Chapter Text
After they touchdown on the tiny runway at Henderson Executive, Alfred disembarks first, squinting up at the desert sun. Bruce paused on the stairs, slips on a pair of Ray-Bans.
“Well, we’re here now, sir,” Alfred calls out acerbically. “How do you intend on finding—”
He won’t say Superman. That was a precaution they decided on when they were still loading up the luggage in Gotham.
“—him?”
Bruce stays quiet. He has no idea.
————
They book a villa at the MGM Grand, because class and good taste are for other people.
Summers in Vegas are the quietest time of the year. It feels like the heat is somehow shimmering in past the casino walls, a desert mirage, sapping the energy clean out of the whole city.
Bruce walks down the Strip, the empty streets, the air hot and dry, making his throat feel gritty with dust. He remembers when it used to be the Dunes, back there. Sands, and Desert Inn. He spent a lot of time in this town, twenty, thirty years ago. Used to get himself cleaned out, every time, until Alfred stepped in, one day when he was nineteen, plonked himself down on a stool right next to Bruce, and asked to be dealt in.
Bruce remembers being sick with fear, that day, eyes wide, waiting for recrimination, but Alfred hadn’t even acknowledged Bruce, hadn’t said a word. He’d been playing hard-ways and double-sixes.
Alfred straightened him out.
And then he bought Bruce breakfast. And then they went home.
Bruce knew this place once. But the city’s changed.
————
The cameras spot him two days in, and Bruce puts on the requisite show. Finds a couple of NYFW models malingering by the Bellagio poolside, gets his face splashed in a couple of tabloids. Prompts the odd thinkpiece in HuffPost. The depravity of wealth, etcetera etcetera, a man too old to be doing the things he is, the air of desperation hanging around Bruce Wayne like a stale, unpleasant odour.
But his heart’s not in it, and the cracks must show: the older one, the redhead, Heidi or Hildy or something Scandinavian from H, tips her head against his shoulder, leaning over the balcony railing, staring out at the narrow strip of lights that stands between them and the endless desert.
“Why are you here?” She asks him, over the roar of the wind, the arid, soul-sucking heat, like an Arabian sirocco.
“I’m looking for someone.”
Her eyes are blue, and sad, and huge. She touched his face delicately. She thinks he’s talking in metaphors— she thinks he’s talking about himself. It’s sweet. She’s sweet. Bruce wonders why he feels absolutely nothing for her.
“Who are you looking for?”
Bruce smiles. The wind is loud. It’s probably safe. And he’s aching to say the words — to discover if it sounds as stupid out loud as it’s starting to in his head. “Superman,” he says. “I’m looking for Superman.”
Yeah, no. It sounds stupid as hell.
Alfred is going to be so smug about this.
————
Say what you will about the MGM’s suites — they’ve got a great bar. They’ve got a great…. Hm.
Bruce glances around. The place looks like it always does. There’s folks on the floor, playing hard and deep, slots machines dinging, waitresses circulating. Maybe they look a little grimier now, maybe the bags under their eyes look deeper.
Maybe…
“Hey,” he says, gesturing to the bartender. “Hey, bartender. What time’s it?”
The bartender, Luis, hurries over. Bruce is a generous tipper. “What’s the matter sir?” he asks gently. “You need me to top you up?”
That’s the thing, isn’t it, about Vegas. No clocks, no windows. Time turns elastic and stretchy in these rooms, turns like taffy, sliding from one hour to the next, one day to another, a bounteous endless expanse, all filled up with glitter and jazz and— really great scotch. Bruce sips his refreshed scotch.
“I gotta be somewhere,” he tells Luis, leaning over and making eye contact, like it’s a secret. He does gotta be somewhere. Luis is probably going to sell this story, Bruce thinks muzzily. But that’s okay. Bruce Wayne getting drunk at hotel bars isn’t even a story anymore. It’s just boring. Boring boring Brucie, who can’t get his life right. Luis probably won’t even be able to sell the story if he tried. “You’re a good guy, Luis,” Bruce tells him.
“Why thank you, Mr. Wayne.”
“What time’zit?”
“You aren’t leaving us, are you?”
“I gotta be somewhere.” The airfield. He has to go back to Henderson Executive. Alfred must have refueled the plane by now. He must be waiting.
“Well, Mr. Wayne. No point having your plane if it won’t wait for you, that’s what I’ve always thought.”
Bruce wonders how much he’s been saying out loud.
“Quite a bit, sir.”
“I gotta go, Luis.”
“That’s a shame, Mr. Wayne. Will we be seeing you again soon, sir?”
Bruce grimaces. “God. I hope not.” And leaves.
————
He wanders, once he’s out. It’s mid-afternoon already — Bruce is not sure how that happened, and the summer sun beats down on him, like a tangible physical thing, like an anvil from a Looney Tunes short. He takes a few wrong turns, ends up in the MGM’s massive parking lot. It’s cheaper to buy a sprawling tract of land in the desert, rather than build a whole parking structure, and send valets running off into the unshaded lot on minimum wage.
Heat shimmers off the asphalt, making it look shiny and wet. He should’ve called for the car to come around, he thinks. The keys are with the valet service, aren’t they? Even if he found the car, he wouldn’t be able to get in. Even if… The car is…
He spots the Ferrari close to the edge of the lot. There’s… Jesus, there’s somebody lying on the fucking car. A hundred and eight degrees, and he’s lying on hot metal — his skin should be covered in second degree burns for fuck’s sake.
“Hey,” he calls out. There’s sweat trickling down his back. He strips off the jacket. “Hey, pal.” He walks faster. The ground feels wobbly. It’s possible he’s drunk. “Hey, are you okay?”
The man twists, lifting up on an elbow and then peeling off the car — off, and a foot up into the air. “Hi,” says the Superman, in flannels and jeans. He looks as tired as Bruce feels. “I heard you were looking for me.”