Work Text:
Bruce was born into privilege, and one of those privileges was anonymity. Even if he hadn’t been fortunate enough to have parents that respected their new born's privacy and could wave lawyers around to ensure it, he would have scrubbed every instance of his soulmark out of existence when he returned from his years abroad. But memories are hard to scrub so it was fortunate his parents had been determined.
He’d been taught at a young age how to mask a soulmark with cover up, and how to apply a fake soulmark that would survive the rigours of daily life. There’d been a boy in his high school who’d gone grey after a car accident and had dyed his hair on a fortnightly basis from then on. It was a bit like that, dye upon dye upon dye to keep the fake mark in place for as long as he so lived. So that if a photographer caught him unawares, if one of the guys in the change room sold his picture to the tabloids, if a lover got angry after the fact, the only thing they’d reveal would be the lie. And any gold diggers, social climbers, or any other kind of manipulators would be caught out immediately.
It was a regime he stuck to, especially in the din of the underworld where he’d learnt all his best skills. There he’d been more careful, stencilled out ten different soul marks, changed them frequently. Picked one spot on his body that he always had covered so they would assume, if they watched for too long, that he was covering up the real thing on his left rib cage. Anything to cause confusion and prevent the weakness from showing.
Because, like his parents, he believed fully and completely in a soulmatch. He believed that the one person who would match his mark would be his everything from the moment they met until their final breaths. His parents hadn’t revealed their marks to each other until after they’d bought the rings and made their plans. Too in love to care if their marks matched, ready for a chance at happiness right then and there. Alfred had told him that story, sitting in the butlers living room with the fire burning high wrapped in twenty blankets because he couldn’t seem to get warm for weeks after the funeral. Alfred had told him about the prenup that they could leave each other if they ever found their soulmate. How neither had wanted it for themselves, but had wanted it for the other. And how his father who had debated long and hard about asking her to marry him when he knew they weren’t soulmates had come slamming into the kitchens one morning and told the whole staff, apropos of nothing, that they matched, that they hadn’t thought they would, but they’d wanted no secrets and they’d matched against all the odds, with the invitations already sent out, with rings on fingers and a promise of forever and fate had still thrown a match at each other.
It’s a story Bruce thinks about on his worst days. A sign, proof, that matches find each other against all the odds. But it was also the very kind of story that meant Bruce had to hide his mark, because it was that kind of faith that could be used to crush a man to pieces.
His soulmark was, fortunately, quite small and also fortunately in an unusual and easy to reach spot. Most soulmarks were on the arms, made to be visible in primitive societies where language and distance were the greatest obstacles for matches. Some were on chests and the ribs, and sometimes they’d be down on the ankles, but almost never in a cold climate. Face marks were fairly common, but they tended to be smaller and more discreet. But the general purpose of the mark was to be seen. Bruce’s was on the meat of his upper thigh, just below the line of his underwear and slightly to the right. So even if he didn’t apply long lasting water-soluble cover periodically as long as he wore shorts or boxer briefs no-one would see it. It was also incredibly small and looked nothing like most the soulmarks he saw. His was two black circles with a line intersecting them. The ones he saw on the street were vivid and diverse, because they had to be. They had to be two in 7.4 billion, with no other match, no other near likeness. Though he’d heard stories and seen it on the news, matches a little too similar, laser scanning helping people know for sure, people who genuinely had more than one match, people who varied the system so much the system wasn’t sure how to categorise them. He’d deal with that when it came, if it came, but based on his life so far, it would come and it would be messy.
He thinks about all of that as he applies his cover up. The formula has improved since he started roaming the nights, and testing has shown that the cover makeup will comfortably last three days without wearing, and probably longer but he shouldn’t risk it. He has remover in the master bedroom that he uses like clockwork to stop the build-up interfering with new applications. It’s abrasive because the cover up has been made to last. Letting the Joker, or any of his other enemies, know what his soulmark looks like would be the first step in a long horrible campaign he never ever wants to deal with. He knows they’ve tried to find it before, he knows it might only be a matter of time before it all comes tumbling down and he can never trust any match he finds. But for now he persists. Keeps this one piece of Bruce Wayne tucked away until that too has to be sacrificed.
He finds that Alfred’s laid out his suit for the evening when he steps out of the bathroom. He pulls the privacy band up over the newly applied fake mark on his forearm and the suit slides on over that. It’s the same gold and brown mark he uses whenever he’s Bruce Wayne. He has no expectations of taking his clothes off in front of anyone tonight, but expectations and plans rarely play into his life. Besides if he finds a willing partner he’s never been averse to a bit of fun.
The ball is in full swing when he arrives, fashionably late because by then the party is louder and it’s easier to slip and slide out of conversations that he doesn’t want to and can’t be a part of. Easier too, to disappear into the night if he has to. He’s pretty sure it’s a charity ball of some description, he knew what it was when he agreed to it and he’s just going to trust that he made the right choice or Alfred would have told him to reconsider his night. As it was the butler had happily driven him to the front doors and told him he had plans for the next two hours so if he needed to leave early it would be without a driver, or a car. So probably it was a worthy charity of some description.
The banner says ‘Metro Gardens Spring Gala’ and there are an abundance of plants around. Too much exposure to Poison Ivy has him itchy whenever he gets too close to the larger clusters, but he checks the database on his watch and she’s still locked up since the last time. He still avoids them on principle while he makes the rounds.
He’s making his third round of the floor for the night when he bumps into Selina. She shouldn’t be there, really, but he doesn’t think a single person in the room would have the gumption to turn her away. He certainly isn’t going to, but then again, he likes a room better when she’s in it.
“Bruce!” She has that nice smile that means she’s genuinely happy to see him and he’s glad, because he’s worked hard to keep his Bruce persona her friend despite all their other complications. She’s in a black and purple shimmery dress with a split that should be indecently high but doesn’t seem out of place. He suspects it’s so she has unrestricted kicking range, but also so she looks stunning, which she does. “I’m surprised they got you out of your office for this one.”
He presses her hand because she offers it, but he doesn’t let go, smiling and keeping close without pushing her boundaries. Her boundaries are a little closer than some peoples, but he’s still aware of them. “What is this one, again?” He wonders aloud, and she scoffs at him, takes her hand back and rests it lightly on his arm.
“Save the children.” She decides, “They’re always saving the children.” Her expression sobers, “You should probably give them several million dollars.”
He laughs, pulls her into his personal space and bends to her ear, “If I’m here, I probably already have.” He tells her conspiritually, and she laughs, genuine pleasure that sends his body zinging with excitement because he’s attuned to her and any kind of pleasure he can draw out of her is worth all the bad they’ve ever faced. Even if she’s not aware of all of that bad.
“Well then,” and she’s so close, like she doesn’t care that he’s in her personal space any more than he cares that he’s in hers, “let’s make the most of it.” The fingers curl around the nap of his neck tug him towards the dance floor, and he follows willingly. Selina is a beautiful woman, sensual and comfortable in her body, and he is nothing if not drawn to that kind of self-confidence.
They slip onto the dancefloor easily, disappearing into the crowd.
There’s a big band playing classical music, something a bit slow that makes it easy to circle her hips with his fingers and sway them both slowly. Her nails scratch lightly at the back of his neck but do no harm, but her attention flits about the room almost the same way his does.
“So why are you here?” He asks to stop the dance from becoming awkward. He wants it to last, even if he knows it can’t last long.
She looks back at him, bright eyed, a twist of a smile on her lips. “Oh, you know me, Bruce. A room full of rich- tipsy- people?” her smile sharpens, “How could I resist?” He thinks he should be intimidated, he thinks a lot of men are. Instead he matches her grin and settles his left hand more on her waist.
“Should I be checking my wallet?” He teases, and she laughs again.
“Men like you don’t carry your wealth in your wallet, Bruce. No, it’s your bedroom you have to be weary of.” Her expression changes then, becomes less like a predator and more like an offer. It's not aimed at him, he knows, but it’s an example being made for him. He’s tried to take her to bed any number of times. Before and after he knew all her secrets but there’s something that stops it every time. It might be her, it might be him, he’s not even sure at this point because he knows it should have happened by now, and he knows they weren’t opposed, but from one circumstance to the other they somehow slipped past sleeping with each other and hit whatever they’re at now.
He can’t say he’s not disappointed, but he also can’t say he doesn’t like where they are now. She still feels nice under his hands, still makes him want, but he also knows it would be too complicated, they both wear too many masks, and he thinks there’d be something too much like deception if he took her to bed now.
“Well, I’m sure I could risk it,” he says all the same, because that’s part of their game as well. “but can you?” He lets his left-hand slide lower, down her thigh a little and is surprised when he feels bare skin before he remembers exactly how high that slit had been.
She pulls back and he lets her, not that he’d ever fight her about this.
“Bruce,” she says, “if we’re going to play cat and mouse about these things, you should know,” her smile curls, but her eyes are hard, “I’m never the mouse.”
He smiles fondly at her, gives her a once over, his eyes zeroing in on the hand he has on her thigh still. “Neither am I.” His hand is splayed out on flesh and dress equally, but abruptly he see’s something that stops his brain cold.
She’s laughing at him, or with him. He’s not sure, because he’s stuck staring, and then he does something he shouldn’t. Isn’t even thinking about it, when he slips a finger under the slit of her dress and pushes it aside to look more closely at her upper thigh. The next second his wrist is being crushed and he’s been shoved back a step. He goes with it in surprise, and then because he knows he’s just stepped a step too far. He doesn’t need to see her face to know he’s gone too far, which is good, because he can’t look away.
“What’s that?” He asks even over the warning she makes of his name.
“It’s a matter for public record, Bruce.” She grits out, and he catches himself before things get out of hand, compartmentalises and represses every single startled thought racing through him.
“Public record?” He smiles, shakes her grip off his hand, and cautiously moves back into her space so they aren’t making a scene. “I thought soulmarks were a private matter.” He twirls her out and back in, tries to sooth the dissonance he’s caused however briefly and pulls out all the charm he can.
“Maybe for billionaire playboys,” she agrees, and runs her fingers over the cover his has on his forearm, “but convicted felons?” her shrug is light, it moves the straps of her dress and he imagines sliding the thing off her, laying her out, and exploring exactly what he’d just glimpsed in careful detail. It’s small, so small, hard to get the details of in this lighting, but he’s never seen a mark like it before. Nothing even close. It clenches around his chest and holds on because he wants it. Wants it to be him, wants it to be her. Even though it would be a mess. A crazy uncontrollable mess that would set his blood singing every second of it.
He goes to say something, goes to blurt something out in the middle of a room of strangers who know too much about both of them but he doesn’t because he’s already seeing outcomes fall out like dominos. Seeing her snatch herself back and put up her defences. The way she had that first time when he’d tried to offer her money to stop her stealing, or when he’d tried to ask her on a date, or when he’d let something more like adoration slip into his expression when she’d pulled him down onto her bed that one time. And even if she didn’t? If she became receptive and open to him- he couldn’t just tell her. Not all of his secrets. Not the important one. Because that was a complication too. Probably their biggest complication if he was being honest with himself. Walls he was used to, he had a thousand of his own, but when push came to shove would Selina Kyle knowing who he was cause more complications than even he could envision. She wasn’t- safe. She wasn’t predictable. He was fascinated by both those things, but he had to be weary too. He had to be cautious.
“Brice Stevenson snuck into the change rooms in senior high and posted the photos for everyone to gawk at.” She hums thoughtfully, “I hear he moved to Cincinnati a few years ago, I’ve been meaning to go on a holiday.” He tightens his hold on her reflexively.
“Cincinnati is a terrible holiday destination.” He says, because he went there once, for a conference, and it had been like having his soul sucked out through his skin. “You should try Hawaii.”
“Oh?” She arches an eyebrow at him, “but who would I go with?” There’s a leer and a joke, and he knows equilibrium has been restruck and he has to play along for a little longer or he’ll give it all away. So he smiles and flirts until they get interrupted by the mayor’s wife asking him for a dance, so he lets Selina go, tracks her with his eyes while he smiles just as flirtatiously with the mayor’s wife and eventually knows he has to turn his attention to the now before someone says anything.
When he gets back to the mansion he heads straight to the shower, striping away his layers under the spray of water until there’s nothing but fake ink and cover up and counts his breathing then sets to that as well, methodically removing everything until there’s only scars and flesh and two black dots with an intersecting line. And he presses his hand over it, he doesn’t need to look, he’s seen it before, memorised its simplicity, but he can feel the rise of his skin under the pads of his fingers, and he’s reminded that it’s real and it’s his and that it hasn’t been taken from him yet.
Then he pulls on a pair of sweat pants and makes his way down to the cave.
The computers wake up as he approaches, and he settles in in front of the banks of screens. He pulls up her record and opens up the identifying marks file. He’s never looked before, he knows her face, her voice, her movements all too well to be tricked by any of her disguises, but right there he can see the mark clear as day. And it matches. He knows it matches, he knew the moment he saw the edge of it in a dimly lit ballroom. But it steals his breath again.
He scrubs it from record as a matter of course. Knows it’s not a permanent solution but it’s what he can do. Then he searches for every other instance of it on the internet. Finds too many photos that he has to manipulate and change, one at a time until there’s nothing left but a locker room photo of his soulmate half-dressed and exposed to the world. He scrubs that photo from history, sets an algorithm to find it whenever its uploaded again, delete it and send malware to the uploader. He doesn’t look up Brice Stevenson, doesn’t trust himself to make that call right now, but he knows the name now, it’s not going anywhere.
When it’s all done he sits back in his chair and isn’t really sure where to go or what to do. How to progress to the next step, if there is a next step.
Then fortunately the computer pings with a police alert and all the muscles in his back relax, and the clench in his chest loses. Because this, this he can do.