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Everyone who wanted anything to do with the seedier side of Gotham knew who Bruce Wayne was. It wasn't a pleasant association - and it wasn't even like how everyone knew Harvey Dent, the big man behind the scenes. It was a necessary knowledge, one to keep you on the road to making money and not getting locked up without a key.
He was the golden boy of the Gotham police department - people would joke that he was the real head of the operation, and just let Jim Gordon and O'Hara pretend they did. That Wayne just wanted to be out on the streets cleaning up Lady Gotham, and leave them with the paperwork. Dick had never had much of an opinion on the matter. He knew of Wayne, of course. Had for ages, even before he had had the idea to open up the club. Really, he just didn't care. The club just made that feeling tenfold - he was invincible, not even Dent and his lackeys could take him down.
Well, he didn't want to test that theory, of course, but he sure felt like it. Walking through the club nightly, winking at the dames and shaking the hands of any man who cared to pay attention to their surroundings - there weren't many of them. It was definitely a heady rush, and he tapped the corner of the bar this particular night, smiling at the bartender he'd hired - man could mix up a damn good drink, and they were all getting rich off this, providing real drinks to those that could afford them, instead of that cheap shit most people were willing to shove down their gullet.
"Evening, Mr. Grayson," the man said, and slid him his normal. He nodded in turn, took the drink and continued the traipse through his club - making sure that all was well.
The singer - older, black, had one hell of a voice on her though, and fuck if he was going to let anyone badmouth her when she kept the men swaying and the women dancing - had just started crooning about love lost and found and thrown away, when he spotted him.
Dick froze on the spot, damn near dropped his tumbler onto the ground and bolted. It wasn't a good feeling, being on top of the world one moment and then feeling like Lady Luck has it out for you. It was a sharp twist in his gut, one that tried to spur him into fleeing. Instead, he composed himself, donned one of his many winning smiles, and stepped up to the booth where one Bruce Wayne was sitting, aimlessly turning his cup on the table, and watching the singer and piano man play off each other like they'd known each other their whole lives.
"Night off tonight then, officer?" He asked as he sat across from him, sipping his own drink.
"Something like that," Wayne replied, and his eyes never moved off the stage. "Grayson, right? I hear you throw quite the party."
"You don't wanna know what I hear about you," Dick quipped back, and grinned, extending a hand. "Grayson at your service, Mr. Wayne."
"That's Officer Wayne to you."
"You don't look like an officer when you have illegal goods in your hand, you know. I think I'll stick to mister." He grinned, corners of his eyes wrinkling ever so slightly. Really, he didn't know where the courage came from - on the inside he was just hoping a cell wasn't nearly as terrible as he'd heard. Somehow, he had a feeling the stories were right on the mark.
His hand continued to be ignored, and he finally withdrew it. "Just because I'm off duty doesn't mean I"m not an officer." Wayne said simply, and took a sip.
"Right. Well, what can I do for you then, Mr. Wayne? I can't say having a copper in my club's reassuring, off duty or not."
"I have a business proposal for you, Grayson." Finally, his eyes slid to glance at the younger man - it did nothing to relax the apprehension Dick felt building in his gut.
"But perhaps you'd like to discuss it somewhere a bit more privately?" Bruce's eyes flitted to the hallway behind the bar, where the bar's supplies were kept, and where his office was.
"Should I worry about you trying to get me somewhere isolated, Mr. Wayne?" Even still, Dick didn't lose the cavalier way he said the cop's name, like he really wouldn't care if the man's name was really Lane and he'd been wrong this whole time. Dick had bigger things to worry about - like why a cop was talking about striking a deal.
"While I'm under no need to make you comfortable, Grayson, I can assure you, I'm not here to get you into trouble." He stood, and took his drink with him. A moment passed, silent between the two of them, while he watched the singer finish her song and step off stage for a moment's rest. Then his eyes - blue, Dick noted, and didn't know what it mattered aside from they were a shocking colour he couldn't remember seeing so clearly in someone's eyes before - glanced back down at Dick, and he rapped his knuckles on the table. "Yet, anyway. Your office?"
"...Right." There was no point in fighting it - not now at any case. Dick stood with a senseless grace - his mother had always said he should go into dancing. He supposed dancing around the law and the mob in one fell swoop counted in some capacity. He downed the rest of the drink - he would need it, he felt - and led the way through the crowd with a crook of one finger and not so much as a glance back at the policeman who had decided to intrude upon his business venture.
Legal or not, it was his and he intended for it to stay that way.
The noise was considerably lessened when they made it into the office - the air was less choked by cigarette smoke and the noise from the band was muted between walls. Dick shut the door behind them and gestured at the chair before his desk. Wayne, insufferable bastard that he was already making himself out to be, went around the desk and sat instead in the comfortable leather chair Dick reserved for himself.
The clubowner scowled and dug out his cigarette case, taking one and lighting it up. The first inhale made him sigh softly, and he decided to lean right up against the door out to the club - back to the wall, made to feel like a stranger in his own office, he really didn't like this asshole with a badge alright.
"Okay, so speak up. What do you want, Wayne? Obviously it's something good if you aren't hauling me off in cuffs." He was anxious to get this over with as soon as possible. The urge to tap his foot, drum his fingers on the inside of his arm - they were signs of weakness before this man that could give a statue in a graveyard a run for its money, and he'd have none of that.
Wayne had the gall to laugh - it wasn't much of one, not to Dick, just a throaty half-chuckle - and folded his hands neatly on the desk as though he was about to say Grace. "I think it's an offer you'll find difficult to refuse, you don't need to act so insulted."
"Right. I'll believe it when it's all out on the table. Now, lay it out before I have my escort -escort- you -out-." Dick had never been good at standing still. It was a curse, really, thinking on it, because it showed impatience and a certain lack of attentiveness. He pushed off the door, stalked forward, until they were across one another, the desk just barely providing a line in the sand for them.
Wayne had taken out his own cigarette case, and lit up his choice. A few taps at the ash tray for his own - and Dick decided he didn't want to smoke. He ground the cherry into the tray until the whole thing looked beat up and abused. "Well, I want you to tell me anything you or your employees hear about your patrons. Anything about the underworld, anything you might not even think is important." He shrugged. "Simple trade, and I'll make sure you can continue to... operate." The word carried disdain that Dick didn't bother to examine.
"You know, ratting out my patrons isn't exactly a good way to continue getting patronage, Mr. Wayne. Business ethics 101."
"Getting shut down and led off in cuffs isn't exactly good for patronage either, Grayson."
Dick's fingers curled around the edge of the desk. He hated this man. He'd been talking to him for less than ten minutes, and he had a feeling he'd like going toe to toe with Harvey Dent more. He hated that he'd strolled in, made himself at home in -his- office - and he hated that he had the upper hand. "Point taken."
"I'm sure we have a deal then?" Dick couldn't place that look. It was superior and calm and collected - but something, somewhere was curious too. And for more than just an answer.
Dick Grayson wasn't in any mood for puzzles though, and gritted his teeth. "Yeah, sure, done deal. We done here, because you're in my seat."
The cop glanced down at the arm of the chair, as if surprised. "Oh, with how cheap it seems, I would've thought this was where you have guests sit." He stood, and walked around the desk. Almost started for the door, until he stopped and thought better of it, instead doing right up to Dick. One heavy hand landed silently on the desk and there was hardly a breath of air's space between them. "Don't you forget we have this little deal, Grayson."
"That a threat, or you planning on taking me out to dinner?" Dick snorted, mockingly rolling his hips a bit. The movement wasn't lost on the cop. "Cause I gotta say, Mr. Wayne, I don't think Lady Gotham'd approve of you running around on her." He grinned.
Wayne was unmoved though, and continued to stare him down.
"The last time someone stood -this- close to me and gave me that sort of look, I got laid," Dick helpfully added.
"Like I'd waste my time on an easy little lowlife bar runner." Wayne smiled and it more closely resembled the look a cat gave its unwitting pretty. In one movement, he reached around Dick, snubbing out his cigarette in the ash tray and then pushed off the desk. Suddenly Dick had some breathing room. "Don't get yourself killed in the meantime, Grayson," and he was gone, right out the door back into the club.
And Dick was left there with the most infuriating indignation rising in his throat. He snorted softly, fixed his tie and smoothed back his hair. Right bastard, and Dick had the feeling he'd just sold his soul.