Chapter Text
one year later
“Brandon Wainwright speaking.” She stirs lazily on the bed; this was really crappy timing for an overseas call on the landline that Bruce apparently needed to pick up in the study. It is admittedly civilised time at 3:30 pm, but takes no account of the fact that they both have taken the day off, as they put it, to catch up with housework, a very transparent excuse considering that they employ a maid. Thing is, they were still very much in the middle of housework at the time of the call. Oh well. He’ll get rid of the caller and be back in the bedroom soon.
“What?” The way Bruce says the word, it sounds like a whip crack. She instantly sits bolt upright on the bed. Something has just gone wrong.
“How do you know my name?”
Something has just gone very wrong.
She puts on a minimally decent amount of clothing for the benefit of anyone who might drive up to the villa in plain view of the floor-length west-facing study window and wanders over to the study.
“How. The fuck. Do you know. My name?” Bruce repeats in a very Batman-like cadence. Seeing her, he presses the speakerphone button and sets the receiver on the desk, stony-faced. She runs her fingers over the back of his neck as she passes him and is glad to see that he still shivers with pleasure; things may be bad but not bad enough to make him immune to her touch. She perches on a corner of the desk, next to him; he uses the opportunity to run his hand up and down her thigh.
“Let’s say the details are irrelevant right now, Mr Wayne,” the caller drawls in a Midwestern accent.
“Suit yourself,” Bruce shoots back. “Just tell me why the hell you’re calling.”
“We… well, to tell you the truth, we need a favour.”
“You picked an interesting way of asking.”
“I wanted to get your attention. Also, it ties in with what we have to offer in return.”
“Which is..?”
“If you really want to stay dead, we can make it official.”
“Thanks, but I like being alive.”
“No, you don’t understand. We can make sure that you’re officially recognised as Brandon Wainwright, Swiss citizen, fingerprints, eye scan and all that, and that nobody on our side asks you questions later about your… previous life.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you because..?”
“We’re prepared to give you guarantees from the highest level.”
“So far you fail to convince me.”
“What would convince you?”
“A written guarantee in advance, promising what you said in exchange for what it is you want me to do. From the highest level, like you say. Your boss as the bare minimum. Signed, sealed, and whatever else makes it a hundred percent official.”
“Give me two days.”
“Fine. We’ll talk then.” His finger is already on the button when the caller speaks again.
“And maybe your very talented wife would like to join in, on the same condition. The fact that she has erased all trace of her previous life doesn’t mean we don’t know who she was.”
She can see the colour draining from his face, and wonders what will come next. Based on previous experience, the two most likely options would be Bruce cutting off the call and disconnecting the phone, and Bruce showering the caller with a deluge of expletives.
Neither thing happens. Instead he grits through his teeth. “My wife. Stays. Out of this.”
It is risky, she knows, but she also knows that this kind of battle is easiest to win in public, even if there will be consequences. In any case, she is too angry herself, not at her proposed involvement, but at this disembodied voice that makes him look and talk like this.
“No, I don’t stay out of this,” she cuts in, leaning toward the microphone, her voice husky and menacing. “But listen, asshole, if you don’t leave us alone after this I swear I’ll find you and kill you personally, I don’t give a fuck about going to prison, he’ll break me out anyway.” Somewhere at the start of her comment, she sees his eyes fly wide for an instant before he sits back to listen to the rest. Strangely, he does not look angry; she would almost say he looks amused.
The caller does not respond at once. “I… appreciate your cooperation, madam,” he says at last, in a curiously calm tone. “As I said, Mr Wainwright, you’ll hear from us in two days about the guarantee, for both of you. And then we’ll talk about the details.”
“Fine with me,” Bruce says nonchalantly. “I’ll talk to you later.” The moment he cuts off the call, he does the last thing she would expect; he starts snickering.
“What?” she snaps. It is clearly to do with her interruption, or the caller’s reaction, but there is still a piece missing.
He has composed himself by now, but still has trouble keeping a straight face even as he rolls his eyes. “Do you know who that was?”
“No,” she confesses, beginning to feel embarrassed already.
“Does the name of Michael J Morell ring any bells?” Seeing her blank stare, he adds: “Acting Director of the CIA.”
“Oops.”
“Don’t worry, there’s nothing he can do. You’re a law abiding Canadian citizen, and he is an asshole, the way he’s handling this. But next time, bella, before you start telling people the truth in conference calls, check who’s on the other end.”
“Next time, tesoro, why don’t you install a videoconference kit so I can see who’s there?”
“I could.” She can tell by his tone and his serious face that he is about to have fun at her expense. “But it goes both ways. Considering the state of undress in which I answer a lot of these...” He pinches the silk of his pyjama bottoms, not even visible above the desk; since she mercilessly raided his sleepwear wardrobe he has learned to buy two sets of each new item in two sizes, but she still steals all the shirts.
She looks down at her present ensemble of lace bra and yoga pants. “Point taken.”
“Although I have to say,” he says in a pretend-thoughtful tone, “other than the whole blackmail thing per se, and the fact that I still have no idea what the fuck it is that he wants, I like the way this call has gone.”
She takes it as a cue to slide off the desk into his lap. “Let’s just forget about it for now and get back to the…housework.”
“Good idea,” he mutters, undoing her bra. “It can wait.”