of what he was doing – but he needed to have Bruce stay and come with him.

He wanted Bruce – the self-proclaimed family of the bat, did not deserve Bruce Wayne. Technically, he was just stating facts. They did not want Bruce as he was – they wanted Bruce to change before embracing him fully – Khoa was ready embrace all of Bruce without him changing – well Minhkhoa wouldn't mind if Bruce transferred his smile back to his lips – his laughs to unapologetic and bright. He didn't think the changes he wished from Bruce were bad and wrong – he basically just wanted Bruce happier – while preferably with him.

“I’ll stay if you’ll have me, for a while” A quiet tentative murmur against his neck.

“I’ll have you gladly, Bruce” Forever if you would stay with me, Minhkhoa wanted to add – but didn't – couldn’t bring himself to be so open for rejection again. He’d have Bruce – for a while. He could prove to Bruce that they belonged together.

A shaky breath against him. “We should eat something more proper, besides I’ve missed cooking” Bruce offered. He too deeming these unpleasant topics neither of them knew how to talk about to be enough for the time being.

Minhkhoa took Bruce’s offer gladly, besides he would never deny Bruce’s cooking. “What are you making?”

“I want something light” Bruce marched off into the kitchen, and Minhkhoa couldn't quite bring himself to let go of Bruce fully. He wrapped his arms around Bruce’s waist and rested his chin on Bruce’s right shoulder. Bruce didn't tell him off even as he began taking out ingredients for their meal.

Minhkhoa watched Burce pick out two onions, one big zucchini, some cauliflower and a small batch of spinach along with three carrots. He picked up a bottle of perfectly smooth tomato puree and set everything on a cutting board beside a blender.

Minhkhoa continued clinging onto Bruce as he chopped up the vegetables. They existed in perfectly content and utterly comfortable silence. Minhkhoa listened to the sound of Bruce’s knife hitting the cutting board and matched his breathing to Bruce’s ever steady one. Minhkhoa Khan was utterly completely comfortable.

The sounds of throughout blending, boiling water and shimmering sauce filled the soft silence. Bruce felt relaxed under his arms, focused and comfortably distracted by cooking. Minhkhoa was in a state akin to meditation. He was aware of what was happening around him – most importantly he was aware of Bruce inside of his arms.

Khoa moved with Bruce when he moved. Minhkhoa felt them melting into one like they often had in Paektu mountains.

Two months into their shared time on Paektu mountains Bruce had ceased from disappearing – mostly. Him and Bruce then Anton and Jack had spent every one of their waking and unconscious hours together.

Minhkhoa had found himself always looking to touch Bruce – whenever it had been linked hands, longer contact when sparring and never straying far off when it could be helped.

He had thought himself to be alone in the world before Bruce.

They did everything together. They changeling each other sparring – they picked out each other's techniques weak points and bested them. They had been sponges for any and every piece of knowledge bestowed upon them. They had made their bodies weapons together.

The other students did not like Jack and Anton. Minhkhoa had seen in the way they glared at them – the way their bodies wound just slightly tighter whenever Minhkhoa and Bruce adopted and adapted what Kirigi taught them with ease.

Minhkhoa hadn't been able to bring himself to think of a time after Bruce – he felt the deepest sense of belonging when he was with Bruce. Minhkhoa had made sure to establish the fact that they remained safer together.

It was bitterly cold in the Paektu mountains. Minhkhoa could appreciate snow – at a distance – while preferably inside – warm. He could tolerate cold just fine – Minhkhoa simply preferred to not freeze his balls off when it could be helped. They were warmer together – stuffed under the same flimsy futon.

They laid under their futon arms around each other, legs drawn close and tangled, their breath intermingling- breathing warm air was simply efficient in not freezing in their sleep.

Their rooms had been next to each other before Minhkhoa took it upon himself to get rid of the distance between them.

Minhkhoa had provoked a group of other students. The group consisted of five men who had come to Paektu mountain before Minhkhoa and Bruce. They had been big men well into their thirties by appearance and behavior. They despised Anton and by extension Jack.

Mnhkhoa had wanted to get Bruce closer to him – he knew Bruce couldn't help himself when there was a person who needed his help – so Minhkhoa showed off a little more – grinned a little cockier, walked around overly confident sending the most infuriating smirks to the group of men he never bothered to learn the names of.

He needed the men to attack him. He counted on Bruce waking and hearing the commotion right next to his room, Minhkhoa could even yell a little – hell he’d been ready to yell a help me or two.

Minhkhoa hadn't needed to yell out for Bruce; he hadn't even needed to take a few hits for his cause. Bruce had climbed over to his room and made him follow Bruce up the ceiling into the unlit corridors.

They had melted in the shadows of the ceiling as one. Minhkhoa mirroring Bruce’s every move perfectly. The men going towards Minhkhoa’s room below them never glanced up – no matter how Kirigi had tried to teach them.

His and Bruces superiority had simply been proven that night. Their masterful hiding had not been aided by their tiny bodies yet to have even grown a bit of hair on top of their chins.

Bruce had been tense – ready to pounce, twitching at the slightest of movements. They stayed up the celling that night. When the morning had finally started its rise Bruce had broken their silence and whispered to Minhkhoa quietly. “We should stick together, sleep in the same room – It would be – safer.”

Minhkhoa had smiled and agreed. He had gotten exactly what he wanted and more. He established their safety in staying together. He gained an excellent human motion detector. He had quickly discovered Bruce woke to the smallest noises, the slightest of changes in their rooms.

There wasn't a night in which they did not sleep tangled around each other.

Minhkhoa had been cold after Canada. He was colder after Lazarus – after Singapore. Even as he watched Bruce struggle and fight for their mission.

He had Bruce again for now.

Bruce didn't point out his spacing out. Bruce simply took to carrying a portion for both of them; forks already set on their plates. They ate side against side.

Bruce had foregone any meat in his light dish that consisted of albeit healthy pasta sauce and Bruces preferred shape of pasta it lacked any protein. It was good – like everything Bruce ever made.

The texture carried no hints of the vegetables. Carrots brought slight sweetness balancing the sourness of the tomato puree. Minhkhoa wouldn't know there was any zucchini if he hadn't seen Bruce picking one out; neither could be see nor taste any trace of spinach. Cauliflower brought a sense of light creaminess to the sauce.

It was good. Minhkhoa made his appreciation clear to Bruce by nudging Bruce by his knee and interlocking their elbows. Khoa observed Bruce as he ate. He was more relaxed now, more importantly he was eating everything on his plate.

Minhkhoa cleared his plate first – as the winner it was simply his right to make Bruce chug another one of the shakes after their meal. Bruce needed every gram of protein Minhkhoa could make him consume.

Bruce had worked hard for the bulk of muscle he’d had. It was only right to aid Bruce in the re-gaining back the muscle Minhkhoa was sure he still wielded just months ago.

“Your bandage needs changing”

“I changed it while you slept”

Bruce had done more than disappearing then, Minhkhoa couldn't help but wonder what else had Bruce been doing while he still slept. It was futile to ask if the wound was doing better – Bruce's point of view on his own injuries was not realistic in the slightest.

“Icon made sure, I made the change up to your perfectionist standards”

Minhkoa raised an eyebrow. It did soothe some part of him to know Icon had observed and approved Bruce's work.

“You got the look when you think I'm downplaying my injuries” Bruce shrugged. “I simply wanted to ease your worrying”

“I wasn't worried, Bruce” Minkhoa scoffed, too quickly.

Bruce lied of more things than Minhkhoa could count. He misdirected topics he did not want to discuss; he pretended parts of him did not exist – he'd become a master of facades. They both lied about more things than they were truthful.

Yet to each other, they were more honest than they were to anyone else when it really counted.

“I take it you are aware of our destination”

“Icon was kind enough to provide me with that information” A corner of Bruces mouth lifted slightly along the teasing tone.

“Of course she was” Minhkhoa did not sound fond. He was merely slightly irritated with Icon buddying up with Bruce, but what could he expect. Minhkhoa had programmed Icon after all.

Chapter Text

Cassandra Cain could read any micro expressions and slight changes in body language. It was the first language she’d learnt.

Bruce Wayne was a master of deceit. He lied through his body language - he lied through his words. Cassandra was never quite sure what in Bruce was the truth.

Bruce Wayne consisted of ever altering ever changing patterns. He was Brucie Wayne, the philanthropist billionaire. Brucie carried himself light as air - flippant and kind. Brucie Wayne shined around the people of Gotham.

She saw his eyes light up when he spoke out in Galas - Brucie Wayne consumed and gifted. Brucie Wayne embodied a light air headedness and all too convincing kind smiles. When Brucie Wayne looked at people, he made them feel special. Brucie Wayne was a good-hearted helpful man.

Batman was a field commander leading a team that consisted of family. Batman moved like he was unstoppable - batman was calculated, fast and always on top of anything that mattered. Yet Batman cared for every single soul he interacted with. First and foremost, Batman wanted to be of help. Brucie Wayne was the beloved Prince of Gotham.

Batman consisted of sharp intellect portrayed in each and every one of his movements. Batman was for the most part always in control of each and every part of his body language.

Batman was hard on the criminal underworld; batman was the one to call the shots and make the hardest decisions to his team and batman was the one to soothe the people of Gotham. Batman was the knight of Gotham

Bruce Wayne, the father, was kind and perpetually guilty. Bruce Wayne, the father, loved each and every one of them. It was clear for Cass to see, but Bruce Wayne the father was a rare sight. He consisted of unsure movements that did not align with Brucie and Batman.

Bruce, the father, was unsure, kind, and painfully afraid. Afraid of what Cass wasn't entirely certain. Afraid for them, afraid of something more. Bruce, the father, wanted to help.

There were more patterns of Bruce Cass didn't know the names for. Each distinct in their body language. Each and every pattern Bruce embodied; each role he played wanted to help.

Sometimes Bruce went through times of complete blankness. His expressions didn't betray anything, his body language something entirely foreign - robotic yet ultimately it was weary - tired of everything.

Bruce consisted of constant suppression. He suppressed movements when he spoke - he watched what he spoke - kept his body tight under a leash tighter than any chain. The chains suppressing him were only visible when Bruce was not – on top.

Cassandra Cain didn't see what was under that tight wound control. She wasn't sure what was underneath all the deceit was entirely whole.

Under the father, Brucie and Batman was a mystery. Sometimes when Bruce had been worn down, he didn't quite manage any of his roles. Bruce became a mess of anger, sadness, fear, and guilt chained with weight that pressed down his shoulders worthy of carrying the world.

Cass had been content with Bruce. She had understood that Bruce wasn't able to communicate as people normally did. Barbara spoke of Bruce’s inability to communicate like a normal person with resignation and fondness. She had given up on wishing more off Bruce - demanding Bruce change in a way he was seemingly incapable of.

Steph collided with Bruce often and loudly. She’d scream, shout, and hiss. Behind the anger Cass saw concern, concern for the man not Steph’s father and bitter resentment past mistakes done. Steph still loved Bruce.

Tim was a lot like Bruce. His body language was wound tight under a leash, not quite as ironclad as Bruce’s. Tim was twitchy movements and stillness. Tim was hopefulness and self-denying perseverance. Tim spoke of Bruce with devotion. Batman was his hero first and foremost. Tim craved for Bruce’s approval and affection with every fiber of his being. Tim loved Bruce deeply and he was so very afraid of rejection - of dismissal.

Damian like Tim and Bruce held his body under control. Damian held himself together and calculated his body moved in tune with his intuition yet faltered hiding under a thick shell of self-doubt.

Dick and Jason were loud. Their expressions screamed; their body languages demanded acknowledgement. They loved Bruce; they had known him before Bruce had become what he was now completely. They resented his change.

On quiet nights on quiet rooftops, Cass observed her loudest brothers quiet down amongst themselves. Their bodies contemplative and melancholic. She knew they spoke of Bruce.

In short, their family loved Bruce and Bruce loved them. They were a mess of conflicting unpleasant emotions, expressions, and more things were left unsaid than spoken of.

Bruce’s undiluted attention was suffocating - yet they all craved for it - his all-seeing and knowing eyes already knowing what you’d say before you did, but polite enough to let you work up to what you wanted to say.

Bruce was an unmoving object amongst storms. Cass had heard Jason referring to Bruce as such. She liked the reference. She often thought of Bruce as unmovable.

Bruce was safe; he was always there his presence if suffocating promised to take care of you to soothe to let him fix what was wrong, while pulling you into the depths of him consuming and cradling you.

Cass valued her independency. They all did. Jason and Dick more so than others.

They loved and resented Bruce. They wanted their independence fiercely, yet they wanted complicated things out of Bruce, he didn't know how to provide, things he failed at trying to give them. Bruce couldn't give them complete honesty; Bruce could not lay his vulnerability on them. He saw them as his kids first and foremost, not adults he would depend his worries on.

Dick and Jason were Bruce’s sons. If asked from Dick, he’d correct you to being his ward, if asked Jason, he’d refuse any familial connection to Bruce, even when he knew Cass could see everything, he left unsaid. Bruce saw them as his. Cass saw it in the way Bruce looked at the two, the way his body twitched towards the two of them before halting himself. Bruce was afraid for Dick and Jason.

Dick and Jason both barged in only to fight with Bruce. They both purged their frustration on him over the slightest things. Bruce was their easy target to get their frustrations out on. A target they knew could always take their hits and remain unphased.

Bruce disappeared after every fight they fought. Nobody could find him once he disappeared. He vanished into thin air - into the shadows of Wayne Manor - into the depths of the Batcave only known to him. He could still appear for things he was needed for, but he was off when he did.

He’d show up to take Damian to school. He’d talk and react, but something would remain off. He’d patrol, but he’d stay away unless he was needed to soothe, take the reins or to offer council. He showed up to Wayne enterprises, but he’d be a little less Brucie just a little more vacant.

Bruce could disappear from just minutes and hours to days. He rarely disappeared for longer periods of time, but he did so without fail after the ugliest fights between him Dick and or Jason.

Their most recent fight had been the ugliest she had borne witness to. Cass wasn't quite so sure what drove Dick to gather them for an intervention. There were lots of things underlying the tracker re-application.

Bruce had been looming around each and every one of them during patrol. They interpreted it as Bruce not trusting them their hard-fought independence of him during patrol.

Bruce had even been lurking around each of their civilian identities. Damian reported Bruce to have sat around the usual routes he took Titus on morning walks. Tim told them of seeing Bruce lurking around galas he knew Tim to attend - galas which he usually would not have bothered attending.

Steph had not seen Bruce, but Leslie had mentioned the bat to have loomed around her clinic during Steph’s shifts there. Dick and Jason had not seen Bruce, but it was safe to assume his looming presence to have paid them visits as well.

Cass herself had seen Bruce sitting Infront of a cafe directly by the ballet studio she liked to frequent. He hadn't done anything, hadn't placed bugs, hadn't come up to her, nor had he stared obnoxiously. He had simply remained where he could be near her at a distance that would not bother her.

Bruce had shut himself off completely once they barged into the Batcave - into Bruce’s domain. Bruce had become blank - he hadn't reacted to anything they said and tried. He had been there - but he wasn't there - with them.

They hadn't waited to be acknowledged. Jason had barged in first and headed straight towards Bruce from their bikes. Dick hadn't Been far behind him.

They had both been angry, hurt and frustrated, craving for a fight Bruce hadn't wanted to participate in.

” Of course he wouldn't even look at us” Jason had scoffed. He had thrown his arms wide ready to fight from the slightest of provocation. His body and expressions had screamed of aggression and anger.

” That's b. Hey b we know you know that we are here, hell you knew that we were coming” Dick was still smiling. She hated it when Dick presented himself all teeth and underlying aggressions.

Dick was different when he fought with Bruce.

” Father, you re-applied the trackers we agreed upon for you not to activate. You have breached our privacy and trust”

Damian stayed back with her and Tim. He pressed close to Cass his hands searching for something to hold onto. Cass offered her hand to Damian. Although matter of fact Damian was anxious, he didn't like how the intervention was going. Damian kept shooting glances between Dick and Bruce.

” B you could have just asked how we were doing instead of stalking us”

Tim didn't yell; each of his words was chosen deliberately. spoken out with a tone carefully void of emotional engagement that was written all over Tim’s body. He tried detaching himself of the emotions raging in the cave. He was failing - Cass could see the slight tremble in his hands - the way he didn't quite look directedly at Bruce Jason and Dick.

Cass didn't think they would have answered if Bruce had asked them. Dick and Steph would have thrown fits and would have told Bruce to stay out of their business. Damian would have given him a report; Tim and Jason would have left him on sent; Cass wasn't sure what she would have done.

” Why the fuck did I even come here, we all know how b-man is - God - he is so infuriating - won't you just even deign to look at us?!” Steph had taken a few steps closer. She despised Bruce lurking around her.

Steph ranted and raved to Cass, to Barbara - to anyone who’d listen how Bruce always stone walled them, never considered their opinions and steam rolled over every argument without consideration.

Barbara always disagreed with Steph’s points. Cass did too; She didn't think not being understood made Bruce automatically wrong and in need of fixing. Cass hadn't been able to communicate up to the standard; she was better now, and it was thanks to Barbara and Bruce.

Bruce was paying attention to them. Bruce heard everything they said. He was looking at them in every way but turning. Bruce was looking at them in every way, but the one deemed normal and acceptable.

” He is aware of us” she said and regretted it in an instant. Jason was yelling out insults, Steph was shouting out demands and bringing up past grievances, Tim was trying to get a point across, Damian stood frozen beside Cass holding onto her hand, dick was trying to shout commands over everybody.

Bruce’s expression twitched minutely, still quiet. He raised his left eyebrow. Cass could see rage taking over Jason - he pounced on Bruce. His fists raining in on Bruce’s ribs.

Dick pulled Jason off of Bruce furiously with the help of Tim and Steph they held Jason from continuing his assault on Bruce who appeared unfaced - his expression wholly batman while his body remained blank - in control.

” Anyone else?” Bruce's voice was steady - unwavering completely void of strain. Something didn't feel right-

Dick raised his fist and hit Bruce on his left cheekbone.

”de-active the trackers Bruce and stay away from us.”

They left Bruce sitting alone in the cave.

They still had seen him firmly on his own logged patrol route. He hadn't patrolled every night. Each night Bruce didn't patrol in on was noted and not quite celebrated, but each night Bruce wasn't actively on patrol the mood was lighter.

Bruce had deleted the footage of the fight like he always did when a fight got physical. Bruce had never hit any one of them outside of training, even then he always held back his hits.

Bruce had been on the paths only known to him for fivety four hours, which in in self was not unusual. What was concerning was he had stopped going to Wayne enterprises; he had not gone to patrol, nor had he appeared on any situations they might have usually needed him in on.

They asked Barbara to track Bruce. Barbara had found a suspicious outage on the cave's cameras. 34 minutes and 51.03 seconds had been blocked off.

The cave bore newer and older blood upon its floors. Bruce always cleaned after himself; he was meticulous; It wasn't like him to allow his space to become so dirty.

The pain killer cabinet was stocked full and almost untouched. Rolls of used dirtied bandages laid on the cot Bruce always used when stitching himself up. The needles reserved for stitching wounds were dull and dirty.

These changes had been in the making for the last 3 months, in the 3 months that they had pulled away from Bruce

There was cosmetic padding on the torn upper half of the suit that had been left lying on the ground in a pool of blood.

There was cosmetic padding on Bruce’s suit. Bruce had lost enough mass to see a cosmetic padding necessary to remain undetected.

None of them had noticed - none of them had looked past their conflicts and seen the man beneath the myth.

Now Bruce was gone - taken by a foe unknown to them. Only glue leading to him a taunt

---

Bruce Wayne had been missing for approximately fifty hours. It had taken fifty four hours, forty three minutes and eleven seconds to discover that Bruce was missing. In the footage Bruce had sat on his chair Infront of the bat-computer, and the next moment the clock of had moved ahead and there was no sight of Bruce – Only a bloody pool under his chair remained of him. And a taunting stamp of the Ghostmaker.

Dick was phasing in the safe house he’d run to Jason behind his heel’s. It was a nicer safe house; Bruce kept it stocked well.

“Jason. You. Hit. Him.”

“Like you didn't gift him with a black eye every time you fought with him back in the days, I’m merely following the example - you set” Jason sneered.

“He fucking knows what that eyebrow does to us, he fucking knows, Dick!”

Bruce could raise a single eyebrow and make everything you said feel ridiculous, childish, and completely irrational. A single eyebrow could make any totally valid complaint, every carefully thought-out reasoning void. A single eyebrow raised could into blind desperate rage. Desperate rage to be heard, to be taken seriously, for their thoughts to be heard and validated.

“we’ve talked with him so god damn many times about it, dick, and he still fucking raises that stubid fucking eyebrow!” Jason was pacing infront of him cleching jaw opening and closing his fists.

They had talked to Bruce about communication many times. Bruce had been made aware of what the rise of his eyebrow conveyed to them. Bruce had to be aware of what he was doing. There was no way he didn't remember; Bruce never forgot anything.

Something was badly wrong with Bruce. Something was always badly wrong with Bruce, but he was clearly attempting to push them away for a reason that could only ever make sense to Bruce.

“He was pushing us away” Dick stated his mind running racing through millions of thoughts, half-baked conclusions and possible reasons.

“When is he fucking not, Dickhead”

“He wanted us to see us” Dick was talking out loud “Yet he didn't want us to see something”

Jason stopped his pacing – stared at dick grimly. “What do you think he didn't want us to see?” he asked

“You saw how the cave looked Jay, shit he must be hiding some more serious injury, Bruce just does not let the cave go into that condition, not ever, not even when you-”

“When I died you mean”

“This is not the time for this Jason.”

“It never is, is it” Jason turned away, heading towards the window.

“Jay, listen to me, something is off with Bruce!”

“Bruce can handle everything by himself, I'm sure he’ll be just fine, Dick” Jason murmured bitterly, he ripped his arm off Dicks hold and jumped out of the window. Dick was left alone in the safe house Bruce kept stocked for him between Blüdhaven and Gotham.

-----

Tim and Cass gathered anything resembling clues around the cave. They cleaned off the blood on the cave floors and surfaces. There was a lot of blood. The oldest stains were approximately two months old at best.

Tim tested different stains. All of the blood belonged to Bruce. Each patch showed slightly different blood cell counts. Oxygen levels remained normal.

Nutritional panels showed deficiencies in vitamin D, B12, and iron. Decreased levels of cholesterol.

Bruce was bad at eating when left to his own devices; the results weren't all that unusual. Some of the blood held higher and lower levels of Gotham made toxins.

Nothing was too badly off perse, but a feeling itched at the back of Tim’s head. Something was worse than it seemed. There were no traces of fatalities on the grimmer side of things. But Bruce had added padding to his suit. He had clearly lost a lot of mass to need to pad his suit. three months and that much lost mass was concerning.

“What do you think” Tim needed a second opinion. He valued Cass’’s insight and her ability to see things differently.

“I don't know” she shook her head, pinching her eyebrows together in thought.

“A bit off blood work could be explained by the number of injuries he’s sustained. Lack of nutrition is easily explained, but we are missing something” Tim listed off hands tangled in his hair.

“Bruce wasn't patrolling every night” Cass stated Tim could see a train of thought forming behind her eyes.

“He was injured a lot, going back to pervious patterns, but even then he did patrol every night” Tim countinued Casse’s train of thought

Cass hummed non-committally. “He wanted to see all of us, but pushed us away when we came to him, there's something he doesn't want us to see.”

Cass's reasoning was solid, but there were a lot of things Bruce did not want them to see. It could be a case Bruce deemed too taxing, details of really any matter that wasn't strictly needed to know, something he wanted to deal by himself and anything regarding his own physical and mental well-being.

“Theres nothing on his medical files, he hasn't logged any of the injuries he’s sustained in one and a half months.”

They nodded in agreement, they needed to find Bruce. Something was badly wrong with him; their only clue was the taunt left by Ghostmaker. They didn't know anything about the vigilante, no knowledge of a base of operations, name nor face. Bruce was taken by likely hostile vigilante from his past - something was badly wrong with him, and they had no idea where to start looking.

Tim hoped Bruce was okay; he couldn't survive losing Bruce. He felt Cass's hand on his shoulder – heavy and reassuring.

Chapter Text

Bruce was phasing in and out of the bathroom in his newly acquired clothes stolen off Khoa’s own closet. The pants were tied tightly; the white shirt hanging loose off his shoulders hiding any trace of the bandage wrapped around his torso.

“I can't go out in public looking like this Khoa”

“I don't see anyone stopping you” Minhkhoa enjoyed the look of irritation on Bruce’s face.

“I look like a victim of abuse; we don't need to raise that kind of attention”

Minhkhoa had to admit Bruce did look like an abused and malnourished housewife. His sunken cheeks did him no justice – let alone the ugly bruises on his skin. The bruise on his cheek bone particularly telling even for non-observant eyes. Loose clothing only highlighted the misery Bruce carried on himself.

“Sir if I may suggest, you keep some cosmetic resources available for these situations. I believe there are shades suiting the pale complexion of Bruce”

“Icon, I don't remember requiring your opinion”

“I saw the situation needed socially adept advice, sir. May I provide the cosmetic recourses?” Minhkhoa wondered when Icon learned to be so sassy.

Icon was already popping up its pixeled head and floating everything Bruce would need to cover up the bruises on him.

“Thank you again Icon” Ever polite Bruce thanked Icon. He smiled, his new smile, the one that didn't reach his lips – the unsure expression around his eyes.

Icon followed Bruce into the bathroom, Minhkhoa behind them. He sat on the closed toilet and fixed his gaze firmly on Bruce.

Minhkhoa watched Bruce go through the make-up. Bruce picked out a deep peach color to correct the yellowing bruise, He dotted the peach color lightly over the bruise using his fingertips to spread the color around.

Bruce’s movements were confident and sure, unlike the young teen Minhkhoa still remembered.

Bruce still hid bruises the way Avery had taught them.

Bruce had gotten punched for his efforts to woo a married woman. The woman's husband had not taken kindly to an obviously young upstart trying to flirt with his wife.

“I can't believe how badly you suck at this, aren't you supposed to be a born and raised socialite?” Minhkhoa had leered.

“I didn't remember her husband was present; I’d gone for him instead if I had known.” Bruce was grinning despite the ugly black eye forming over his right eye.

“I’ll give it to you Wayne, you did manage to become someone else – for a while” Avery walked into their room, hands clasped behind her back. “You failed to adapt” she added tutting her finger at Bruce while Minhkhoa held back laughter.

“How was I supposed to know she wasn't just wearing her ring” Bruce defended himself petulantly. Ridiculously adorable pout on his bruised face.

“Take this as a lesson of a different kind. Come, I highly doubt either of you can hide a bruise well.” Avery beckoned them to follow her over to her cave.

She explained them how to cover different colors of bruises. First, you needed to choose the right color corrector, for blue and purple bruises it was orange or peach, for red bruises, green. For yellow and golden bruises, lavender or a deep peach color.

The color was to be dotted lightly over the bruise. It was to be patted and pressed rather than swiping it on.

Next came up setting powder and full coverage concealer that matched the exact skin tone of the unfortunate bearer of the bruise.

The bruise on Bruce’s face had been an ugly purple shade then. Minhkhoa remembered Avery getting overtly frustrated by the amount of color needed to fully neutralize the ugly shade of the bruise.

Bruce had been clumsy and unsure about handling the make-up. He’d looked to Avery for clarification for every little bit of make-up applied. Minhkhoa had wanted to snatch the products off Bruces hands and just cover up the bruise himself. Besides Bruce shouldn't bare the marks of other men on his face.

“Let me” He could cover up that bruise now.

Bruce averted his eyes off the bathroom mirror and met his gaze with a raised eyebrow. Minhkhoa felt Bruce’s piercing eyes on his skin, mulling over the benefits, the downsides, the possible consequences. Reading into Minhkhoa’s motives.

Bruce extended the deep peach color and turned his face facing him. Moved closer and kneeled before the porcelain seat of the bathroom.

“I think it needs some purple”

Bruce hummed an agreeable sort of hum – turned to reach for another color to see Icon already floating the perfect shade of lavender over. Bruce nodded his thanks and handed over the lavender color.

Bruce was on his knees before him, looking up at Khoa expectantly – faint lopsided smirk curving up his lips.

Minhkhoa dotted the lavender over the yellowest parts of the Bruise; he held Bruce’s face with his both hands spreading the lavender around. Minhkhoa wanted to press his fingers in gouge his way inside Bruce’s eye sockets, intertwine himself with Bruce so thoroughly there would be no Bruce without Minhkhoa.

The yellow neutralized Minhkhoa dusted over the area with translucent setting powder. Bruce sat still between his legs, his expression serene, eyes closed, slightly leaning into Khoa’s hands. Bruce looked tired, no – the sunken cheeks made him look tired. Khoa could hide them, make Bruce look more alive; he would make Bruce eat more.

Minhkhoa took the lightest concealer off the tray and carefully blended it directly into the crease that framed the hollows of Bruces cheeks. He applied a luminous coral plush to the apples of Bruces cheeks, blended it out and upwards evenly

Bruce looked more alive. Still Minhkhoa could to better. Tiny dabs of shiny gloss at the center of Bruces lips, at the corners of Bruce’s eyes.

He could almost make the mistake of believing Bruce was fine. He’d done a fine job covering up the tells of poor health on Bruce.

“Do you have something specific planned for Brunei”

“I thought Icon was kind enough to provide you with the information”

“Sir, my system does not provide me with mind reading capabilities” Icon chirped

Bruce opened his eyes, amused expression on his face – what passed for an amused expression on Bruce’s face anyways.

“You used to be more expressive.” Khoa blurted.

“People grow and change, Khoa” Bruce sighed. “Not going to help me get up?”

He offered Bruce his arm for support. Minhkhoa didn’t think himself to have changed much from their youth. Unlike Bruce. “You have changed as well” Bruce rumbled. Bruce’s knowing eyes boring into him, reading, seeing through his brain.

Bruce held onto his arm tightly for support, he was standing now – barely. Bruce swayed on his feet, pressing his free hand on his chest.

Icon chirped in alarm – Minhkhoa sprang to his feet, holding tight onto Bruce’s extended arm. “I’m Fine” Bruce sounded winded. “Just need to-” Bruce took a steadying breath “Rest more”

Alarmed Minhkhoa led Bruce out of the bathroom back to their bed, forcefully shoving him down. “Icon, the wound-”

“The wound was fine, its healing is proceeding withing expectations, sir”

“I'm fine Khoa, just got up too fast.” Bruce offered reassurance, like Minhkhoa had ever needed platitudes from anyone. He needed information.

“You don't get dizzy from just getting up. Bruce”

“Recent blood loss, just give me a moment. You are aware of my condition not too long ago.” There had been concerning amounts of blood on the cave floors; Bruce had bled a decent amount of blood recently, Minhkhoa could recognize the reasoning logically, but Bruce was withholding something – Bruce wouldn't reason away a dizzy spell with excuses unless he wasn’t hiding something bigger.

“I suggest some rest before we arrive at our destination and plenty of water” Icon was already by their side floating a large flask of water and vitamin C supplements.

Bruce would rest few hours till they reached Brunei, Bruce would be fine.

Minhkhoa would keep a closer eye on Bruce’s health. Just in case. He pushed Bruce down onto the mattress.

“Rest” He commanded. Bruce was already unconscious, whether it was exhaustion or something else Minhkhoa did not know. Bruce would be rested once they reached Brunei, he’d be fine.

Bruce’s breath wheezed slightly in his sleep.

Brunei's legal system was based on English common law; sharia law did supersede it in some cases. Minhkhoa’s point of interest upon Brunei's law was their firm stand on the unlawfulness of homosexuality.

Khoa enjoyed baiting any and all officials, asking them to do something about him if they dared. Brunei wouldn't be the first county he had done it in.

It had always been more fun with Bruce. Before they had left for the league of shadows in a stolen car, Khoa had suggested one last misadventure before they’d be stuck in vigorous training under likely the cruelest teachers they’d face.

Minkhoa had wanted to see Bruce laugh the unguarded bubbly laugh that had begun to grow rarer. He’d known the league of shadows would teach them what they needed to learn, but Bruce would take the hit. He had never learned to brush off torture like Minhkhoa did. Admittedly Minhkhoa had an advantage on Bruce on the matter.

Each one of their teachers left their marks on Bruce. Some more than others.

They had pranced around in the largest marketplaces – flaunted their closeness – played in the most ridiculous stereotypes they could imagine.

In Saudi Arabia Bruce had chosen to wear a beautiful dress Oblonskey had forced him into to make their mission harder.

The dress had a scandalously cut V-neck that cut low down to Bruce’s navel. The dress had drawn eyes off from the plethora of scars Burce had worn on his skin even then, and invited the onlooker to ogle him – to admire his beaty.

Minhkhoa had worn a white suit he’d stolen and doused in pink glitter. They had looked dashing together and utterly homosexual.

Together they dodged rocks thrown at them; they kissed Infront of guarding officers passionately before disappearing right under their noses only to appear nearby for more.

Bruce had been mesmerizing, his kisses - gleeful of breaking narrow-minded laws they both despised.

That day had been the last he’d heard Bruce’s bright laughter - seen the smile that lit his world.

He wondered if Bruce still had that dress. If his lips had remained as soft as they had been.

They still looked just as soft. Bruce looked younger when he was asleep.

They arrived at Brunei during nightfall at a time the night markets were in full swing. They left the haunt hidden by a beach.

Bruce looked comfortable in khoas clothes, he’d stolen another white shirt and grey sweatpants off Minhkhoa’s closet – he'd even stolen a pair of khoas sandals to walk in. His sandals looked ridiculous on Bruce’s slightly too large feet. Minhkhoa wasn't sure if Bruce felt any better after resting for a few hours. Bruce’s movements were slightly too careful – accommodating for something he was lacking.

But Bruce didn't look quite as miserable with his now covered up bruise and skillfully hidden sunken cheeks. On the other hand, expertly applied makeup could hide sudden turns in Bruce’s condition.

” We need to get you your own clothes” he mused

” You could’ve thought of that before you snatched me in only the lower half of my suit.” Bruce snarked back – his tone was a dry statement, but for Minhkhoa it might as well have been a playful sort of snark.

” Maybe someone could have been a little more coherent to remember himself”

” Try being coherent under blood loss and sleep deprivation”

” All mighty Batman admitting being affected by the wounds of mortal men, this is news!”

Bruce shoved him over. Minhkhoa let himself fall and pulled Bruce down with him. They rolled in the sand. Sea breeze and swinging limbs dusting sand all over them.

They rolled once - Minhkhoa on top his thighs ghosting over Bruce’s knees - twice - Bruce bending his knees rolling his legs over khoas hefting them around - thrice - Minhkhoa back on top grinning like he did when they were teens his arms locked onto Bruce’s thin writs his thighs holding onto Bruce’s torso carefully , a fourth time, Bruce hefting Minhkhoa over his head swinging himself after and setting directly on Minhkhoa’s torso, his thighs locking Khoa’s legs his right arm locking Khoa’s writs over his head against the sand. His left arm settled under khoa’s chin.

Bruce, the vicious backstabbing manipulative bastard, attacked the soft skin under his chin and tickled. Minhkhoa wailed and let out sounds no one else could have ever even thought to torture out of him.

Bruce tickled him viciously all the while holding him down with strength that should not have been possible with his recent ailments.

Bruce was laughing - Bruce was laughing while he tortured khoa – Bruce. Was. Laughing. Khoa could withstand the torture of tickling forever if Bruce kept smiling at him like that. Bruce's smile was the most beautiful one he’d ever seen. It was the smile he’d gone through every bit of footage of Bruce available to him. A smile that he hadn't seen since Arabia

Bruce released his hold, began pulling back – impulsively Minhkhoa took him by the collar of his stolen T-shirt and collided their lips.

There were new nuances to kissing Bruce Wayne. He felt more refined; there was a new texture to Bruce’s lips. There were small scars on his lips - on his lower face that Minhkhoa hadn't had the chance to familiarize himself with. Kissing Bruce was rougher, his lips still soft only now textured with scars Minhkhoa didn't know the stories for.

Bruce kissed him back with reverence. He kept smiling into their kiss. Minhkhoa threaded his hands into Bruce’s sandy hair and held him in place - held him close.

Minhkhoa dominated their kiss - he familiarized himself with the feel of Bruce’s mouth, the texture of his newer scars

There was a scar with an addicting texture on right side of his upper lip, the scar curled inwards dancing across the soft inside of Bruce’s mouth.

He lowered his hands down Bruce’s body towards the waist band of his pants -Bruce held him by the wrist and gently disentangled off their kiss.

” You were going to take me somewhere, no?” It irritated Minhkhoa how composed Bruce could sound after a kiss like they shared while he himself was on his back staring up at Bruce panting like a dog. But that was Bruce Wayne.

” I was yes”

Bruce offered him his right hand and pulled him up. Bruce didn't let go, he linked their arms and let Minhkhoa take the lead of their direction.

Minhkhoa called his motorbike off the haunt and drove them over to the market. Bruce pressed close against him.

” You could have just taken your car”

” This way I get to have you pressed against me”

Bruce swatted at him lightly but interlocked their arms again.

” You know that we are illegal here, right?”

” I am aware, Khoa” Bruce the devious bastard raised an eyebrow and dared Minhkhoa to disentangle them and be the one to be suggesting not raising attention on them.

” Do you still have that dress?”

Bruce looked at him incredulously.” I didn't really have much of a chance on taking my belongings with me after Lazarus”

” In that case you are long overdue for a new one”

Bruce hummed a neutral sort of acknowledgement. Not refusing nor agreeing.” Planning on a scene then?”

” I can imagine many scenes Bruce”

Bruce jabbed at his side with his exceptionally pointy elbow.

” To the night market then” Khoa amended.

They got curious cleanses over their linked arms; no one threw anything at them nor went to alert any sort of authority though.

The market was bustling around them, smells, sounds, bright lights and plethora of languages ranging from Brunei Malay to English to Chinese.

People were laughing, talking, eating, and drinking; no one cared to disturb Bruce and Minhkhoa.

” Anything particular striking your fancy, Anton?” Bruce asked in Cantonese.

Minhkhoa grinned and responded in kind” I was thinking on something to drink accompanied by something sweet, dearest Jack”

Minhkhoa led them through the crowd Infront of table selling sweet teas. Bruce’s demeanor changed - smoothed over - he became Jack, Jack the chameleon now a social light presence fitting to charm.

He chatted with the young woman brightly in Tutong. He asked of each drink flavor and ended up in conversation of the young woman's family. People joined in on their conversation. The topic shifted into jack.

Bruce was the center and the heart of the conversation; he talked with his hands in the way he didn't allow himself to while being Bruce Wayne.

Jack was radiant under the attention - under admiring gazes who only wished to hear more; gazes that did not wait to stab him in the back nor want his attention for the chance of riches, a piece of the Gotham's prince.

Bruce painted them stories of pervious travels from Paris to Philippines, places which he had been under different purposes than merely traveling. He painted a highly entertaining picture.

Minhkhoa enjoyed looking at Bruce melting into a role. Bruce wasn't Jack - but there were parts of Jack in Bruce. The cleverest roles always had a sliver of truth hidden in.

Minhkhoa enjoyed watching Bruce’s hands tell the story along with him - free of restrain.

As much as he could stay and watch Bruce, he had a purpose here. He waved the merchant over and paid for two drinks. A censol cincau for himself and for Bruce he took teh tarik ais, a popular milk tea he was sure Bruce hadn't had the chance to taste for a while

He left Bruce to his conversation and made his mission to bring them something exciting to eat. He could see Bruce keeping track of him by the corner of his eyes.

He found a vendor selling Ban Jian Kueh. Thick and chewy pancakes, he bought two and set back to Bruce who was now listening to an old woman re tell adventures of her youth to him.

Bruce wasn't actively talking, and Minhkhoa wanted Bruce to himself again. He snaked through the crowd carrying their rewards balanced upon his left arm. He pulled Bruce to him by his right hand, linked their arms and danced them out of the market before Bruce would have the chance to tangle himself to yet another conversation.

Behind the market Minhkhoa offered Bruce his findings.” Let's go back to the beach, I have a spot I want to eat at”

Bruce raised a teasing eyebrow. Khoa raised his own suggestively. Bruce sighed and obliged him climbing in the passenger seat of the bike. He handed Bruce their food and climbed at the driver's seat.

Minhkhoa drove what was a fifteen-minute drive in six minutes and eleven seconds. He felt Bruce holding onto him and the bike with his thighs while holding their food in his hands.

Minhkhoa enjoyed the feel of Bruce’s tights holding onto him tight. Bruce was warm against him. Solid, if on the bonier side.

Minhkhoa jumped off the bike and turned over to Bruce only to see him already standing on the sand. Sandals kicked off his feet, their food in hand. He was looking at Minhkhoa expectantly.

Bruce's expression of expectancy wasn't on his face - it was in the way his shoulders were slightly tilted towards the water line, in the way his right arm was held at slightly higher position off his body, waiting for Minhkhoa to link their arms and lead him to wherever he wanted them to.

Minhkhoa took up to Bruce’s silent offer and led them over to the spot he had thought of taking Bruce to for so long.

They walked in comfortable silence not unlike the one they often traveled around the world in.

Minhkhoa and Bruce talked the most while sitting Infront of a campfire or laying down curled into each other waiting for sleep to claim them.

They shared mysteries they made up for the other to solve. Bruce’s always overly complicated. They used to talk of the future, their hopes, their plans – the worst-case scenarios.

Bruce had hoped for a family that would love him. He’d hoped for children he could dote on; children he would be allowed to spoil and love the way he hadn't been.

Minhkhoa had thought Bruce’s dream to be a foolish one. A stupid dream of an orphan boy. He was older now, he could logically understand Bruce’s craving for a family; he could understand it was the only dream Bruce had purely for himself, a dream that would have soothed the carnage of his soul after Gotham had taken its due.

For a while watching Bruce from a far Minhkhoa had thought Bruce’s dream to have come true. He may not have had a stable partner who’d stayed for him, but he had a child then children whom he’d spoiled and trained.

Then the first one flew out of the nest and the second died.

He’d watched as Bruce broke himself down night by night. He’d watched as Bruce returned to his cave wounded more often than not. He’d watched as Bruce patched himself up, patched up his children.

He’d watched Bruce sitting in his chair after – his hands trembling, his cowl off – staring toward yonder.

He’d watched Bruce surrounding himself with people who relied on him; people Bruce made himself a tool for.

It brought Minkhoa a sort of satisfaction in seeing Bruce so miserable without him there.

He’d watched as Bruce broke himself down night by night; he returned with wounds he could have avoided completely. He patched himself up alone, often poorly. He’d watched Bruce surround himself with people who relied on him and none who Bruce relied fully, like he had once done with Khoa.

Bruce got destructive when he was left to his own devices. Minhkhoa had observed the cycle one too many times. Bruce had been destructive before Khoa; he’d been destructive after up until the time the first child was trusted upon his care. After the said child left until the second one. Bruce had been almost good with the second one before he died.

Bruce had had time to be self-destructive for three months before Minhkhoa had taken it up to himself to take better care of Bruce.

Bruce was leaning his weight on him as they walked. His steps barely concealed stumbling. Minhkhoa saw the way Bruce didn't quite lift his feet properly – felt Bruce’s weight on my searching for balance.

“This is it” Minhkhoa sat down promptly on the sand pulling Bruce down with him.

“This does not look like your usual spots”

It was not the spot Minhkhoa had wanted to take Bruce to. The beach was flat ground riddled with driftwood and plastic waste. Below average and unusual beach. The spot Minhkhoa had wanted to take Bruce to was a few kilometers hike up hill with a perfectly nice and secluded view of the sea and the surrounding forest area. Making the hike in the dark with a stumbling Batman would be no good.

Minhkhoa preferred scenic spots located on high vantage points. High visibility flat ground paired with a forest at your backside was unadvisable ground for safety. Hidden high vantage point with far reach of view was preferred, but Bruce could not make the walk there.

Minhkhoa stared to see the reason Bruce had elected to neglect his nightly patrols. Bruce was suffering the consequences of his own neglect. Likely long-term blood loss, malnutrition, fatigue, dizzy spells after getting up, pain in the chest region. The pain could be explained away by the bruised ribs, and the reopened wound. Dizzy spells were a direct link of the malnutrition and blood loss. It was no wonder for Bruce to be fatigued.

But Bruce was oddly open about his more obvious ailments, was he happy to have the care of Minhkhoa or was he distracting Khoa from something. Bruce was lucky that Minhkhoa decided to care for his wellbeing.

Bruce looked him brow raised nonetheless he offered Minhkhoa his half of their little feast. Minhkhoa began eating his share promptly shutting any further conversation on their stopping point.

He didn't taste the drink, he didn't enjoy the Apam Balik. He watched Bruce nibbling at the street style pancake, not quite eating it, He wasn't drinking either.

“Not to your liking” He inquired – not accusingly, Minhkhoa knew Bruce found the smooth skin and the soft inside of the Apam Balik agreeable. Not liking was not the reason for Bruce’s nibbling

” I'm not hungry”

” Street food rarely is eaten for hunger”

Minhkhoa felt Bruces vicious glare boring into his side - how dare he point out behavioral oddities. Bruce didn't decline sweets when offered he rarely indulged in them by his own volition. Sad masochistic that he was.

” Drink at least, you know you need the liquids” Minhkhoa softened his approach, fighting Bruce would not be progressive to his goals. Bruce would simply get moody and stubborn. Giving him an alternative was the better option - meeting in the middle one could say.

Bruce latched his lips on the straw and drank languidly. Minhkhoa smirked; he was simply the best Bruce whisperer. Selfsatified Minhkhoa decided a reward was in order. He snatched Bruce’s barely touched Apam Balik and broke it down in the middle into two pieces.

Mercifully he handed Bruce the slightly smaller half and looked at him pointedly. Khoa returned to his own remaining drink and the newly acquired half of a perfectly good pancake.

Bruce was more compliant to subtle requests when not under scrutiny. It was better to let Bruce breathe, avoid looking directly, and pressuring with too much fervor.

Minhkhoa ignored the way Bruce swallowed every small bite of the pancake with great difficulty. Bruce never appreciated anyone pointing out his struggles.

With Luka Bruce struggled. He didn't have any issues hitting the targets, Bruce was frustratingly good at shooting with ranged weapons, his aim was impeccable. Bruce struggled with the aftermath and prelude. Minhkhoa had not known how to direct Bruce back then. He hadn't yet found all the little tells he could use to spin Bruce on the way of the desired outcome.

It had taken a long while for Minhkhoa to learn the art of meeting in the middle.

The first guns they’d ever been handed to had been an identical pair of Akdal Ghosts.

Bruce despised guns

Akdal Ghost was a compact semi-automatic designed in Turkey. Designed for security and law enforcement.

Seven hundred and fifty grams, one hundred and ninety millimeters in length, one hundred and thirteen-millimeter length barrel. Effective firing range sixty meters. Bruce held it like the gun had personally offended him.

Minhkhoa found the gun highly ergonomic. It had a decently comfortable grip. The gun felt balanced in his hand. In Bruces hands the gun looked offending.

Bruce shot perfectly fine; Minhkhoa didn't notice a single twitch in his expression. Bruce's hand was steady, his aim impeccable, his foresight on point. Luka praised him grimly.

Minhkhoa remembered Bruce grimacing at the praise. He had known Bruce would not be seen after the practice.

” Where is your better half” Luka looked around and behind Khoa.” I have something I need to say to him” Luka returned his critical gaze back to him. Luka didn't like Anton. Minhkhoa saw the way Luka searched through his behavior for any possible disobedience yearning for an excuse to throw him out, to scream out his accusations.

Minhkhoa had not been able to hide his nature from Luka completely.

” No glue, he’s doing his usual rounds of brooding somewhere, I can pass a message” he shrugged opting for a casual careless tone.

” No, just tell him to come to me once he turns up again” Luka shook his head and retreated to his own rooms in the cabin.

Luka had grown accustomed to Bruce’s occasional disappearance. He’d searched for Bruce a few times with no results. Minhkhoa had taken great pleasure in seeing the hunter master failing at tracing Bruce’s trail.

Minhkhoa and Luka had shared one too many dinners with just the two of them in tense silence broken by the traditional question of Bruce’s whereabouts and the request to take a small portion to their room for Bruce once he deigned to show up.

” Do you know why he does that”

” Does what” Minhkhoa knew what Luka was asking, he simply did not want to engage in speculating one of his favorite mysteries with a man who disliked him. Minhkhoa had no doubts Luka would shoot him for the slightest step out of line if it weren't for Bruce.

Luka liked Bruce in his own way. Minhkhoa saw it in the way Luka would only praise Bruce, give him the slightly better guns, warmer blankets, softer pillows. Just the way Luka looked at Bruce was completely different from how he looked at Anton.

Luka looked at Anton like the unpleasant half of a two in one package you bought for only the one piece but had to bear the presence of the lesser half for the superior half to work as intended.

At Bruce Luka looked like you looked at a priced bull. When Luka looked at Bruce Minhkhoa could see the way he envisioned Bruce a perfect legacy left, a master marksman sworn and committed to never shooting the killing shot on another human being.

” Why he does that disappearing thing” Luka sounded uncertain, he was avoiding Minhkhoa’s eyes.

” He does what he wants” another nonanswer.

” I’ve seen, do you know why” Luka was getting agitated, Bruce’s growing disappearances had started to rub Luka the wrong way or maybe he just didn't want to be left alone in the cabin with Anton as his only company.

”No.” Minhkhoa didn't know why Bruce did what he did, not really. There was, however, a pattern. When Bruce was struggling to fight down his emotions, he disappeared. There were other instances in which Minhkhoa did not find a rhyme or reason for.

Conversation over, Minhkhoa retired to his and Bruce’s room. He fell asleep alone that night.

Bruce appeared well into the next morning. Minhkhoa didn't notice him entering their room, but he felt Bruce’s warm hands starting to wrap around him, intending to fit himself around Minhkhoa.

“Eat first, I took out a portion of the roast for you”

“Mm not hungry” Bruce sounded tired - adorably so.

“We are getting moving targets next”

Bruce grumbled and settled himself against Minhkhoas back. He felt Bruce’s breathing trembling against his neck.

“You’re struggling with this”

“I have no trouble hitting targets” Minhkhoa felt Bruce tightening his grip around his waist.

“Not what I meant”

“Why do you care” Bruce snapped

“I don't” Minhkhoa feigned uninterest, settling a hand on Bruce’s arm. He felt the tension in Bruce’s body melting slightly.

“Luka wanted to have a word with you”

“He can wait.” Bruce sighed against him, his breathing evening out.

Minhkhoa laid still and watched the morning light rise gradually behind the curtains of their room. He supposed Bruce could struggle as much as he liked by himself as long as his performance during training didn't suffer. A little moodier Bruce made little difference to Minhkhoa.

He could put up with snappy Bruce as long as Bruce would remain nearby. A normal person could have probably done something but Minhkhoa wasn't normal, he didn't know, he couldn't relate. It was easier to let Bruce do what he wanted to – as long as he kept up.

“Khoa”

Minhkhoaa coudnt see much anything around them, he could see the direction of the populated areas from the light pollution, but he could not see Bruce clearly.

“It's late.” He felt Bruce's hand on his back urging him to get up.

“Time flies in pleasant company doesn't it” Minhkhoa attempted a casual tone – it fell flat even to his own ears; He was glad that Bruce couldn't see his face. He wasn't sure what Bruce would discover – what secrets Minhkhoa didn't even know of himself Bruce would have been able to pick up and pin on one of his boards of clues.

“You were spacing out again” Bruce pointed out, his tone careful like he was talking down a civilian from bolting. Bruce didn't need a clear sight of his face to read in too deep. Minhkhoa had forgotten how mortifying it was to be known.

“Icon please send the haunt to our location” Nobody would see it flying. He highly doubted many people were up and about anyways. Minhkhoa pulled off his bandana and let the gentle night air caress his face.

He was ignoring Bruce's statement completely. “You were stumbling while you walked” He countered.

“You’re defensive” Bruce’s tone was dry

“I’m not being defensive – I have nothing to be defensive about” He hissed.

“You’re not at all defensive of the reason you keep spacing out then?” Minhkhoa could hear the smug raised eyebrow. The infuriating little quirk of his lips – the knowing eyes seeing right through him. Minhkhoa felt naked – naked in a humiliatingly exposing way.

“You’ve been off this whole time, you are hiding something Bruce” Best way to counter an attack in Minhkhoa’s expert opinion was to attack right back head on full force.

“If you had solid evidence of that statement, you would have already brought it up. I know you Khoa, you know that I know and you hate it when I act on it” Bruce was getting too good at their game. He gave Minhkhoa nothing – not even a sliver of information to pounce onto”

“Stop psychoanalyzing me”

“I'm pointing out what I see”

“You can't see me, it's too damn dark here”

“Allegedly”

Minhkhoa pounced, he didn't care that Bruce was off his game physically – the man clearly had no troubles with his wit. Bruce was fine – fine enough to have to give him a fight.

Bruce was playing with him. The smug bastard kept himself on the side of the waterline, avoiding every attempt MInhkhoa made to switch their sides. He couldn't see Bruce's outline; He could only track Bruce’s movements by the shifts of the sand – Bruce could see his outline against the light pollution behind Minhkhoa’s back.

They exchanged blind fists and kicks, Bruce’s hitting their mark – Minhkhoa’s missing by the margin. He got a bony fist to his chin, a sharp elbow to his stomach – a sneaky kick at his shins.

“You are sloppy” Bruce panted. Minhkhoa could hear his hard breathing perfectly over the sounds of the sea. Stuttering breath in, short steadying exhale out. Minhkhoa approached, stepped onto a freshly dug lump in the sand he hadn't seen- tripped and fell onto his face ungracefully.

He felt Bruce’s weight settling on his back. “Who's off their game now, Khoa” Bruce sounded smug and all too satisfied with himself.

Minhkhoa pushed himself up off the sand, throwing Bruce off himself. “You forget you are light as a feather now” He mocked and attacked Bruce viciously.

“I hate that you aren't ticklish” Minhkhoa huffed holding Bruce against the sand pressing his face down, locking his arms under him. .

Bruce kicked and wriggled for what felt like hours unrelentingly attempting to free himself. “Sirs I hate to interrupt your scuffle, but the haunt ready to take on passengers” Icon sounded regretful its usual chirping tone replaced by a milder somber note.

Minhkhoa freed Bruce and helped him up. The haunts disorientating lights shining on their faces. Bruce settled leaning against his shoulder. “Carry me in, I don't want to walk” Bruce complained all whiny not at all bothered by their fight.

“The things I do for you Bruce, I won't carry you once you get your mass back” He grumbled but took the olive branch for what it was. Bruce wouldn’t stick his nose into the uncomfortable corners of Minhkhoa’s existence, and Minhkhoa would not point out Bruce’s struggling.

He picked up Bruce supporting his back and placing his other arm under Bruce’s bent knees. Bruce let out a content sigh and settled his head against Minhkhoa’s shoulder. He felt Bruce’s muscles relaxing.

“You are showering before you get into our bed”

“Sure” Bruce mumbled.

“I mean it Wayne; there will be no sand on the bed”

“So bossy” came Bruce's faint reply. He was falling asleep in his arms.

Minhkhoa did not walk with softer steps than he usually took. He did not walk inside the haunt as carefully as he could – he did not ask Icon to dim the lights into a comfortable darkness whispering. Minhkhoa khan did not set Bruce down onto their bed in his stolen sandy clothes – with his dirty sandy bare feet.

Minhkhoa Khan did not retreat quietly to shower himself with the smallest water pressure useable. He did not provide Icon with directions where to land the haunt discreetly by typing his commands instead of just speaking out loud like he usually did. He pretended not to Think back on the day he’d spent with Bruce; he pretended it wasn't the most pleasant day he’d had for a while.

He ignored the hearted emoticons Icon kept sending his way. He did not ignore the new memories of Bruce’s smile; He didn't watch replays of their time at the market off the market’s security footage. He was simply making sure any traces of them were securely wiped off the cameras.

Minhkhoa Khan did not exist. The Ghostmaker was unknown. Bruce Wayne had never been to Brunei.

Clean and freshly clothes Minhkhoa slotted himself against Bruce’s sleeping form. He’d have to make Icon change the sheets the second they’d gotten up; He’d make Bruce shower and forcibly insist on checking his wound. He’d take Bruce out to eat, have Bruce dressed in something nice, bust a trafficking operation while at it.

Tomorrow would be fun. Bruce was fine and getting better – Bruce was with him, inside his arms. Minkhoa fell asleep content if sandy despite showering. He found that he didn't mind the sand.

Chapter Text

Bruce was trembling violently in his arms. He was pressing a hand Infront of his face and coughing - wet rattling coughs.

There were crumbs on the sheets. Sand scrubbing at his skin unpleasantly. Bruce was writhing out of his arms still covered in sand – hiding his hands outside of Minhkhoa’s sight.

“Don’t tell me you caught some sort of illness from the little time we spent outside” He propped himself up on the bed, angling his neck to see Bruce’s hidden hands.

“I'm fine Khoa” Bruce brushed him aside and clambered up towards the bathroom. “You did let me get sand all over the sheets” Bruce’s voice sounded hoarse and out of breath; He sifted his hands along with the movements Minhkhoa made in his attempt to see what Bruce was hiding.

“What's the hurry?” Minhkhoa probed, getting up from the bed slowly. Bruce clasped his hands Infront of him and turned to face him. Bruce looked paler under the messed-up make-up. Bruce rumbled something faintly under his breath and disappeared behind the bathroom door – lock clicking closed after him.

Minhkhoa needed to find out what was wrong with Bruce. The man would never admit to whatever was ailing him – Minhkhoa could see it was getting worse. He’d made the mistake of pointing out his insufficient observations. Bruce would be more guarded now.

He’d made the same mistake during their time in the league.

What Ra’s offered them had been tempting – everything they hadn’t even dared to dream of. Organized put together group with well established leader intending to fix the world. He’d made compelling points from the start.

Promises of learning absolute endurance and ancient techniques for healing the body. They already were enough of a reason to stay and let Ra’s try to mold them into his own underlying purposes.

Above all, Minhkhoa and Bruce both wanted to make true changes. Ra’s had offered them the means for it – the means to take fate into their own hands and change it in the direction they saw as better.

He’d seen Ra’s speech sink its hook into Bruce. Minhkhoa was mature enough to admit that for a while Ra’s had held his owns hopes in his grasps as well.

They’d learnt to dig into the body’s reservoirs in ways they hadn't ever imagined before. It wasn’t easy, but they’d mastered what had been taught to them.

Ra’s had invited Minhkhoa to talk – told him not to say a word to Bruce. Maybe if he had told Bruce – if Bruce had told him of his own invitation, things would have gone differently. If he’d dragged Bruce along to snoop around with him.

Minhkhoa arrived upon the set location early. Bruce had already been there – with Ra’s. Dread filled his guts. He’d seen the missiles and now Ra’s was talking to Bruce one on one. Ra’s knew Minhkhoa had seen them – of course he did. He’d been foolish to think otherwise. Ra’s saw the way Minhkhoa behaved around Bruce – knew where to hit.

“I meant what I said during your little outburst” Ra’s was smiling down at Bruce, laying his possessive hands-on Bruce’s shoulders.

Ra’s was aware of his presence.

“I want you to join me, I want you to be more than a right-hand man.” Ra’s was staring directly into the shadows MInhkhoa was hiding in.

“What are you saying” Bruce asked – suspicion written all over his posture.

“There will be a fight upon the first light of dawn, I want – you to do what you must” Ra’s spun Bruce around to face Minhkhoa. Bruce saw him – he wouldn't trust Minhkhoa not after everything.

“I trust you and Mr. Minhkhoa khan to make the right choice, detective.” Ra’s removed his hands off Bruce and turned to walk away. “You are to meet me on the first light of dawn – Dressed for combat.”

“He has missiles Bruce”

“Anton-”

“He wants to drive us apart!” Minhkhoa closed the distance between them and grabbed onto Bruce’s shoulders – replacing Ra’s Alghul’s filthy touch with his own.

“You never told me your name”

“I don't know what he’s going to use the missiles for, but there are enough to decimate-”

“Do you have proof of the missiles?” Bruce was too calm; he was detached like he’d expected this outcome – Minhkhoa dealing behind his back. “I can give you a chance for the sake of what we’ve had” Bruce stepped away from him. Standing at a distance that felt uncrossable.

“I can take you to them” He remembered where the missiles were being built. Bruce would see them – make his judgements and believe him. He inclined his head for Bruce to follow him.

They traversed through the small pathways and the darkest shadows through Lazarus city. Climbed up the caverns and slithered through air vents into the industrial area Minhkhoa had found. He led them through the steel pipes and stands – the missiles were gone, not a trace of them left.

“This was the area – Bruce – He moved them – He knew I saw them, I-” Minhkhoa quieted down. Bruce was looking at him with sorrow worthy to have its own painting. “Its best we prepare for dawn to come”

Bruce angled his body away from him – facing the direction of their quarters. “Would you have told me your name eventually?” He asked in that awfully quiet tone. It would have been better if Bruce screamed at him – the quiet calm felt all too final.

“Does it matter?

“Would you have told me, Minhkhoa.” His name sounded wonderfully dreadful from Bruce’s lips. Minhkhoa wondered if he’d ever get to hear it again.

He’d liked to hold something of himself out of Bruce’s reach. Having Bruce so close to him hadn’t felt quite so exposing with Bruce never knowing his name. He’d let Bruce know so much of himself in order to remain close to the only person who’d ever seen him and understood. He would not have given up on that control of distance he’d set.

“No” It wouldn't have done any good trying to lie. Bruce knew him despite how hard he tried to withhold. Bruce’s piercing eyes saw the rawest parts of him laid bare lined up cleanly before him.

Bruce would leave him again – this time he wouldn't get the chance of leaving first.

Minhkhoa watched Bruce nodding like he was receiving the answer he’d been expecting; His shoulders slumped downwards ever so slightly. Bruce had still hoped for another response.

Minhkhoa had been furious at Bruce for not believing him – he hated Ra’s with burning passion unlike himself. Ra’s had ruined what little trust Minhkhoa had managed to rebuild with Bruce. Ra’s had ruined everything and taken Bruce because Minhkhoa had discovered his dirty little secret.

He wouldn't make his accusations without concrete proof. To obtain sufficient proof of Bruce’s ailments he needed a bat proof plan. He’d take Bruce to Nepali trafficking restaurant chain he’d been decimating.

There was a young girl not far into her teens to serve as his bait. Twelve people trafficked from varying areas of Malaysia shipped off into Brunei for labor. This was the last restaurant outside of Gotham that hadn't faced justice.

He’d tell Bruce they needed information – he’d have Bruce eat something solid, drag it out till after deserts. Bruce would want to save the girl. He needed Bruce to want to save the people; Bruce would exhaust his wavering energy. Minhkhoa would swoop in to save him after Bruce showed his ailments or got injured enough for Minhkhoa to have the excuse to subject him into throughout inspection of his whole body.

They needed clothing fit for fine dining. Fit for businessmen plotting their own trafficking operations. Make an impression on Faiz. The pig of a man behind the operation.

Minhkhoa made his way over to his closet and set out to search for something nice he could dress up Bruce in. He needed something that could cover under amor underneath it and cover up Bruce’s shrunken form. Hidden weapons were a given.

Bruce would have to make due with throwing knifes. Minhkhoa didn't have stolen bat-gear to hand over to him. Bruce would have to make more weapons for himself at a later date.

Their target was a high-end Nepali restaurant. The kind of high end where there were no prices on the menus – the kind of high end to offer luxuriously worded private experiences that concealed their true nature. Minhkhoa had been tracking a string of high-end Nepali restaurants, each guilty of labor trafficking. To each, he’d dealt justice and freed the workers under modern slavery.

He’d arranged for a reservation in their system under a foreign alias. Minhkhoa and Bruce would become Anton and Jack a pair of foreign businessmen who wanted to discuss a deal privately while enjoying high-quality food without being heard nor seen.

Minhkhoa needed to modify something and quickly, he didn't have anything in Bruce's shrunken size that would fit him properly. Even with sturdy pieces of under armor and the bandage on Bruce’s torso, he would not be able to fill out any of the suits Minhkhoa had in hand.

He needed to modify a suit or improvise. The modification process for a suit was tedious; he didn't particularly want to spend time taking measurements and handling sewing, even if he could make Icon do the most tedious parts.

He needed something elegant, something convincingly unique and foreign. He could tie pants on Bruce with the help of a nice belt. He had dress shoes he kept around in Bruce’s size, but a shirt that fit Bruce without making him look small was an issue.

He could thin out a dress shirt with pins, but he could not squeeze out centimeters of fabric off a suit jacket and make it look good easily. A waist coat would do; he could puff up the sleeves of a white dress shirt, cut out few centimeters off a waist coat’s back and have icon sew it back together.

Black slacks, a white dress shirt and a light grey waistcoat were still awfully plain. He needed something more.

He could set lines of light blue lights under Bruce's dress shirt. The blue would match Bruce’s eyes – the same blue that shone on his Ghostmaker suit. The light would be produced by small nano technology he’d designed. It would be pulling double duty as additional protection as well as a beautiful decoration.

-Bruce had been quiet for too long.

“Bruce, have you passed out in there or are you fantasying drowning in the shower.” Minhkhoa opted for mocking tone – one he knew to rile up Bruce easily.

Minhkhoa didn't hear movement outside of the shower running on high-pressure. Bruce was not responding.

“Bruce?” He sounded concerned even to his own ears.

The shower shut off and Minhkhoa heard light steps around the bathroom. “Bruce?” He repeated. Minhkhoa heard a faint questioning hum followed by the sounds of Bruce coughing up mucus off his throat.

Bruce should have given him a proper answer if he didn't want Minhkhoa to come in. The lock of the bathroom door was at most a courtesy. The lock could not hold out Minhkhoa nor Bruce should either want to force their entry.

He picked the lock of the bathroom door and was hit with a wall of steam and the murky form of Bruce standing Infront of the sink wrapped into a towel – Minhkhoa’s towel. Bruce was washing his hands.

“How hot did you run the shower?”

“Hot enough to serve as a practice for the afterlife”

“You won't be dying anytime soon, Bruce - no need to burn your skin in the name of practice”

“Minhkhoa”

“I’m going to have to re do your make-up” Minhkhoa closed his distance and cradled Bruce’s sunken face between his palms. He looked far worse without the remnants of the make-up. Bruce would only raise suspicions on them looking as he did – Bruce would likely pass for a trafficked servant Minhkhoa dragged around for his own amusement.

Most victims of human trafficking looked better than Bruce did.

“Minhkhoa” Bruce repeated

“It won't do to have you marching around looking like that, I’m taking us on a case”

“Minhkhoa” More insistent.

“We’ll be making our first strike at the head of a trafficking operation” Minhkhoa settled a hand against the small of Bruce’s back and led him out of the bathroom.

Bruce glared at him

“What, do you suddenly have something against saving multiple people from modern slavery? - I can go into details of how they are suffering if you need further motivation for your guilt complex” Minhkhoa handed him a tablet with the case details.

Bruce looked at the tablet hesitantly – his eyes jumping between its contents and Minhkhoa’s bare face. Minhkhoa found that he couldn't quite decipher Bruce’s expression. His jumping eyes a sure sign of hesitance – the negligible tremble of his fingers could be emotional turmoil or an indication of physical illness.

Bruce had been coughing; his breath wheezed; he was fatigued. Minhkhoa could link each of his concerns to pervious injuries that were already established. Fatigue was the easiest; it would have been suspicious were Bruce not fatigued.

Bruce had yet to have been dizzy today, but he had coughed awful wet rattling coughs twice. His wheezing breathing could simply be badly set nose that Bruce hadn't bothered to fix, or a side effect of bruised ribs.

Bruce had pain around his chest area – pain he’d only expressed once while dizzy. Bruised ribs or something more?

Bruce had struggled to swallow solid food. He hadn't had any issues with soft pasta and smooth drinks, but he hadn't eaten all of the slightly more solid soup.

Minhkhoa needed an environment where he could force a confession out of Bruce. A fairly undangerous case was perfect. He would see how Bruce handled himself, he’d have Icon track every sift of Bruce’s vitals; he’d force Bruce into a situation where he’d have to admit what he was hiding or risk the fate of the innocent people they were going to save.

His plan was forming out into becoming bat proof quite nicely – in his own expert bat whispering opinion.

Bruce himself had said it. Minhkhoa didn't have enough solid evidence. Bruce forced his hand on the matter.

“Fine” Bruce settled his eyes on the tablet, his finger still – his jaw set. “I assume you have our clothing handled”

“Few modifications are needed, first I am checking your wounds”

Bruce hummed and tilted his head inquisitively.

Minhkhoa threw the black enforced slacks he’d chosen along with a belt over to Bruce who set to pulling them on without complaint.

Bruce rewarded his expert choice with an approving hum; his hand grazing over the hidden seams for throwing weapons – seemingly satisfied on their number.

He took Bruce by his arm and dragged him through the kitchen over to the med bay and sat him down on the cot with a nutrient shake in hand.

He set to removing the bandage around Bruce’s body carefully. Bruce hadn't bothered with keeping it dry. The bandage was wet and held residue soap and bits of sand that hadn't been washed away.

With Icon’s assistance he set to checking the wound. The wound had scabbed over nicely; the skin around it remained irritated – nothing the applied ointment couldn't fix. Minhkhoa was sure the wound wouldn't be too much of an issue for Bruce. He didn't plan on Bruce doing much of the possible fighting.

Minhkhoa let his touch linger on Bruce’s skin – ran his fingers along the scars old and new to him. His fingers caught on an old scar. A scar from the first time Minhkhoa had had to patch up a fatal injury on Bruce.

It was an old burn scar on Bruce’s lower stomach. A scar Minhkhoa was intimately familiar with. It was ugly and jagged, darker than the rest of Bruce’s skin. Minhkhoa had had to burn that mark on Bruce’s skin after they’d made their leave from Kirigi’s dojang.

Bruce had failed to mention having been slashed by a sword. They’d made it three days' worth of increasingly slow walking, Bruce refusing to rest his appetite growing slimmer and slimmer by day. On the morning of their fourth day, Bruce had not risen from his sleeping bag.

The wind was blowing outside of the small cave they’d crawled into, and Jack wasn’t responding. Jack was on his side turned away from Minhkhoa; he was curling in on himself clutching at his stomach. Jack was pale – paler than Minhkhoa had ever seen him.

There was blood on the snow. A sight he often found pleasing left a sour taste in his mouth.

How had Minhkhoa not noticed. Jack had been gradually losing blood. Insisting the blood on his front not being his, insisting on being the one to walk ahead paving a path through the snow.

They didn't have a tent; the few stolen supplies they had were insufficient. Their source of warmth during the night was whatever fire they could make for the night in whatever little slot of land or a cave that they could cram themselves into.

Jack was bleeding out and Minhkhoa didn't have anything to patch him up. There were no bandages, no thread, and needle. What was available was the fire. Minhkhoa opened Bruce’s sleeping bag with determination. He rolled Bruce on his back – opened his jacket, pulled his underlayers up and stared at the ugly gradually bleeding wound.

Minhkhoa didn't know how to treat a wound with practically nothing – what he knew was that fire could be used to cauterize wounds. He’d seen it done in the streets where people had no other resources.

It was ugly; it was gruesome – it was the last resort of desperate people. Minhkhoa supposed he counted in their number now – He didn't want Jack to die – not after all the effort he’d had to put in to keep Jack by his side.

Minhkhoa picked out a flaming log carefully and pressed it against the bleeding wound.

The smell of burning meat slithered into his nostrils, burnt onto their sleeping bags and clothing – staid in his lungs.

Bruce had been too out of it to scream his agony. Minhkhoa did remember the scrunching of his face – the pained breathing. He’d wrapped a piece of his own clothing around Bruce and carried him down the mountain in his sleeping bag to the village at its edge.

He’d paid a healer of the village to keep Bruce alive and observed everything she’d done – asked clarifying questions of her reasons to doing anything until the old woman had given up and taught him how to treat various wounds.

She’d taught him how to treat Bruce’s bruised ribs, how to continue treating the burn – she’d even taught him the theory of stitching up a larger wound.

Bruce recovered enough to move in two weeks. He’d never asked the woman's name, nor had she asked for theirs. She still fed them, gave them shelter, and took care of Bruce.

She’d sent them on their way with basic medical supplies and food to last for a few days. She didn't ask what they planned to do nor where had they come from. Minhkhoa didn't think the woman was still alive, she’d been old.

He felt Bruce’s hand settling on top of his – grounding him back into the present.

Minhkhoa applied more ointment to the slash wound running across Bruce’s shoulder down to his collarbone. Re-wrapped it and threw form fitting vigilante activity proof shirt at Bruce’s face.

“Nano technology – it can fit itself around your tiny form” He explained turning away to head back towards the bathroom. “Icon will make adjustments to the rest of your clothing; I want to fix up your ugly mug again.”

“Where are you going?”

“To shower off the sand you brought in” Minhkhoa turned to look at Bruce, a teasing grin on his face. Bruce looked hesitant sitting on the cot. “Tell Icon to change the sheets while she fits the clothes onto you and finish the shake “ Minhkhoa eyes at the half drunk nutrient shake resting on Bruce’s hand. “you don't want to stay tiny, do you”

“You let me bring the sand in, Khoa” Bruce sighed, still obliging – tense.

“I won't be long; I don't take years to wash up”

Bruce’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “I did not take that long; I happen to remember who hogged all the warm water at Avery’s” Bruce grunted.

“Sure” Minhkhoa agreed stretching each vowel of the word.

He didn't manage to evade the empty nutrient shake bottle aimed for his head.