Bruce Wayne may be the richest man in Gotham, but he's far from being the most liked. Of the few people that can claim know him well, one of them is Tony Stark. Ever since meeting as kids, their strange, tumultuous friendship has carried them through all the major milestones of their lives, from childhood revelations, to troubling times overseas, to becoming superheroes. It's rarely easy. Most of the time they won't even admit to liking each other. But they just can't leave each other alone.

Written for DCU Bang on LJ, with artist Mementis.

Elliptical Orbit

Thomas Wayne was buried on a rainy day in the spring. Plenty of people attended that had no business being there, but none of them felt more out of place than Tony Stark. At fourteen years old, a funeral for a man he had only met once was already not his idea of a good time; knowing that his father had dragged him and his mother along to make a statement to a former business rival didn't help matters. As soon as he could manage he slipped away, soaking his pants up to the knees in the wilds of Wayne Manor's far lawn. He was tempted to dump his umbrella and ruin the whole suit, but that would probably earn him a talking to at levels not worth the effort. He did spin it, though, watching the rain fly off in all directions.

Tony's idle exploration took him to the rear of the manor, and the greenhouse nestled at the base of a hill. It was only chance that drew his eye to it just as a figure darted inside. He investigated. He could hear shuffling at the back, and followed it until finally coming across a young boy sitting on an old, worn bench along the wall.

They had met only once before, when Tony was ten and Bruce four. Bruce wouldn't remember that Tony had taken him to his room and let him ruin the circuit board he'd been working on while their parents faked pleasantries over wine. He had been a cute kid, and Tony grimaced in sympathy seeing him then, pale-faced in his black mourning suit. It was kind of morbid that they even made such a thing in his size.

"Hey," Tony said awkwardly. He moved closer so that his umbrella covered them both. Asking if he was all right seemed like the worst idea possible, so he tried a different angle. "Your butler know you're out here?"

Bruce didn't look up. He was playing with his jacket cuffs; it was a little too big for him after all. Soaked to the bone as he was, it was hard to tell if he was crying or if it was just the rain.

"Allen?" Tony guessed, leaning forward a little. "Alexander? Alphonse?"

"Alfred," Bruce said quietly.

"Alfred. Yeah, he's probably looking for you." Still Bruce didn't look up, so Tony pushed on his shoulder. "Scoot."

"What?"

"Scoot over."

Bruce did so, and when Tony slouched onto the bench next to him he finally looked up. He was pale and his eyes were red, but he didn't seem to be crying at the moment. He looked confused, and he watched as Tony did his best to position the umbrella against the wall. "What do you want?" he asked.

"If I'm here when they find you, they won't be able to say anything," Tony reasoned. "No one can yell at you for running off. You know, make a scene."

Bruce continued to frown at him. "Alfred doesn't yell."

"Yeah. Well." Tony stretched his legs out, watching the rain fall against his shoes. "Then you can keep my old man from yelling at me, how about that?"

"You're using me," Bruce huffed incredulously.

Tony made a face. "You'll get used to it."

Bruce shifted forward, looking ready to abandon Tony, but after some fidgeting he gave up and settled again. He rubbed his face on his sleeve. Tony kept still, not sure what he would do if Bruce started crying. But he was a tough little kid. He stared Tony straight in the face and said, "My dad told me to be careful around you."

Tony blinked. "He did?"

"He said Starks aren't trustworthy," Bruce continued. "Your dad tried to cheat us out of a lot of money." He rubbed his face again. "That's what he said to mom, anyway."

Tony shrugged helplessly. It wasn't anything he hadn't heard before. "Your dad's pretty smart, I guess." After a moment of awkward silence he added, "I'm sorry."

Bruce lowered his head. He still didn't cry, just sat next to Tony in the rain until one of the mourners found them. Alfred came next, and Tony's father. Tony kept his head down-sneaking off had seemed like a better idea at the time than at present-but once Bruce was on his feet, he turned back. "Thanks, Tony," he said. His eyes flickered to Tony's dad, and then he let Alfred lead him out of the greenhouse.

Tony got it. As he followed them out, his dad put his hand on the back of his neck and squeezed with fatherly affection. It might have just been for show, but Tony could eagerly pretend it was sincere. It was a gift. On the worst day of Bruce Wayne's short life he was still willing to do a favor for the troubled teen he'd been warned to stay away from. Because that was what Bruce Wayne was. He could be good for the sake of good. He could see to the heart of a person and still treat them fairly. In the years to come Tony would wonder again and again what Bruce might have become if not for the cruelty inflicted on him in his young years, but more than that, he would never forget that tiny favor granted in a moment of grief.

He would have liked to repay it with one of his own. He would have liked to do old man Wayne a favor and stay the hell away from Bruce. But Tony wasn't Bruce. He wasn't about being good.

Bruce did his best to be the kind of son his father would have raised. He really did.

When the principal offered a tissue, Bruce folded it and shoved it up his sluggishly bleeding nose. He couldn't stop tonguing his split lip as he slumped in the corner of the office, casting glances between the door to the counselor's office, where his similarly bloodied adversary was holed away, and the main door, where Alfred would appear at any moment. He felt sick, and angry, and ashamed. He could hear the kids in the hall talking about him as they gathered outside the auditorium. They'd go home and tell their parents, and then their parents would say, "He's just acting out because he misses his parents. Go easy on him." And he hated that.

The office door opened, and Bruce straightened, silently practicing the explanation he would give to Alfred. It wasn't Alfred that came through; it was a skinny teenager in a suit, followed by an older man with a bald head and full beard. They passed Bruce without seeing him and moved to the receptionist's desk in order to fill out the visitor sign in.

Bruce stared. He had just seen Tony Stark on television the other day and had no trouble recognizing him. Tony signed his name with a flourish and then turned away as Obadiah Stane chatted with the principal. He zeroed in on Bruce and his face registered surprise only for a moment before he smirked. "Hey," he greeted.

Bruce rubbed his mouth self-consciously. "Hey."

Obadiah turned and, seeing Bruce for the first time, grimaced openly. "That's not Bruce Wayne under that bloody nose, is it?" he said in that overly-friendly way adults think kids liked to be talked to. "Are you all right, son?"

Bruce tried not to grimace back. "I'm fine, sir."

"Junior high," said Tony knowingly. "Hasn't changed."

"Just an isolated incident," Principal Miller said quickly. "Boys will be boys, you know."

Bruce had a pretty decent explanation prepared for Alfred, but he wasn't sure how well it would work on Tony or his guardian. "What are you doing here?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.

"They've got me speaking at the science fair introduction assembly," said Tony. "You know, make a diorama and you'll graduate from MIT by seventeen? I'm contractually obligated."

Obadiah gave him a look. "It's called community service. Will you be at the assembly? Or, well." He winced again. "Is someone coming to pick you up?"

"He can come to the assembly," said Tony. "Right?" He stepped away from the desk and waved for Bruce to stand up, which he did. "We'll just get him a fresh Kleenex and he's good to go."

"His...guardian has been called and is on his way in," said Principal Miller. "I'm afraid he has to wait here."

"Tough break." Tony gave Bruce a pat on the shoulder and headed for the exit. "I'll send you the audio book version."

He left, and Obadiah and the principal followed. "Good to see you, Bruce," Obadiah said along the way.

Bruce moved to the windows, watching as the three of them headed down the hallway toward the auditorium. By then most of the students would have been gathered and in their seats. It didn't seem fair-the other boy had started the fight. There wasn't any reason for Bruce to have to miss out.

"Bruce," said the secretary, "please sit back down. I'm sure he'll be here soon."

Bruce twisted the door open and hurried out. He heard the secretary yell after him but he didn't stop, and he ran to the auditorium, all the way up to the top tier seats reserved for the upperclassmen. Narrowly avoiding the algebra teacher, he crept to the far end and found sanctuary between a pair of sympathetic eighth grade girls.

It took a while for Principal Miller to get control of the room; by then everyone had spotted Tony Stark seated at stage left, and the students buzzed with their parents' gossip. Everyone had a story to tell about the Stark family. Only Bruce kept his to himself. He watched Tony yawn through Principal Miller's introductions and clenched his hands against his knees, wondering what was really going through his mind. Tony must have been a thousand miles away from the full house of rich middle-schoolers.

Because the last time Bruce had seen Tony, it was on a television news report discussing the recent deaths of Howard and Maria Stark, killed in a car crash barely a month earlier. It was impossible to tell by looking at him, and Bruce wanted nothing more than to pull him aside, to ask and to know what he was really feeling beneath his veneer of slick composure. Surely he felt just like Bruce did. He understood. Someone had to understand.

Tony took to the podium amidst curious and eager applause from the students. He eyed the crowd and, impossibly, he seemed to notice Bruce, as his lip quirked in that same little smile from the office. He opened his mouth and Bruce leaned forward, but just as he started speaking, the eighth graders hushed and a hand fell on Bruce's shoulder.

Bruce knew immediately who it was. He didn't need to fake a look of shame as he lifted his head to meet Alfred's disapproving stare.

"Michael started it," Bruce explained as he and Alfred returned to the office. "He said you're not my butler, you're my 'mommy.' And then he asked if you breast-fed me."

Alfred sighed. "That is hardly appropriate," he said, "but it doesn't then follow that he deserves a broken nose."

"It wasn't broken. He was just being dramatic." Bruce glanced over his shoulder. "Can't I finish watching the assembly?" he asked.

"You've had enough school for today, I should think."

The secretaries and building security were waiting for them. Bruce offered apologies, but it was watching Alfred apologize again on his behalf that made him feel truly guilty. They sat down together in the office to wait for the principal to finish with the assembly and return. When it was suggested that Alfred take Bruce home and schedule a meeting for a more convenient day, Alfred refused, saying he wanted the entire matter resolved in as timely a manner as possible. Bruce waited sullenly next to him.

When the bell finally rang and the students were dismissed from the assembly, Principal Miller returned. He invited Alfred into his office so they could have an "adult" chat while building security took over watching Bruce. It wasn't necessary. Bruce stayed still, trying to predict what Miller and Alfred might say to him once they had teamed up. He was deep in thought and didn't notice until the door opened that Tony had returned as well, though he was missing Obadiah.

"Hey," said Tony. "Looks like you missed it after all, huh?"

"Yeah." Bruce stared. He tried to see in Tony's smile all the warnings his father had given him years ago, but he couldn't. "Did you say anything important?"

"Sure. Secrets of the universe. Participate in the science fair, that sort of thing." He cocked his head to the side. "You any good in science?"

Bruce was, but he shrugged. "I guess. I wasn't really thinking of entering, though."

"You should," said Tony. "Science is important. Saves lives, all that jazz." He considered Bruce for a moment longer, his expression easing into something a bit more sincere. "How're you doing, Bruce?"

People asked Bruce that all the time. Sometimes they meant it, but more and more it only seemed to come from people looking to appear sympathetic. Under the slow smiles the message was always the same: It's time for you to get over it.

But that wasn't what Tony was saying, because Tony got it. He had ghosts on his shoulders, too. "I'm okay," said Bruce, and he knew Tony understood what he really meant. He pulled the tissue out of his nose at last and tossed it into the trash. He tried to think of something really meaningful to say, something he would have liked to hear, and ultimately decided it didn't matter.

"I'm sorry about your parents," Bruce said simply.

Tony lowered his eyes. "Thanks."

The door to the principal's office opened, and Mr. Miller gestured for Bruce to join them. Bruce gulped and pushed to his feet. Before he got too far, though, Tony cleared his throat.

"Bruce." Bruce turned, and Tony smiled. "I'm pretty good in science," he said.

Bruce smiled back.

Gotham was only tolerable in the winter. Tony was no fan of the snow, but he preferred it to Gotham in its summer months, when the streets reeked of oil, and crowding skyscrapers made him long for dry, open desert. With Christmas around the corner even the country's darkest pit of high-level corruption and overpriced menswear became...well, not pleasant. But approaching as close to pleasant as it was capable.

"Tony," Bruce grumbled from the bed.

Tony turned away from the frosty window, sucking on a bottle of cream soda-the closest to a proper drink he could get on a high school campus. "What? You're doing fine."

Bruce rolled onto his back, abandoning his laptop and the slew of books surrounding it. "I thought you came here to help me."

"I'm 'here' in Gotham trying to lure an old fox out of his den," Tony said. "Do me a favor when you're in charge and fire that idiot so he can come work for me." He crossed the obscenely penthouse-like dorm room, dodging open boxes and nudging a few more strewn books aside with his toe. "Just so happened I got your call on a lunch break." He stopped next to the bed. "So what is it? You're not in junior high anymore, you know. I'm not winning any more science fairs for you."

Bruce rolled his eyes up at him. At fifteen he was a very different beast than when Tony first met him. Over the past several years they had seen each other a handful of times, mostly in more formal situations than the one presently. Even with that limited contact Tony couldn't help but feel that he'd been a negative influence. As a sophomore Bruce was already on his second high school, having been politely invited to leave his former one following a homecoming altercation that no one quite knew the details of. Even seeing Bruce then, collapsed on the bed, his uniform helplessly rumpled and eyes dull and bitter, it was hard to remember the grieving boy Tony found in a rainy greenhouse. Even harder to remember the curious and affectionate four-year-old before that.

"It's math," said Bruce. He waved vaguely at the laptop. "Imaginary numbers."

Tony thumped onto the bed and looked over the laptop screen. "What's so hard about that?"

Bruce wriggled closer, his shoulder warm against Tony's bent knee. "It's not hard," he said. "It's just...pointless."

Tony took another sip of his drink, and when Bruce waved at him, he relinquished it. "I know you know this stuff," said Tony. "You helped me reprogram HAL's AI last summer. So what's the problem?"

"If you know I know it, what does it matter if I do it?" countered Bruce. "It's a waste of time."

"I'm not the one giving you a grade." Tony watched as Bruce tipped the bottle very carefully to get a few sips out without spilling and without sitting up. He smacked him in the ribs at just the right time to splash cream soda up his nose. "Come on. Just get it done."

Bruce coughed and snorted. "Can't you just do it? It'll get done so much faster." He flashed a winning smile. "See? I'm practicing micromanagement for my business class."

Tony rolled his eyes. Bruce was going to drop panties with that innocent smile of his one day, if he wasn't already. "I don't work for you," he said, but then his eyes danced to the first problem on the screen, and his fingers twitched. He filled in the answer and tried not to notice Bruce smirking at him as he went on to the next.

Bruce finished off the soda and let the bottle drop to the floor. For a few minutes they sat in silence, with only the gentle hum of the city and occasional tap of the keyboard as backdrop. Then Bruce shifted and said, "Guess I won't be able to con you into this by next year, huh?"

"Flat out asking me is not a con," Tony replied, but there was no point dodging the real question. "But yeah, they're handing me the reigns come January first. It's a shame you're not drinking age-my New Year's party is going to be otherworldly."

Bruce chuckled. "You're going to show up to the paperwork signing hung over? Uncle Obi will love that."

"Trust me," Tony teased back, "no one is going to drink that night more than Obi."

Bruce was quiet for another beat, smiling at the ceiling. "It's really something. You, a CEO."

Tony's lip quirked. "Yeah, something else. It'll be you, too, eventually."

He glanced down in time to see the humor drain from Bruce's smile. Those bright blue eyes glossed over and he suddenly looked even younger. "Yeah," Bruce mumbled. "Eventually."

"Sooner," Tony prodded, "if you'd do your own damn homework."

Bruce craned his head back. "How's it coming, by the way?"

"Get me another drink and I'll tell you."

Bruce scoffed. He didn't move. Tony knew he wouldn't, but he kept at the problems anyway. "Don't bust my balls, Tony," said Bruce as he settled even more comfortably against Tony's knee. "You did everything at the last minute in school, too. I remember why you had me help you with that AI last summer, you know."

Tony shook his head, but Bruce was right. Bruce always had his number, even back when they were both kids. That was another thing immediately apparent about Bruce Wayne: whether he admitted it or not, whether he liked it or not, he knew people. He could flash his smile and those baby blues and have the world, if only he would want it. He could wrap man or woman around his finger if he cared enough to beckon. The world ought to have been grateful that Bruce didn't want and didn't beckon. Tony sure as hell was.

"So how is the new school?" asked Tony, preferring not to linger on the subject of the almost-too-accurately-named HAL mishap of the year previous. "As bad as you feared?"

"I like it fine," Bruce replied, without any inflection to indicate he meant it. "It's school. I'm just not sure it will really mean anything, in the end." Before Tony could begin to roll his eyes, he added, "But at least I got laid."

Tony's eyebrows perked, but he didn't stop working, even when his imagination betrayed him with rather vivid speculation. He vowed to kick his own ass as soon as he left. "Oh yeah? That friend Rachel of yours?"

Bruce harrumphed in the way that only teenagers can. "Rachel hasn't even talked to me since freshman year," he said, as if it were a lifetime ago.

"So who's the lucky lady?"

Bruce went still next to him. "Tommy Elliot."

Tony stopped working. His chest gave a twinge as he looked down, unable to avoid Bruce's penetrating stare. "Oh," he said. Danger lights flashed before his eyes and he could just hear Rhodey's voice in his ear, proclaiming him the world's worst giver of advice. He was not prepared for this conversation. "Okay. I honestly didn't expect that."

Bruce continued to stare at him, not exactly breathless but definitely tense. Waiting. Tony cleared his throat, doing his best not to think of his father, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. Of Obidiah's subtle shake of his head as he retreated from Tony's bedroom doorway. He gulped. "So, what? Did he blow you or something?"

The corner of Bruce's mouth quirked in an almost imperceptible smile. "Yeah. That counts, doesn't it?"

"Well, sure. It's called oral sex for a reason." Bruce didn't move, but Tony was eerily positive he could feel him beckoning. He might have been on his way toward getting arrested, but he asked anyway: "So how was he? Any good? Though I guess any time you don't get bit or puked on can't be that bad."

"It was okay. He didn't really know what he was doing." Bruce shrugged against Tony's knee. "It was his first time, too." He picked at his uniform tie. "Have you ever blown a guy, Tony?"

Tony started to answer, but stopped himself with the reminder that he had no idea what he was doing and had to be the wrong person to be having this heart-to-heart with. "Don't you have a dorm mentor or something that you can talk to about this stuff?" he asked.

"No," said Bruce seriously. "I don't."

Tony shifted uncomfortably and at last sighed. "Listen, Bruce. It's not as bad as it used to be, and you have enough money that no one's going to shit on you for it. Just know when to keep it in your pants, you know what I mean? And for Christ's sake, use protection. Here." He pulled out his wallet and tossed his "just-in-case" condom onto Bruce's chest. "Keep that, and you'll never have the excuse you weren't prepared. All right?"

Bruce held the package up over his head to scrutinize it. "What size is this?"

Tony smacked him in the ribs again. "Big enough, smart ass."

He tucked the condom into his shirt pocket. "So is that the speech Uncle Obi gave you?"

"A variation of it," Tony said as he filled in another problem. He frowned thoughtfully. "Does Alfred know?"

"No." Bruce squirmed. "I mean, he knows about me. But he doesn't know about Tommy."

Bruce was quiet for only a beat, and yet Tony felt gravity reverse. His eyes snapped onto Tony's and wouldn't let go. "Or you," he said.

Tony stopped. Before he could respond, Bruce put his hand on Tony's thigh and pushed himself upright. White noise flooded between his ears and then Bruce was leaning into his shoulder, his pale, slender cheek brushing the stubble along Tony's jaw. Tony's breath seized in his lungs and his stomach dropped, but just when Bruce started to turn his head, he jarred to life, grabbing Bruce's elbow. "Stop," he said, sharp and almost panicked.

Bruce's breath emptied against Tony's ear in a quiet huff of laughter. "I'm just messing with you," he said, relaxing into place. He rested his chin on Tony's shoulder, but it wasn't until he moved his hand to the bed that Tony lowered his guard. "You're too old for me."

"Of course I am," said Tony lamely. He shifted just enough to accept Bruce's weight against him and did his best to focus back on the laptop. "You can do better than me, anyway. Plenty of nice young rich boys out there for you to seduce."

Bruce snorted, and when he spoke again, his voice had lowered. "It's not... I mean, I'm not gay. I still like girls."

"So seduce the rich girls, too."

Bruce tilted his head, even though there was no way he could have seen Tony's face from their current position. "I can do that, right? I can be..."

"Bruce, you can do whatever you want," said Tony, and he meant it. "You can be whatever you want. Be with whoever you want. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise." His arm was trapped against Bruce's body, but he gave it a turn, nudging Bruce's ribs with the backs of his knuckles. "Guys like us can afford to. It'd be a waste if even we didn't live exactly the way we wanted to, wouldn't it?"

They were still pressed so close that Tony could feel Bruce frown. A long moment of silence stretched between them, and then Bruce fell away, flopping onto his back again. He stared up at the ceiling in distant contemplation. Tony watched, waiting for him to respond, but Bruce said nothing and Tony wasn't sharp enough to read it in his face. When he couldn't be patient any longer, he said, "What?"

Bruce took in a slow breath. There was something on his mind and on his tongue, maybe the truth of why he had really called Tony over. Tony watched it cycle across Bruce's face, but then Bruce swallowed it back. Bruce knew people. He didn't quite know himself yet.

"Do you ever miss your dad, Tony?" he asked.

Tony's eyelids drooped. The question squirmed through him and left him cold and hollow. Either answer should have been easy and obvious. Both answers were the truth. He took in a deep breath. "Yeah," he said. "I do."

Bruce closed his eyes. He nodded, letting the words me, too, lie unspoken in the air between them. Tony gave his shoulder a squeeze and then went back to work. Even when he finished with the math he stayed on Bruce's computer, checking his emails and stocks, keeping the room one step above silent. Bruce fell asleep against his knee. In the end, he assumed that was all Bruce had wanted out of him.

Tony Stark was a lot of things. He had a lot of money and knew a lot about science and people and business. But he wasn't right all the time, and his advice was only ever halfway sound. He wasn't any good at leading by example. As the CEO of his father's company it wasn't long before the name Tony Stark became synonymous with everything Americana had to offer, from million dollar homes to extravagant parties to every possible thing that could go boom or make a crater. He was a celebrity. He was practically a way of life.

He was far removed from Bruce. Bruce continued through his posh private schools and didn't hear as much from Tony anymore. Alfred had told him to expect it. The world's richest weapons manufacturer didn't have time to waste on high school chemistry. Bruce didn't mind. He had plenty of classmates to keep at a comfortable distance and engage with as necessary. But sometimes when he flipped on the television or glanced at a gossip rag and saw the latest of Tony's misadventures he couldn't help but scowl and think if that was what Tony meant by living exactly the way you wanted.

Graduation came. Bruce would have liked to let the occasion pass without ceremony, but enough of his so-called friends said a party was a good idea that it was easier to have one than otherwise. It wasn't the sort of gathering tabloids would talk about. Alfred knew a thing or two about hosting the kind of parties Waynes were known for, with hors d'oeuvres arranged in courses served by waiters in black ties and white gloves. In addition to Gotham's brightest and best (or at least richest) and their parents, business associates and socialites were invited, until the entire mansion promised to be filled with every prospective employer and potential ass-kisser.

"Mr. Agner said I'd better start sucking up now, before anyone looks at my grades," Bruce told Tony by way of explanation. It shouldn't have mattered what Tony thought, but Bruce still wanted him to know the whole affair wasn't his idea. "You've got to come, Tony. You know I'll never survive these people without you."

"They're your people," said Tony over the phone. "You're not going to score any points with them by having me there."

"You said you wanted to gloat over Mr. Earle for beating him to the defense contract," Bruce persisted. "The whole board of directors will be here. And I know how you love to gloat."

Tony heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Guess I'd better find a date."

Bruce tried to explain that you didn't need to bring a date to someone's high school graduation party, but was unsuccessful.

It didn't matter. Tony showed up with a model on his arm, mostly on time, just as the rest of Bruce's more conventional guests were being served their first round of champagne. As Bruce had hoped, the entrance raised a few eyebrows. Tony swaggered into the front hall as if it were a Hollywood red carpet and greeted everyone like longtime friends that personal boundaries didn't apply to. He was bright and charming and more than one father of a blushing graduate could be seen clenching his teeth.

Bruce didn't rush to meet him. He leaned against the banister and watched Tony smirk in the face of the old money goons. This was Tony's graduation gift to him. Watching Gotham's elite squirm and nose-crinkle in the wake of a man so much smarter and savvier than anything they had to offer made Bruce beam internally with vindication. Outside of Gotham these people had and meant nothing; they depended on their connections and corruption to earn the mangled scraps of their reputations. Tony needed none of that. Tony could twist a screw and have the world, and still these bottom feeders shunned him. They were all idiots, and even if Bruce had to savor the joke with himself, it made the evening worthwhile.

Tony finally spotted Bruce and gave him the get your ass down here look. Bruce obliged and tried not to look too smug as everyone watched them shake hands. "Glad you could make it, Mr. Stark," he greeted.

"Barely," said Tony. He introduced his date, a European model Bruce remembered from a recent ad campaign. Bruce in turn introduced his eager classmates, and the "party" carried on.

Everyone ate, and laughed, and bullshitted each other like pros that evening. It was fun for the first two hours, up until Bruce reached for a champagne flute and found Alfred on the other end.

"Enjoying yourself, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked in that manner peculiar to him that bordered subservience and sarcasm.

"Of course." Bruce took a sip of the alcohol, watching to see if Alfred would stop or admonish him. He didn't. "Some of them are wearing out their welcome, though."

"Such as, Mr. Stark?" suggested Alfred hopefully.

Bruce glanced over the remaining guests and didn't spot Tony, though he was certain he'd been nearby a moment ago. "Did he leave?"

"I'm afraid I didn't notice."

Bruce handed the champagne back. He'd never cared for it anyway. "I'll find him."

Alfred straightened up. "Master Bruce," he said, sternly, so that Bruce had no choice but to stop and give up his full attention. "I think," Alfred continued, "that your time might be better spent with your other guests."

"You don't think I've..." A look from Alfred reminded him to be cautious of his word choice. "...catered to them enough already? This is supposed to be my party, Alfred. And they're exhausting." He glanced over the room again. "I just want to make sure Tony didn't leave without saying anything."

Alfred sighed, and though Bruce wasn't in the mood for another lecture on the subject, he wasn't fast enough to slip away. "I know you're rather fond of Mr. Stark," said Alfred. "But his company is a direct rival to your own. He knows this."

"Keep your enemies close," said Bruce distractedly.

"Keep your friends close," Alfred corrected him. He smiled grimly. "Like it or not, Master Bruce, you're going to have to become friends with at least a handful of the people in this room eventually. They are the ones that make up Gotham, not Tony Stark."

Bruce frowned. It was by far not the first time Alfred had tried to gentle him away from Tony, but as he stared at the room beyond and its dwindling crowd, Alfred's words clenched in his stomach with a cold, almost panicked sensation. He took a deep breath. "They are, aren't they?"

"They are." Alfred patted him on the shoulder. "I know it's asking a lot, to wade through this pit of vipers," he said, only half in jest. "But your father learned to charm them better than anyone. In time, you will, too."

He gave Bruce's shoulder a squeeze and moved off. He was always doing that: delivering sage advice and then scuttling off to tend to one thing or the other. Bruce had learned to expect it, and yet somehow he still managed to be caught off guard. He remembered skirting the edges of parties like these when he was a young boy. His mother would dress him in his suit and comb his hair. His father would smirk at him through the mirror as he fastened his necktie while Bruce struggled with his own. The festivities themselves were always strange, fractured things in his memory, but when he closed his eyes he could imagine his father winking at him in the glass, as if he was sharing a joke Bruce was too young to understand. Bruce would wink back just to be a part of it.

Bruce slipped past a couple that was trying to get his attention and began a hunt through the foyer. Tony still wasn't in sight, but once he moved to the edge of the gathering he spotted Tony's date, rolling her eyes as she stalked back from the west corridor. Bruce waited for her to move on and retraced her steps to the open door to the study. "Tony?"

There were no lights on inside, but Bruce was certain the door had been closed during preparations, so he investigated. He found Tony slumped in one corner of an old leather sofa, his chin tipped to his chest, legs stretched out in front of him, eyes closed. He was snoring quietly and a pair of empty glasses smelled of scotch on the nearby table. When Bruce came closer, he saw that Tony's shirt was halfway unbuttoned and his fly was open. Thankfully his date hadn't gone any further before giving up on him.

Bruce sighed and kicked Tony's foot. It would be just his luck if Alfred showed up in time to say I told you so. "Hey. Tony."

Tony grunted but didn't stir. He looked tiny and pathetic passed out in Thomas Wayne's oldest and favorite piece of furniture, and for a brief moment, Bruce hated him. He got over it enough to lean down and make sure Tony was tucked away before zipping his fly back up.

Tony's hand snapped around Bruce's wrist. He stared blearily up at Bruce, and recognizing who he was he tensed all over again. It might have even been guilt twisting in the corners of his mouth. "What the hell are you doing?" he grunted.

With raised eyebrows Bruce let go of Tony's pants and eased the heavy fingers off him. "Nothing," he said. If he weren't already irritated he might have teased or played along, but instead he calmly buttoned Tony's shirt up to the neck. "Just glad you're enjoying the booze."

Tony harrumphed and tilted his chin back. "It's good stuff," he admitted. "Mind if I take a case back with me?"

"If you want. You're the only one drinking it." Bruce gripped Tony's tie and drew it tight-probably tighter than it needed to be-just to see Tony squirm a little. "I'm sure Alfred will be glad to have it off his hands."

The knot bobbed when Tony swallowed. "Thanks."

Bruce turned and dropped onto the sofa. He leaned into Tony's shoulder, and though he could feel Tony's discomfort radiating like microwaves, it passed and they both relaxed, begrudgingly, into each other.

"This party is pretty horrible, huh," said Bruce.

"The worst," Tony agreed. He stared at the last few drops of scotch in his glass as if debating whether they were worth the effort of moving. "A houseful of boring assholes circle-jerking to elevator music? Killer."

Bruce slumped deeper into the leather and tipped his head back, watching the light from the hall crash against the chandelier overhead. "They're pretty horrible."

"The worst." Tony sighed and resettled; he'd given up on the scotch. "You poor bastard. How are you going to put up with those people?"

"I was wondering the same thing." Bruce could still taste the bitterness of the champagne at the back of his throat, no matter how he tried to swallow it down. Electricity burned under his skin and reminded him of that initial clenching of panic as he looked out over a sea of faces he despised. "How do you do it, Tony?"

"I...don't?" Tony folded his hands over his stomach and closed his eyes. "I'm in here while they're out there, aren't I? Fuck those people." He grumbled something unintelligible.

Bruce cocked an eye at him. Tony's face was tight, his thumbs tracing tiny circles against his knuckles. It was the way he sometimes looked when he thought no one was watching, like he was resigning himself to some kind of apology he didn't know how to say. Bruce hated that look. It made him want to pry Tony open with his bare hands.

"Are the people you deal with any better?" Bruce asked. "Or is it just fucked all over?"

"Yeah, that." Tony's voice grew lower and rougher as he drifted back to sleep. "Sorry, Bruce. We're all fucked. Happy graduation."

Tony fell asleep after that. Bruce stayed with him, staring into nothing. He could feel the rest of the manor close in around them, and he imagined claws ripping through the foundations, tearing the old building from the grounds and dragging it, crippled and bleeding, back into the heart of Gotham where it belonged. He pictured Mr. Earle and his board of directors smarming over their drinks as the rafters shook and shed debris over their pinstripes and tiepins. He felt the vibration in his bones. And he knew that Tony was right, and Alfred was right, and between the two of them he was totally fucked.

His future was a bleak desert of surface charms and empty promises. His world was populated by vultures and thieves. He could learn to charm the vipers, as his father hand. He could turn his back on them and still suffer the venom like his inebriated friend. Neither path had anything to offer him. He had no choice but to let Gotham sink its teeth in him, stripping away everything that mattered until he was just as soulless and alone as each pathetic swindler in his midst. Nothing would change, and he was angry, from his fingertips down to his guts, that this was the world his father had left for him.

Tony slept on, oblivious. Bruce quaked beside him, his eyes hard and wet with emotion he had no means to express as his breath set fire to his throat. Rabid, twitching things gnawed at his insides and he hated-just hated, everyone and everything, with bitterness so potent it was debilitating. He was helpless and he wanted to scream.

When Tony went from "Stark's kid" to billionaire CEO, he lost track of a lot of people. Bruce Wayne just happened to be one of them. He got the occasional update via Alfred and, occasionally, the tabloids. "Bruce Wayne, world's richest bisexual" never made it to the front cover, so he assumed Bruce had taken at least some of his advice. He put in a few good words when Bruce applied to Harvard. Had to eat a few when Bruce left barely a year later. Sometimes he told himself that Bruce was better off without him in his life anyway. Sometimes, he believed it.

Chance put Tony on the east coast again just in time for Princeton's winter break. Figuring it would only be another year or two before he and Bruce were finally in the same arena, he decided it was time for another face to face visit.

"I know I missed your twenty-first," Tony said over the phone. "But let me take you out for a drink now. We can catch up."

"Whatever you want, Tony," Bruce replied, and he hung up.

Tony frowned at his phone, but he got the address from Alfred and drove over. Bruce had spent his first semester living in a condo just off campus that he had no trouble finding. It smelled like old money, the kind Tony had spent the last seven years wrinkling his nose at. A stuffy doorman let him up and he knocked on Bruce's door.

Bruce answered. He looked like shit, and when Tony said so, he couldn't even muster a sarcastic response. "Come on in," he said, already heading back to the living room. "Let's drink."

Tony closed the door behind him and followed. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck when he noticed the room was full of loaded boxes, and the condo was free of most possessions. He poked one with his toe, but before he could ask about them, his gaze fell on the living room table Bruce had sat himself down in front of. It was covered in bottles of booze.

"Looks like you got started without me," Tony remarked as he picked up a half empty bottle of whiskey. He tasted it and made a face at the burn. "Wow. What are we celebrating?"

Bruce held his hand up and Tony reluctantly passed him the bottle. "I'm drinking to my dad," he said.

Tony heard warning bells. "Did something happen?" he asked, looking around the room again. "Are you moving? I thought you've only been here a semester."

"I'm leaving," said Bruce.

Tony scoffed. "You won't get a better deal on a condo this close to the school."

"I'm not going to school here anymore."

Tony stopped and stared; the answer was immediately obvious. He let out a huff of incredulous, humorless laughter. "They kicked you out, didn't they."

Bruce glared sullenly at the table of bottles. Tony shook his head.

"What the hell is the matter with you anyway?" Tony said, exasperated. "I know you're smarter than this. Do you think because you have a billion dollars waiting at home you don't have to go through the same system as everyone else? You could have everything you wanted by now and then some if you weren't such a..."

He trailed off, unsure of where his sudden anger was coming from. He just wanted to let it die and get the hell out of there, but when he looked up, Bruce was watching him with those piercing blue eyes of his. Their steady gaze was like being caught in a bear trap.

"Such a what?" Bruce prompted coldly.

"Forget it." Tony waved a hand and turned back toward the door. "Forget everything."

"A what?" Bruce repeated. He craned his head back, but not enough that he could actually see Tony retreating. "Because you really shouldn't talk, Tony, seriously."

It was a mistake to stop, but Tony did anyway. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, maybe I realized that all this is pointless," Bruce carried on, motioning to the room around him with his whiskey. "What good does it do me to go through all this schooling, just to be another rich asswipe like you?" He settled deeper into the sofa. "Whose only benefit to the world is drunken frat parties and a whole lot of corpses?"

Tony was grateful that Bruce wasn't able to see his expression then. He shook it off. "Sounds like instead of going to class you've been reading tabloids," he grunted. "No wonder they're kicking you out."

"Tell me I'm wrong." Bruce paused for a gulp from the bottle. "Tell me the world could use another one of you."

Something cold and all too familiar slunk into Tony's stomach. "The hell does this have to do with me?" He couldn't help himself-he marched back in front of Bruce. "You are flunking out of your life all on your own, pal. I put my work in-you think I didn't fight for every dollar I have now? Don't you dare judge me when you're the one throwing away every possible opportunity, you fucking disappointment."

There. He had said it. Bruce flinched beneath the word, almost seemed to cower in the face of it. His cheeks were already flushed with the drink but they darkened further, and his eyes glazed over with bitter emotion. "Say that again," he said.

"You are a disappointment," Tony obliged, punctuating with his finger. He suddenly felt as if the words had been years in the making, fermenting in some dark corner of his ribs. He hated himself but he couldn't stop. "You're an embarrassment, and if your father were still alive he'd be ashamed of you."

Bruce clanged the bottle of whiskey back onto the table, rattling its peers ominously. For the first time he realized that Bruce's eyes were bloodshot from more than the alcohol. His voice was thick and hoarse as he said, "You don't get to talk about my father."

"Do you think because your parents are dead, the world owes you something?" Tony continued regardless. "It's not like you're the only one, you know. I've been there. I know what you went through, but this-"

"No you don't," Bruce interrupted sharply. He pushed to his feet and clamored over the coffee table, kicking bottles aside in the process. "You have no idea what it's like." When Tony backed away, he pursued, until there was nowhere else to go.

"My father was a good man who loved me," Bruce growled, and his hands felt huge when they took fistfuls of Tony's shirt, shoving him up against the wall. "You never had what I had-you didn't lose what I lost, so don't you dare tell me how I'm supposed to feel!"

Tony shuddered between him and the wall; Bruce was taller and stronger than him, and his breath reeked of the alcohol. For a moment, he was honestly afraid of him, though not so much because he thought Bruce would really hurt him. He stared into Bruce's angry, tear-red eyes and he wanted nothing more than to escape. "Fuck you," he retorted, the only coherent thought he could muster. "Fuck you."

To his surprise and relief, Bruce relented. With one last, half-hearted shove Bruce leaned back and finally turned away entirely. "My parents were murdered," he mumbled as he returned to the sofa. "It wasn't just some accident, a man took them away from me." He fell into the cushions with a thump. "And now they're letting him go."

Heat flared up the back of Tony's neck. "What?"

"Chill," said Bruce. He reached for his whiskey and, realizing it had fallen from the table when he scaled it, chose a scotch instead. "The man that shot my parents. The DA's office is offering him early parole in exchange for testimony. I got the call an hour ago."

Tony eased away from the wall. "Jesus."

"Yeah." Bruce slumped back. "Fuck."

He raised the bottle to his lips, but he didn't drink. His face contorted into something pained, and by the time Tony was there, easing the liquor out of his hands, he didn't protest. He curled in on himself, shaking, and without a word Tony joined him on the sofa. All Tony's bitterness and frustration leaked out of him and he wrapped his arm around Bruce's shoulders in a gesture that was as much a headlock as it was an embrace. He pulled Bruce in and held him until he'd stopped choking on his own throat, and thought that maybe Bruce was right. Tony knew what it was like to lose family, to live by someone else's expectations. He didn't know so much about living with ghosts.

"So," said Tony after what felt like an hour had passed. "There'll be a hearing."

By then Bruce was on his back, knees draped over the armrest, his head pillowed on Tony's thigh. "In a few weeks."

"Are you going?"

"Of course I'm going," Bruce said sharply. Anger twisted his face again. "I can't just let him go."

Tony grimaced and wished he could reach the alcohol. "Do you want me to come, too?"

Bruce harrumphed just like a teenager. "You've barley spoken to me in years," he grumbled, though it wasn't hurt straining his voice, of that Tony was certain. "And this isn't exactly like my school science fair."

"Does that mean yes?" Tony retorted.

Bruce considered for a long time, his gaze distant. "No," he said at long last. "I don't want you to be there." He closed his eyes. "In fact, it'd probably be better if we went back to not speaking to each other."

Tony felt something in his chest tighten and wasn't sure why. If Bruce hadn't been pressed so close, he would have squirmed. "Fair enough," he said. His hand fell to Bruce's chest, and he watched it rise and fall with each of Bruce's slow breaths. "I don't like you anyway."

Bruce's lip curled. He didn't fall asleep, but he pretended like he had, and Tony used the opportunity to sneak out. He took the bottles with him.

The hearing came. Tony watched the news coverage from his kitchen, going through coffee like it was going out of style. It went the way that everyone expected, including Joe Chill being shot by a Falcone goon on his way out of the courthouse. Gotham City. It never changed.

Tony tried to go on with his day, but the caffeine had him wired and he couldn't stop thinking about Bruce getting drunk somewhere with that pretty Dawes girl. In the end he called up Rhodes and bugged him until they'd scheduled a night of drinks and brunettes. That got Bruce off his mind for a few hours at least. By seven in the morning the phone was ringing, and he wouldn't have answered if not for Rhodes kicking him from the other end of the couch. He pressed his cell mostly to his ear and grumbled, "Hello?"

"I'm sorry to call so early in the morning, Mr. Stark," came a precise, accented voice. "This is Alfred Pennyworth, of the Wayne estate. I was wondering if you'd heard from Mr. Wayne?"

That woke Tony up. "What do you mean? Where is he?"

"I was hoping you could tell me, Mr. Stark."

Rhodes raised his eyebrows questioningly, but Tony ignored him. "Sorry, Alfred, but I haven't talked to Bruce in weeks," he said. "Have you tried his DA friend?"

"I have." Alfred sighed. "If you do hear from him, won't you please let me know?"

"Yeah." Tony rubbed his whiskers. "Sure, no problem."

"Thank you. I won't take up any more of your time." Alfred hung up.

Tony stared at his phone for a long moment, his lips pursed. Then Rhodes kicked him again.

"What's going on?"

"I'm not sure," said Tony.

He dialed Bruce's number but it went straight to voicemail. He checked his email and even flipped on the morning news. There was a blurb about the hearing the day before and a "Bruce Wayne couldn't be reached for comment" and that was it.

"Tony, I'm sure he's fine," said Rhodes as he dragged himself into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. "He got himself drunk somewhere and he'll turn up in a few hours. The kid's entitled to it, don't you think?"

"Yeah," said Tony, still watching the news. "You're right."

But he couldn't shake the feeling that something had gone wrong. Forty-eight hours later, when news broke that Alfred had filed a missing person's report, it wasn't vindication he felt so much as a slow-burning panic. He called in every favor owed to him and three weeks later learned that Bruce Wayne had appeared somewhere in the Far East. Fucking Hong Kong. And then he was gone.

Life went on, such as it was. Gotham mourned its prince for a while but not long. Within a few months Tony was back to letting his assistants check his voicemail for him. Wayne Enterprises grew under the guidance of its board of directors and Stark Industries rose to meet it. Business boomed and the press moved on and soon it was as if Bruce Wayne had never survived the death of his parents at all.

But sometimes, when it rained, Tony would stand at the window and watch it fall. He'd draw equations in the condensation and imagine long fingers sneaking in to fill in the missing pieces. Most of all, he'd wonder what he should have done-if there was anything he could have said or been that would have changed the past. He never came up with an answer.

Solitary confinement was both blessing and curse. It meant silence and peace and time to think. It meant adrenaline thinning out, making way for bruises to sting. It meant an hour or a day away from his life's work, and being glad in that fact, and hating himself for being glad in that fact. Being in a hell-hole jail was more complicated than he'd thought.

Sometimes, Bruce Wayne would stretch out on his back and let his bones realign as he waited out the time. Other times he'd find the most comfortable spot from which he could see daylight and plan a few more ways he could escape when he was ready. It was a rare time he thought about Gotham, or the people he'd left behind, and when he did the memories flashed before his eyes like a flipbook of old polaroids.

The last time, Bruce stumbled into the familiar cell and the first thing to catch his eye was a glimpse of a wool suit in the corner. It was gray and striped and hadn't often been worn. His heart gave a flutter and he went stiff. He'd finally been found and his bones constricted around their marrow as he groped after some clever greeting, some explanation he could give to the one man that had always known where to look for him.

But it wasn't Tony Stark. A wolf in a gray suit stepped out of the shadows, and before Bruce could settle with relief or disappointment, his world changed.

Tony was in his workshop, music blaring, grease up to his elbows, when Pepper Potts let herself in and asked JARVIS to lower the volume in the room.

"I'm listening to that," Tony said without looking up.

"Tony, I've been trying to reach you on the intercom," said Pepper. "There's a phone call for you."

"So handle it."

"A personal phone call." She moved to the panel in the wall to put the call through. "From Bruce Wayne."

Tony scoffed and would have told her not to bother, but then the music cut out completely in favor of the phone speaker. "Sorry for the wait, Mr. Wayne," said Pepper. "You're on with Mr. Stark."

"Thank you, Ms. Potts," said Bruce.

Tony froze. Shock, anger, and relief warred throughout his suddenly quick pulse and it took him several beats before he was able to turn toward Pepper. She must have seen the color draining out of his face because she gave him a wary look, but he couldn't explain, couldn't get enough air in his lungs to respond.

"Tony?" asked Bruce. "Are you there?"

"Yeah," Tony forced out. He looked left and right, and accepted a wad of paper towels when Pepper offered. He tried to get the worst of the grease off his hands as he moved closer to the wall panel. "Yeah, I'm here. That really you?"

"It's me. Do you need me to tell you something only I would know?"

Tony sank into a chair, his hands in his lap. The voice was enough-it was already twisting his guts into animal shapes. "No, I hear you. You sound pretty good for a dead guy."

Bruce chuckled. It made Tony wish he could punch him through the phone. "Look, I don't have much time," he said. "We're landing soon. But I wanted you to hear it from me before the media gets a hold of me."

"So." Tony wound his fingers in the paper towel. "You're coming back, just like that? To Gotham?"

"Yes. I know it's been a while, but Alfred promises me I still have some money left." Bruce paused. "He told me SI is doing better than ever. I'm glad to hear it."

"Yeah." Tony's brow furrowed. The conversation was surreal. "Um, thanks."

"Well, I have to hang up-captain's orders. But it was good hearing your voice, Tony. We'll catch up sometime, all right?"

"Yeah. Right."

"Good." Bruce hung up.

Tony tossed the paper towels away. He sat there, staring at the grease still smeared under his nails, until Pepper came up next to him. "Tony?" She poked at his shoulder. "You never told me you knew Bruce Wayne."

Tony shook himself. "Call the airfield," he said. "Tell them I want my jet ready as soon as possible."

Hours later, Tony was in Gotham City for the first time in nearly a decade. He still hated the place.

By then the media had caught wind as to Bruce Wayne's resurrection, and when he reached Wayne Manor there were reporters already setting up camp. Pepper got from them that Bruce hadn't returned home yet, as he was still in the city sorting out the matter of having been declared legally dead. There didn't seem to be any number by which he could be reached. Tony wanted to wait, but once the reporters caught wind that it was Tony Stark in the back of the town car things got irritating really fast, and he and Pepper were forced to retreat to the nearest hotel suite.

Fortunately, Pepper was a magician. By seven in the evening they were served a handsome dinner in the suite, and with the food arrived guests: Bruce Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth, looking a little worse for wear after a long battle with city bureaucrats, but otherwise pleased with the invitation and very alive.

Bruce had changed. He had always been tall and toned and handsome, but when he stepped into the suite it was with smooth, self-assured grace that he'd never possessed as a lanky teenager. His eyes were dark and sharp, his shoulders broad beneath the cut of his suit, his posture impeccable. He was every inch the man he was always meant to be, and Tony found himself speechless as Bruce took his hand and shook it.

"Tony." Bruce grinned. "When I said we should catch up, I didn't mean today."

"Tough luck." Tony gave Bruce's hand a hard squeeze. "I've got a lot of questions for you."

"Of course." Bruce freed himself and gestured for the table that had been made up for them. "I'll see what I can do." Tony was revisited by the impulse to punch him, but instead he followed Bruce to the dining room, and after everyone was introduced they sat down to eat.

Bruce led the dinner conversation. He told them about his time in Southeast Asia, the trouble he'd gotten himself into and the variety of people he'd met. "For most of it, I was really just trying to find myself," he said as he refilled everyone's wine glasses. "In the most melodramatic way possible, I suppose. But I've seen and learned so much. It was important for me to see the world that way, from the bottom up. It really put everything in perspective."

"It's amazing," said Pepper, but to her credit, she didn't sound any more impressed that Tony was. "But it sounds dangerous. You're lucky to be here."

"I am lucky," Bruce agreed. "Very lucky. And now that I'm back, I know just what I ought to be doing."

Tony gulped down almost his full glass on one breath. "Going back to school?" he guessed.

Bruce shook his head. "I'm going in to Wayne Enterprises tomorrow, to see if Mr. Earle will get me a job in the company."

"I'm sure he'll find room," said Alfred. "He can hardly do otherwise."

"So that's it." Tony glared at him across the table. "You disappear for almost a decade to frolic with the lower class, and the whole point of it, your big plan, is that you're going to grease back into your father's company with a wink and a smile."

"Tony," said Pepper.

"No-I'm not going to sit here and listen to this bullshit." Tony pushed back from the table. "This wasn't some backpacking trip across Europe, Bruce, you were legally dead."

Bruce leaned back as well. For the first time that evening some real life came into his eyes. "I know that," he said seriously.

"Is that all you have to say for yourself?" Tony shook his head. "All that soul searching and you haven't changed at all. Still the same selfish little prick you've always been."

"That's quite enough, Mr. Stark," said Alfred.

"Alfred." Bruce stood up. "Ms. Potts. Would you mind excusing Tony and I for a minute?"

Alfred and Pepper exchanged looks. "Of course," said Alfred.

"But there might not be much of this left when you get back," added Pepper, reaching for the wine.

Bruce gestured to the adjoining room, and Tony felt his stomach drop into his knees. He tried not to gulp visibly as he followed Bruce into the bedroom. His brain was short-circuiting, and he might have retreated if Bruce hadn't closed the door behind them. He was trapped and he no choice but to face a ghost.

When Bruce stood still he was a stranger, all sleek lines and cool charm. He fixed Tony with a calm and apologetic smile that was nothing like the boyish manipulations that had made up his younger years. It wasn't any less effective; Tony couldn't help but fidget as he waited for Bruce to get down to business. "So?" he said when his patience had worn out. "What is this really about, Bruce? Because you know I don't buy a single word you said in there."

"I know," said Bruce. He sounded like he approved. "But it's a lot longer story than I can tell over dinner."

"What the hell does that mean?" Tony demanded. "What is any of this? Did you really think you'd just call me this morning, say 'not dead!' and that would be it? That you didn't owe me more than that?"

"Tony," said Bruce, placating. "I know."

"No, you don't." Tony stepped closer. "Do you know how many of us there are that actually give a crap about you away from your billions? Not many, by my count. So the least you could do for us upon returning from the dead is not selling some bullshit story about how you found yourself in the Himalayas herding goats."

"I know," Bruce said again. He took Tony by the shoulders. "I'm sorry."

Tony wasn't expecting that. He immediately thought back over the years and couldn't remember a single time that Bruce had apologized to him, for anything. Mostly Bruce had never needed to, but the effect was still eerie. He didn't know what to make of this almost-Bruce that had come home from Hell and he wanted to be angry. He was angry. But then Bruce tugged on him, and before he knew what was happening he was in Bruce's arms, pressed up against his chest.

"Do you remember that time you came to my dorm?" Bruce said, close to Tony's ear, like something out of bad drug trip. "And I fell asleep in your lap?"

Tony was past the point of incredulity. "Which time?"

"You told me I should live exactly the way I wanted to," Bruce went on. "And I couldn't, because at the time...well. It wouldn't have been healthy for anyone involved. But I get it, now. I know what I have to do."

He took Tony by the back of the neck and urged him to follow him to the window. The lights of Gotham were all on display, twinkling amidst the darkened buildings like moonlight on gutter water. "I know how much you hate this city," Bruce said. "I can't say I blame you. For a while I considered not coming back, because I realized...Joe Chill didn't kill my parents. It was this city. This city is sick, and it needs help."

Tony eyed Bruce warily, his breath tight in his lungs. "Your help?"

"Yes." Bruce chuckled. "I know. You're thinking I'm crazy."

"Yeah," said Tony. "Pretty much."

"I'm not saying it's going to be easy. But with my money, with the things I've learned...I know I can make a difference here. It won't bring my parents back, but I can make it so there are fewer kids like me out there." He nodded to himself. "I think I can save Gotham."

"Bruce." Tony shook his head. "No. You can't."

Bruce's fingers tightened subtly against the back of Tony's neck, and he suddenly realized how much harder they felt. "Why not?"

"Because this city doesn't want your help," said Tony. "Making charity your profession is a bad idea anywhere, but here? It's a black hole. They'll take everything you have left and it still won't get to the people that need it."

"I'm not talking about charity."

Tony frowned. Bruce was staring out over the city, his eyes bright and heavy, with all the eager malice of a predator. It would have been intimidating on anyone, but this was Bruce Wayne-a new Bruce Wayne, remolded, poised and powerful and maybe even deadly. All his boyhood apathy had been replaced with stern purpose. He might have been half mad but his passion was enviable, and it made Tony's insides squirm with inadequacy and doubt. Somehow, the poles had shifted. He was sure that at any moment he could be curled up against Bruce's knee.

"What the hell happened to you out there?" Tony mumbled.

Bruce fixed his gleaming eyes on Tony and then smiled. "I faced my fears," he answered, letting his hand fall from Tony's neck. The weight didn't leave. "What about you, Tony?"

Tony tried to gather himself up. "What makes you think I'm afraid of anything?"

"Everyone's scared of something," said Bruce lightly. He slid his hands in his pockets as he stared out over Gotham again. "Even Tony Stark."

Tony glared at him a moment longer before forcing himself to look out the window. He didn't know what to say, because he had been afraid-afraid for years that the call he'd gotten that morning could have turned out a different way. He had feared failing a man he barely called friend. He had been afraid of never being good enough for the people that mattered or even the people that didn't. He had pushed away and feigned indifference to and drank down every impulse to give a shit because people got into your cracks, worked you open. People like Bruce Wayne got under your skin and rewrote the programing. And that frightened him.

"What do you want from me?" Tony found himself asking.

"What makes you think I want anything?"

"Don't you? You did call me, after all." Tony took in a deep breath and tried to expel the anxiety buzzing through his lungs. "There have to be people who should have gotten that call before me."

"It's like you said," replied Bruce. "You're one of the only people who care." He smiled. "Honestly, I'm just glad you didn't punch me."

"I was tempted."

He punched Bruce lightly in the side, but when his knuckles felt a press of muscle instead of lean ribs, he was taken aback. He remembered being in Bruce's arms a moment ago and decided that a closer look was necessary. As Bruce stared in confusion, Tony turned toward him and pressed both hands to his stomach. When the three piece Armani got in the way he unbuttoned it, until he was feeling out sculpted abs through Bruce's shirt. "Holy shit," he muttered.

Bruce stayed out of the way as Tony poked at his stomach and chest. "Did you lose something in there?" he teased.

Tony met his gaze for only a moment before he had to look away again. His face felt hot. "They must have amazing personal trainers up in the Himalayas, or have you been benching small villages?"

Bruce chuckled. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." He urged Tony's hands off and buttoned his vest once more. "But to answer your question: no."

"No?"

"No, I don't want anything from you." Bruce's face grew serious again. "In fact, I think it would be better if you stayed away from Gotham for a while."

Tony's heart gave a heavy thud. "What does that mean?" He cleared his throat and tried again in a lighter tone. "Afraid I'll get swept up in your philanthropic fever and waste my hard-won profits? Because I'm already funding plenty of save-the-world projects as we speak, thanks. Safer bets, too."

"I just don't want you involved," said Bruce. "It's going to get worse before it gets better."

Tony felt his sincerity, he really did, but he still didn't really know what the hell Bruce was talking about, and he was too proud to ask. So he laughed. "The Dali Llama really did a number on you," he said. "But don't worry-you don't have to ask me twice to stay out of Gotham."

"Good." Bruce clapped him on the shoulder. "Then let's get back before Alfred bores poor Ms. Potts to death."

They rejoined their companions and finished dinner, complete with drinks and dessert. The conversation tipped to lighter topics as Tony and Pepper did their best to fill Bruce in on the past seven years of business and pop culture. When Bruce and Alfred finally retired for the night it was with promises to stay in touch. Pepper closed the door behind them.

"Well," she said. "That was...interesting."

Tony sank into the couch. He was still reeling in Bruce's wake, a heavy pulse between his temples and behind his ribs. Over and over he played Bruce's words in his head, trying to make sense of them. Trying to make sense of anything. "Who the hell does he think he is?" he grumbled, rubbing his weary eyes. "Seven fucking years. Can't even give me a straight answer."

Pepper sat down next to him. He liked Pepper. Her number one skill was cutting through bullshit, and he was in need of a whole lot of that. "Give him a little time, Tony," she said. "He just got back. Whatever he's not telling you, he'll realize that it doesn't matter as much as he thinks it does and let on when's he's ready. For now, just be glad he's all right."

"I am glad," Tony grunted. "I'm just pissed."

Pepper smiled and gave his hand a pat. "You'll let go of that when you're ready, too," she said. "As for me, I'm turning in." She stood. "I'll schedule our return flight in the morning."

Pepper picked one of the bedrooms and went to sleep. Tony didn't even try to follow her example. He finished what was left of the booze and stretched out on the couch, trying every possible position and finding none that led to sleep. Bruce was back, and he knew that sooner or later, Bruce would beckon, like he always did. And Tony would come running, like he always did, because that's what Bruce did to people. Or at least, that's what Bruce did to him.

"What are you up to this time, Bruce?" Tony muttered into the dark. He finally drifted off to the music of police sirens in the distance.

Bruce stared out over the burnt ruins of his former life. All over the workers picked through the charred debris, searching for anything that could be salvaged. There wasn't much. In the north where the dining hall had been Bruce nudged the ashes aside and found the remnants of his mother's silver. He fingered the tip of a carving knife and tried to remember what they were supposed to have been serving the night before. One of his favorites, he assumed. Alfred always brought out the best on his birthday.

It was a strange sensation. Twenty-four hours ago he would have scoffed at the thought of losing his childhood home, maybe even welcomed it. He had no love for the grand hallways and antique artwork. The memories they represented were too poisoned to hold on to. It should have been cathartic, watching all that history go up in smoke, and in a way, it was. He could start anew and build something truly for himself. He knew his father would want that of him. But then he picked up a burnt and twisted serving spoon, and tried to remember his mother on Christmas Eve, pacing up and down the dining hall as she personally selected each dish and implement for the coming meal. The sound of her heels on the marble echoed in Bruce's ears and he would have done anything to have that dining hall back.

"Master Bruce," said Alfred.

Bruce stood, dusting his hands off on his trousers. Alfred was indicating the driveway, where Rachel had just reached her car on her way out. She wasn't alone. A black town car was parked next to hers, and next to it, Rachel spoke closely to a man in a tailored pinstripe suit. They turned toward the house together, and Bruce flushed. Of course it was Tony.

Rachel touched Tony's arm and then moved away, into the front seat of her car. Tony continued up the lawn. It was a hike and Bruce didn't bother meeting him halfway; he continued poking about through the debris, childishly pretending he hadn't seen the company. He already knew what Tony would say and after having been rejected by Rachel he didn't particularly feel up to another round.

"Bruce." Tony hopped over the crumbling remains of a china cabinet and stopped, taking off his sunglasses. "I love what you've done with the place."

Bruce smiled humorlessly and at last turned to face him. "Tony. I'm sorry I missed the award ceremony."

"Sorry I missed your birthday. But you did tell me to stay out of Gotham." He motioned with his chin to the burned out shell surrounding them. "I'm starting to see why."

Tony's face was hard. Accusations were in his eyes and Bruce wasn't surprised; he hadn't expected he'd be able to hide the truth from Tony long. He cast a quick glance around at the workers to make sure none were in earshot, and then lowered his voice anyway. "Say what you came here to say."

"I want to see it," said Tony.

"See what?"

"Wayne Enterprises' experimental military support vehicle, test model 04T-97," Tony replied precisely, and Bruce had to admit, he was caught off guard. The surprise must have showed in his face, because Tony scowled. "Did you really think I wouldn't recognize it? That any military contractor in the world could bring something like that to the table without me hearing about it? I was there when Fox pitched the damn thing years ago. And I'm guessing if I had a look through your garage, I'd find a few more of his old dead ends."

Bruce sighed. "I don't have a garage anymore," he said. "Just a cave."

Tony leaned back. "A cave?" He made a squeamish face and then rubbed it away. "I still want to see it."

Alfred kept an eye on the workers while Bruce led Tony to the far end of the grounds. The greenhouse had been mostly spared from the fire, but its windows were still caked with soot and some of the wood was blackened. Bruce couldn't help but glance to the back of it, where an old bench had rotted through. He caught Tony staring, too.

Bruce pulled the cover off the old well and began rigging the ropes necessary to take them to the bottom. "We're repelling in?" Tony asked incredulously.

"The elevator was damaged in the fire," said Bruce. "And the stairs are buried in the west corner, where the workers are. If you'd rather go in through the waterfall, there's that, but I figured you like that David August you're wearing." He looked up. "You still want to see it?"

Tony snorted. "You go first."

Bruce went first. By the time Tony joined him he had turned on the power, and the cave gleamed with harsh fluorescent lighting and computer monitors. As he watched everything spurring to life he thought for a moment that Rachel might have been right about him; he could feel the electricity in the air, bouncing off the damp cave walls and the sweat on his skin, and it felt more like home than the destroyed manor above. Even with his childhood in shambles his greatest relief was that no significant harm had come to the lair.

Tony stepped forward and stared at the collection of computer towers and worktables with wide, intense eyes. His nostrils were flared like a bloodhound as he stalked from one station to the next, plucking at the various pieces of equipment. Bruce could tell that he recognized some, just like he had said, and he vowed to ask Lucius later if he could expect more than Tony to have taken notice of their gear. Tony took a particular interest when he spotted the Tumbler. He had no qualms climbing into it and immediately began pushing buttons.

"Hood control is the blue latch," Bruce said.

The hood popped open, and Tony moved around front for a better look. He had to climb over the front wheels to get to it. He muttered the specs to himself as he surveyed the engine and other components. Bruce stood back, itching all through his skin. Watching Tony poke and prod, even knowing Tony knew better than to cause any harm, made him feel as if he'd been scalped and knobby fingers were prying through his gray matter. It wasn't the first time Tony had had that effect on him but it seemed more intimate than ever, with Tony's hands wrapped up in the machines that now defined him. He held his breath. He didn't know if he was waiting for Tony's approval, if he wanted it or if having it would make any damn difference. Tony didn't have to understand. Nobody did.

Tony leaned back, and Bruce tossed him a towel for the oil staining his hands. "So," said Tony as he came closer, working the grit out from under his nails. "A cave. I guess it makes sense, when you're Batman."

He met Bruce's gaze and stared hard, as if waiting for some kind of impossible denial, or maybe just a pat on the back. Bruce wasn't inclined to give him either. "At least I didn't go with my first choice of the belfry," he said.

Tony laughed bitterly and tossed the towel away. "Dear god, you're certifiable, you know that?"

"You're not the first to say so."

"I mean it-you are literally insane." Tony stalked down the tables of equipment again. "Seriously, bats? I guess it's terrifying in a, 'my god, is that a grown man in cape?' kind of way. Couldn't you at least pick something evocative of crime fighting, maybe? Like, German Shepard Man?"

Tony stopped in front of the computers and was distracted by the many screens. He leaned over the keyboard and immediately bypassed the first of Bruce's security measures. As he poked about the system Bruce turned back to the Tumbler and closed its hood. He didn't like seeing it exposed after the beating it had already taken.

Tony hummed to himself, and after another minute he finally admitted, "This is good stuff, at least. Did you write this software yourself?"

"Most of it." Bruce joined him, leaning against the desk as he watched Tony work. There wasn't anything Tony could find that worried him, but he felt a flash of relief when security windows finally popped up that Tony couldn't work around.

"What's the password?" Tony asked.

"If you can't guess it by now, I'm not telling you."

Tony's fingers hovered over the keys, but he gave up without trying anything. He turned in place and took the cave in all over again. Bruce waited. He could see the questions buzzing on Tony's lips and tried to guess what they were before they came, but Tony remained quiet, just staring. It was infuriating, and Bruce wanted to hate him. Then Tony sighed.

"What did Rachel say?" he asked.

Bruce looked away. He couldn't think of anything he wanted less than to talk to Tony about Rachel. "Why? What did she say to you?"

"She wished me luck."

Tony continued to stare, and as much as Bruce hated to do it, he surrendered the truth. "She said I'm not the person I was," he said, feeling the words creeping about his organs. "The real Bruce Wayne is still out there somewhere, but I'm not him anymore. I'm...this." He lit his gaze flicker about the cave and smiled grimly to himself. "I'm Batman."

Tony considered that for a long moment. "Hell of a thing," he said. "It wasn't that long ago you couldn't drag your lazy ass to an economics final. Now you're...Batman."

"Uh-huh."

"You know, too be honest, it's not all that shocking," said Tony. "I'm not surprised at all."

Bruce raised an eyebrow at him. "You're not."

"Nope. Not at all."

It was ridiculous, all of it, and Bruce had to laugh. "Sure, Tony. If you say so."

"Your friend Rachel's a smart girl, but she's got it wrong," Tony went on, and it suddenly was a lot less funny. "This?" He gestured to their surroundings. "It's you, yeah. You're sure as shit Batman." He wagged his finger at Bruce. "But you've been this for a long time now, haven't you, Brucey?"

Bruce's chest tightened. He thought of Rachel's knowing smile and her hand on his cheek and how, only minutes ago, it had seemed like she held every part of him in five warm fingers. She was right and she knew him. But then Tony kept talking, and he doubted.

"I used to think about it a lot," Tony was saying, wistful and bitter at once. "Who would Bruce Wayne have been, if some desperate asshole hadn't shot his parents? It kept me up some nights while you were gone, wondering. But now I'm starting to think I had it wrong. You've been this as long as I've known you. Maybe you were always gonna be this."

Tony didn't understand. Bruce told himself that over and over as the shadows blurred into twisted shapes around them. There were ghosts on his shoulders and the weight of them had warped him. He had changed-he had traveled the world, he had faced his fears, trained his body and mind. He had gained power and focus and purpose. He was remade and he was just beginning. He tried to say so, but in taking a breath he realized just how much pressure was constricting his lungs.

It was the anger. It was the slow burn that had been working through his system ever since that night that still managed to be just below his surface no matter how many years passed. All through his childhood Bruce had felt it, gnawing away at him with the inescapable truth that he was only going through the motions of life. He had been waiting. A world of vipers had nothing to offer him and he had been waiting for something with meaning, some way of fighting back not with charm, but knuckles and knees. Wrath and agony were lodged inside him and he wanted the world to feel it. Even the memory of his father, always patient and wise, hadn't been enough to prevent him from hating the gluttony surrounding him.

And it went deeper than that. Here in the heart of his obsession he couldn't imagine living any other way, even if his father were still at his side. Without the tragedy of his past he might have grown in his father's image, but could he have grinned in the face of the liars, played their foolish games without satisfying himself in true justice earned on the streets at night? Maybe Tony was right, and the anger had been with him all along. Maybe he should have been grateful that his parents never lived to see him come into his own.

"I mean it in the nicest possible way," said Tony.

Bruce clenched both hands against the edge of the desk. "What the hell are you still doing here, Tony?"

Tony glanced over. He had to know what Bruce meant but he was still a smartass. "I'm not climbing out of this pit without a spotter," he said.

"I can say two words, or nothing at all, and you come running," Bruce went on. "Every damn time. You don't even like me so what are you doing here?"

"Hell, Bruce, I don't know," said Tony. "Maybe I'm just trying to stick it to your dad for telling you to stay away from me all those years ago."

He covered Bruce's hand with his. His skin was rough, and Bruce twisted his wrist to fit their calluses together. Tony always had steady hands. Bruce remembered when he used to watch Tony work on cars or on circuit boards, his fingers moving with deft precision over the most delicate of parts. He was so sure of himself and he could fix anything, and there were times when Bruce had wished those fingers would slip under his skin and rewire him.

"Well. Thanks, for that." Bruce smiled half-heartedly and squeezed Tony's hand. "I think."

"Then you're welcome, I guess."

They headed back toward the well entrance together. "Obviously, I'm not going to tell anyone," Tony said. "But this is all a little deep for me, Bruce. I think I'm going to go back to taking your advice."

"You mean, staying out of Gotham?" Bruce scoffed. "I don't think you can."

"At least I won't have a choice for the next seventy-two hours." Tony checked his phone and rolled his eyes at the no signal flashing back at him. "I'm already late for a flight out to Afghanistan. Another demonstration. You really ought to get Fox back on that, if he's not too busy making toys for you."

Bruce shook his head as he prepared the rigging. "Please don't go after Lucius again. I need him more than you do."

"No argument there."

Bruce helped Tony into the harness and out of the cave, and together they crossed the wreckage toward Tony's car. As soon as Tony had a signal again his phone rang, but he ignored it. "Just tell me you'll be careful," Tony said, trying to look and sound casual. "You know, more than your average mammal-themed vigilante that's completely out of his mind."

"I'm careful," Bruce assured him. "I know what I'm doing."

"God, I hope so." Tony cast him a smirk, but when they shook hands, Bruce could feel the tension threading up his arm. "Especially when it comes to rebuilding this place. I have got a great architect for you to talk to."

"Goodbye, Tony." Bruce leaned back. "Thanks for stopping by."

Tony shook his head as he turned and hopped down the front steps. Bruce watched him get into his car and pull away, all the while thinking he should have said something more, but he didn't know how to put his feelings into words let alone ones Tony wouldn't mock him for. With a sigh he turned back toward the house and the work that awaited him.

Forty-eight hours later, the media started reporting that Tony Stark had been taken hostage by terrorist insurgents in Afghanistan.

Bruce called in every favor he was owed, few as they were. He pointed Wayne's satellites at the desert and wrote lines upon lines of code in the attempt to make their efforts more efficient. He might have jumped in his jet and flown halfway across the world if Alfred hadn't put his foot down.

"The military is doing everything they can to find him," Alfred reasoned as he poured them both a cup of coffee. "Let them do their job."

"I can't just sit here and do nothing," said Bruce as he continued to jab at his computer. His system at his temporary penthouse wasn't even fully up and running yet and he was already pushing it to its limits. "God only knows what they're doing to him."

Bruce knew. He had suffered his share of tortures at the hands of the worst the world had to offer, and he couldn't stop thinking about the chains and knives and mallets they would likely employ. The thought that they might go after Tony's hands, rendering his craftsman's perfection useless, made Bruce's stomach roil almost more than the possibility of his violent death.

Alfred handed him a mug, and for several long moments was eerily quiet. When Bruce lifted his head he had no trouble interpreting his faraway expression. "Don't, Alfred."

"I was only thinking," Alfred said gently, "that perhaps you have a bit more empathy for your friends and loved ones now."

"It's not the same. He's not just missing-he's been captured by terrorists." When Alfred continued to stare down at him, unmoved, Bruce's throat tightened and he said again, "It's not the same."

"If you say so, Master Bruce," said Alfred, and he moved away.

Bruce gulped down the coffee and went back to work. Forty-eight hours and he was an anxious knot. One week and he was taking his frustration out on Gotham's degenerates with fervor the local news began to notice. Three weeks and it was all he could do to keep from unraveling, and every time he looked at Alfred he tasted apologies in his mouth. He lay awake at night wondering if it was how Tony had felt, having something so constant wrenched out of his life and cast into uncertainty.

Because that was what Tony was to him: a constant. He was the x axis. They'd known each other for so long they had their hands under each other's hoods. In younger years Bruce might have called it infatuation but he didn't know what to call it now, and he might never know if Tony didn't get his ass home.

Life went on, such as it was. For three months Bruce dreamed of waking up against Tony's knee. Then one night Bruce came back from halting a robbery and found Alfred waiting for him in the cave.

"I just received a call from Col. Rhodes," he said, and Bruce's pulse hammered into his ears. "They've found him-he's alive."

When Tony arrived home from Afghanistan he was desperate for several things: cheeseburger, shower, coffee. A medical opinion and some therapy wouldn't have hurt, but they were far down his list of priorities, somewhere below destroying his net worth and sending Stark Industries' PR division into a tailspin. That much accomplished, he retreated to his mansion. Just walking through the door was a surreal experience. Pepper took good care of him, along with the usual house staff, and soon Tony was fed and clean and he had no idea what to do with himself.

He stood at the windows overlooking the valley. Pepper and everyone else had left, and the house stretched out behind him, empty and silent. It was so different from the endlessly echoing caves that he had become accustomed to that it was almost dizzying. He watched the lights flicker in the distance and tried to find patterns in them, just to keep his mind occupied. He was a little afraid of where it would go if left to its own devices now that his momentum had run out.

"Sir," said JARVIS. "You have a visitor."

Tony sighed. "Fuck."

He thought it was Obadiah. They had parted on uncertain terms and he knew that Obadiah didn't understand. A few hours ago he had been so certain of himself, but with night creeping in everything felt a little less clear, and he wasn't up to holding his own against his longtime friend and mentor again. Still, he moved to the door and put a good face on. He opened the door to Bruce Wayne.

Tony stared. He had thought of Bruce plenty on his trip home, but he hadn't expected to be face to face so soon. He was the one at Bruce's beck and call, the one that bent to manipulations and chartered private jets to check up on a friend. But there Bruce was, impeccably dressed, his eyes dark and heavy as he looked Tony up and down. His expression was intense, and before either of them could get a word out he latched onto Tony's shoulder.

Tony flinched back, and Bruce's grip immediately softened. He let out a quiet sigh as he slid his hand to the back of Tony's neck and squeezed. "Really, Tony," he said. "Not even a phone call?"

Tony gradually unwound beneath the pressure of Bruce's long fingers. "You wanted that 'not dead!' call, huh?"

"Yeah, I did." Bruce gave him a pat and let go. "Are you going to let me in?"

Tony did so, and watched with a kind of sick fascination as Bruce stepped into his home. He could have sworn he heard security breach sirens blaring at the back of his skull. "So," he said as he closed the door. "You're here to hear the story, I presume."

Bruce took only a moment to survey the home's interior before turning back to Tony. "I want to see it," he said.

Tony gulped. "See what?"

"I have friends in the military, too, Tony." Bruce focused intently on Tony's chest. "Let me see it."

"What, are we back in high school? You show me yours, I'll show you mine?" Tony rolled his eyes and tried to turn away, but Bruce pulled him back. Before Bruce could go about unbuttoning his shirt Tony urged his hands away and did it himself. "All right," he said. "You can see it."

Tony fumbled a little at the buttons as he exposed his chest. He had known this moment would come, but he still wasn't prepared to have Bruce staring down at the arc reactor keeping him alive. It wasn't the same as the inkling of pride when he had shown Rhodes and Obadiah. Bruce understood this machine. He grasped better than the others what it meant to put your life in the hands of a machine of your own making, and his eyes were sharp and serious as they took it in.

Bruce drew his fingertips across the reactor's surface. It gave Tony a chill, like a phantom pain rippling across a stretch of skin that was no longer there. "I thought it'd be warmer," he said, rubbing his thumb gently against its center.

Tony smirked humorlessly. He could feel the metal casing pressing against his skin with every breath, made heavier with even the subtle press of Bruce's hand. "It's plenty warm."

Bruce traced the circle with his fingernail, and after a few more seconds of study he figured it out; he pressed his fingertips to the proper grooves and twisted. The soft click of the reactor unlocking sent Tony's heart racing, but he held very still as Bruce tugged the device carefully out of its resting.

"If you take that out," said Tony, struggling to sound casual, "you kill me."

"I'm not taking it out," Bruce promised. "I just want a better look."

The hiss of metal on metal was the only sound in the room as Bruce slid the reactor out of its casing. He turned it carefully to and fro as if trying to wrap his brain around it. Tony gulped. It was too eerie an image and too appropriate a metaphor to see Bruce with his hands wrapped around his core, and he squirmed. Each slow second ticked by in strained anxiety. When he felt the wires pull taut he couldn't take it anymore. "Bruce-"

Bruce slipped the reactor back in place, sealing it with a twist and a clink. Even after it was safely restored he splayed his hand over its surface, feeling out the seam of metal and skin. His shoulders drooped. "Oh, Tony," he murmured. "I'm sorry."

Tony leaned back. Out of everything Bruce could have said, he hadn't been expecting that, and it tied his brain up in knots. Bruce understood, always, and Tony kind of hated that about him. "I need a drink," he declared. "How about you? You want something?"

As he moved toward the bar, Bruce took off his jacket and tossed it over a nearby chair. "Whatever you're having."

Tony poured them both a scotch. It wasn't exactly in keeping with the doctor's orders but for once Bruce didn't give him any grief about it. They toasted to Tony's relative good health and headed for the living room. "So," said Bruce as he dropped onto the sofa. "Are you going to tell me the story?"

"Can we skip that part for now?" Tony slumped down next to him and took a long gulp of his drink. "I've been debriefed half a dozen times already; I can't go through the whole spiel again."

"All right." Bruce watched him intently. "Then do you want to tell me about the press conference?"

Tony scoffed. "Caught your attention, huh? I'll bet Fox was tap-dancing."

"You know we don't take weapons contracts anymore anyway," said Bruce. "It's Hammer that will be filling that void."

"God, Bruce, please." Tony coughed into his fist. "We are not talking about Hammer filling my void, either."

Bruce sighed, sounding both amused and annoyed. "Then what will you talk about?" He took a gulp of the scotch. "I'm beginning to understand why you were so frustrated with me when I came back from the dead."

Tony stared down at his glass, and his bruised, cracked and weary hands around it. He had always considered them steady, but as he watched them now, he could see and feel the tiny tremor in his knuckles that hadn't left him since the desert. "I was never dead," he said quietly.

Bruce's manner shifted immediately from irritated to attentive and he waited, not patiently but silently, for Tony to speak. "There was a man with me," Tony said. "In the caves. Yensin, was his name. He's, um..." Tony gathered himself and continued. "He's dead now. He died saving me, actually, and it's... it's the strangest thing." He cringed at his own choice of words. "I can't quite get my head around it. It's not a hard thing to understand, really-I know why he did it-I just can't..."

Bruce's hand slid to the back of Tony's neck again. It was heavy, and reassuring, and possessive, and everything that Bruce was. Tony leaned into it. "It changed everything," he went on with greater confidence. "Not just Yensin dying like that, killed by a gun my goddamn company made. It was everything. Those kids-soldiers-gunned down, and the fucking cave, and every night not being able to sleep because I just kept looking back at my life thinking, what was the point? Of any of it? And now Rhodey thinks I've lost my mind, and maybe I have, but I can't go back to how it was before. I won't, not now that I've seen...everything."

"I know," said Bruce, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. And maybe it was, because he was sincere. Bruce had peeled back the skin from the world and leapt into its open wounds, eager to dig out the rot. He didn't know any other way to live and he would never go back. Not that long ago Tony would have called it a cruel fate; now he wasn't so sure.

"So," said Bruce, rubbing his thumb against the rise of Tony's spine. "What are you going to do next?"

"I don't know yet." Tony gulped down the rest of his scotch on one breath. It made his throat burn and his head buzz, and he liked it that way. "But you know me; I always have an idea or two up my sleeve."

Bruce set his glass on the side table and then accepted Tony's, depositing it in the same place. "Yeah. I know you."

Tony let the words filter through him. He believed them, and it felt damn good to have one person on his side even if it later turned out he was completely and irretrievably insane. Sagging into Bruce's ribs with a stern arm around his shoulders felt as much like coming home as stepping down from the jet, and before he knew what he was doing he was curled up against Bruce Wayne with the weight of three months of torture finally dribbling out of him.

But that wasn't enough for Bruce. He welcomed Tony into him for a moment, his body coiled like a spring, but then he seemed to change his mind; he urged Tony back enough that he could kiss him.

The fucking planets aligned. When Bruce's hand clenched at the back of Tony's neck, drawing him in, Tony thought again of the horrible waste he'd made of his life. They'd spent so many years playing this stupid game, trying to put a name or explanation to their strange attraction, and none of it mattered. For once all the bullshit stripped away and Tony kissed Bruce back, eager and kicking himself. They could call it gravity, or convenience, or fate for all he cared, as long as they had it now, when he needed it most.

Bruce broke the kiss with a heavy sigh. "Shit."

"No-not shit." Tony grabbed for his shirt to reel him back in. "Good-this is good."

"Is it?"

"Yeah." Tony tried to think of something more meaningful to say, but he came up empty. "Yeah."

So Bruce kissed him again. He was everything Tony had imagined he would be when he was at his drunkest: heavy, persistent, needy. He pressed against the arc reactor and Tony yielded, dropping onto his back. How typical of Bruce to pressure when all he needed to do was ask. They stretched out on the sofa together and wrapped each other up. Tony groaned when Bruce's strong hands kneaded into all his most tender bruises, but he didn't shy away. He welcomed each seeking touch and pretended that Bruce was remolding him. It should have been a terrifying thought, considering the man Bruce was, the things he created, but Tony drank him in.

"Thank you," Bruce said once they had paused for a breath. "For coming back safe."

Tony laughed. "It's always about you, isn't it?" He collapsed deeper into the sofa and marveled at the view. "I've got an extra toothbrush," he said. "If you want to stay over."

"Yeah." Bruce leaned in for another kiss. "I do."

They took their time getting to the bedroom. Their clothing shed along the way, and at long last Bruce was naked in Tony's bed. He had that look on his face that on his teenaged self ought to have been illegal: that smug little smirk just barely concealing genuine awe. He stretched out on his back and Tony was sure that he would have opened his thighs if asked. Tony didn't ask. He let Bruce beckon him, let those wide hands steady his already sore hips, let Bruce draw him down onto his cock. It was so easy, following his lead. They may as well have done this a hundred times.

A hundred more times might not have been a bad idea, either. Bruce pumped into him hard at first, strong and searing, but then Tony slowed them down and it was pitch perfect. There was no need to rush. Both had long scars and deep tissue bruises to be mindful of. With their rhythm sound Tony closed his eyes, his chin tipped to his chest as he savored the feeling of Bruce inside him. Deep in the back of his mind he had known it would end this way, with them unraveling around each other. He always took a great deal of satisfaction in being right.

"This," Tony huffed as he braced his hands back against Bruce's knees, "is going to ruin our friendship."

Bruce diverted one hand to give Tony's cock a squeeze. "We weren't very good at being friends anyway," he said.

In the morning, Tony awoke first, curled up against a warm and welcoming shoulder. He sat up and watched Bruce sleep for a while, sore and exhausted and wishing his brain would shut up for just a few hours more. When he was unsuccessful at convincing it, he shook Bruce awake. "Hey. Bruce. Remember that time I came to your apartment when you were drunk?"

Bruce rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and stared blearily up at him. "Which time?"

"You said the world didn't need another Tony Stark. Do you remember?"

Bruce's brow furrowed; he remembered. "What about it?"

"I've been thinking," said Tony, testing the words as he spoke. "That you were right." Bruce's frown deepened, but before he could question, Tony went on. "In fact, I think the world could use...another you."

It was a little early for mind reading, but Bruce caught on like a champ. His eyes opened wider and he feathered the backs of his knuckles over Tony's arc reactor. "What do you need from me?"

"Nothing, yet." Tony smiled. He couldn't say he was certain then, but something was growing inside him. All the half-formed ideas and crazed motivations began to coalesce into something tangible and exhilarating. "I just wanted you to be the first to know."

Gotham City had no stars that night. It stretched out from Bruce's perch, dark and solemn beneath the heavy draping of thick clouds. There was an ominous bite to the air that would probably keep the lowlifes out of the alleys for a while. Bruce stayed out anyway, watching the lights flicker on and off in distant buildings, letting the electricity of a far-off storm brew in his chest. Nights like this he felt in control. He was making a difference.

A rumble of engines drew Bruce's attention to the west, and a figure streaked down from the clouds straight for him. He didn't flinch as red and gold took the rough shape of a man and landed with a clang on the rooftop next to him. The Iron Man. It was loud and gaudy and well-intentioned, just like its owner.

"What did I tell you," said Bruce, "about staying out of Gotham?"

The suit whirred softly as it came to rest. "Bats. Please. Let me make you a voice changer."

Bruce grunted. "Seriously," Tony went on. "It makes me shudder to think what you're doing to your larynx."

Bruce rolled his eyes and stubbornly continued as he had been. "What are you doing here, Mr. Stark?"

Tony's smirk was blatant even through the mask. "Just showing off," he admitted. "It's not bad, is it?" He flexed his arms, and an array of various weapons readied themselves and then ducked back into the armor. "Be honest: you're jealous."

"You have a lot of guns," said Bruce. "And a hard punch. But you're slow, and technology can always be exploited. It's a trade-off I wouldn't make."

"Buzzkill."

"You made a mistake by revealing yourself." Bruce's gaze flickered among the surrounding rooftops just to be sure no one had seen Tony's arrival and come to spy. Sometimes he forgot that normal people weren't able to do that when he was fifty stories up. "You're putting yourself and the people you care about at risk."

Tony shrugged. "Seemed like a good idea at the time. Besides, you have your way, I have mine. You're not worried about me, are you?"

"No. Not really."

Bruce turned. Even with the suit on Tony couldn't match him in height, and he had to lean down. "I know you," he said. He pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the Iron Man's face mask, just because he knew Tony had no way of wiping it off. "You'll do just fine."

Tony didn't lean back until after Bruce had pulled away. He took a deep breath, and it made Bruce smile to think that somewhere beneath all that metal was his same old Tony. He'd merely become what he'd been all along.

"Then I'll see you around."

"But not in Gotham," Bruce reminded him.

"I don't see your name on it anywhere." Tony stepped back, and with a roar his engines ignited. "Give it up already; you're not going to be able to get rid of me."

He took off. Bruce let him have the last word, watching until the armor slipped into the clouds and was gone. With a shake of his head he drew his cape around him and resumed his vigil of the darkened streets and alleyways.

"Thanks, Tony," he murmured as the spring rain began to fall.