Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They were at one of those extravagant, sickeningly opulent gatherings where billionaires drank overpriced wine and whispered about world-changing deals over hors d'oeuvres. Bruce Wayne was supposed to be playing his usual role—charming, harmless, maybe a little drunk—but the moment his eyes landed on Roman Sionis, the entire mission shifted.

Oliver Queen, standing beside him in a perfectly tailored suit that cost more than most people's homes, followed his gaze. Then, a slow, knowing smirk spread across his face.  

“Well, well,” Oliver muttered, sipping his champagne. “Gotham’s very own Black Mask. Didn’t expect to see him here.”  

Bruce exhaled, fighting the smirk threatening to form. This was an opportunity. Their target—a corrupt shipping mogul with deep connections to illegal weapons trafficking—was in a heated rivalry with Roman. If they played this right, they wouldn’t need to lift a finger.

"Change of plans, we'll proceed with this in a different approach, do not do anything else and observe for now" Bruce grunted through the Comms, covering his mouth with a beverage he stole from the bar.

Oliver grinned, "what B is trying to say is, we'll handle it from here on"

They could just let Roman handle it for them. 

Bruce didn’t hesitate as he strolled over, confidence in every step, placing down the empty glass of champagne on an empty tray. Oliver followed, his smirk growing sharper.

Clark and Diana—although slightly unsure—nodded in seeing their movements, Barry doesn't hesitate to raid the nearest table with the most food, and Hal eavesdropping on the two billionaires.

"If this doesn't go well, I'm sure it's definitely gonna go very bad." For the first time in a while, Diana and Clark agrees with Hal.

Roman Sionis.

Black Mask to Gotham, but to Bruce Wayne and Oliver Queen? He was just another rich kid from their old boarding school days. One of Bruce's cigarette buddies.

Bruce felt Oliver step closer, two glasses of champagne in hand. He accepted one without breaking eye contact with Roman.

“So, Roman,” Bruce said smoothly, tilting his glass ever so slightly. “Long time no see.”

“Wayne. Queen.” He glanced between them, his posture shifting subtly—not defensive, but aware. Then, he chuckled, shaking his head. “Shit. How long’s it been? Since boarding school?”  

Oliver feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart. “You wound me, Sionis. We practically raised you.”  

Roman snorted. “You two raised hell, that’s for damn sure.”  

Bruce grinned, the shit eating grin when he has constructed the perfect plan, the perfect words and triggers to use, and the perfect strings to pull and make everything go according to plan.

He tilted his head slightly. “And yet, you still owe us a favor.”

Roman’s expression barely flickered, but Bruce caught it—the subtle tensing of his jaw, the way his fingers tightened around his glass. He remembered.  

“You’re still on that?” Roman exhaled, swirling his drink. “Thought you’d let that one go.”  

Oliver's smile widened, shark-like. “Oh, we never let things go. You know that.”  

“And we know things, Roman.” Bruce’s voice was smooth, effortless. “Things you wouldn’t want getting out.”  

The threat wasn’t explicit, but it didn’t need to be. They all knew what was being said.  

For a long moment, Roman simply stared at them, as if weighing his options. Then, with a slow smirk of his own, he raised his glass in mock surrender.  

“Alright, Wayne. Queen. What do you want?”  

Bruce’s smile widened—just a fraction too sharp, just a little too real. 

And Roman felt like he was back in highschool, the day he asked for help to the school's menaces, the day he knew was going to come back to him in the future, he knew once he saw those shit eating grins on their face that today all his past actions will come back at him, and he knew damn well this won't be the last time he sees the chaos incarnates.

“Oh, nothing much,” he said, as Oliver clapped Roman on the back. “Just a little favor for old times sake."

Chapter Text

Roman owed them.

Years ago, in the halls of their exclusive boarding school, Bruce and Oliver had helped him out of a particularly nasty situation involving a scandal that could have ruined the Sionis name. In return, they had gained leverage—leverage that still existed to this day.  

Roman sighed, setting his drink down on the bar. “What do you want?”  

Bruce leaned in slightly, voice low. “We need information. Now.”  

Oliver’s grin turned sharp. “And if you help us, we’ll pretend we never saw you here.”  

Roman exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I assume this has something to do with tonight’s guest of honor?”  

Bruce’s smile never wavered. “That’s right.”  

The man they were after was seated at the head of the ballroom—a European arms dealer with a penchant for selling weapons to Gotham’s worst. Roman, being Roman, had a personal grudge against him. That made him useful.  

For a long moment, Roman simply stared at them. Then, slowly, a grin stretched across his face.  

“You two haven’t changed,” he said. “Still playing your little games, still pulling strings like you’re the gods of the underworld.”  

Bruce took a slow sip of his drink. “And you still think you’re the smartest guy in the room.”  

Roman chuckled. “Fair enough.” He glanced around, then leaned in. “There’s a deal going down tonight. Backroom, second floor. If you want something on our dear host, that’s where you’ll find it.”  

Bruce nodded. “Appreciate it, Roman.”  

Oliver clapped a hand on Roman’s shoulder. “You just made our night easier.”  

Roman smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”  

And with that, the deal was made.

As Bruce and Oliver moved toward the staircase leading to the second floor, Oliver nudged him. “You know, I almost forgot how fun this used to be.”  

Bruce arched an eyebrow. “Lying, manipulating, and using old blackmail?”  

Oliver grinned. “Exactly.”  

They moved quickly, slipping past the oblivious security guards. The backroom was guarded, but a well-placed distraction courtesy of Oliver (who may or may not have accidentally knocked over an expensive bottle of champagne) got them inside.  

Bruce scanned the room. A laptop sat open on the desk, the screen filled with incriminating emails and transaction records. He plugged in a flash drive, copying everything.  

Then, footsteps.  

Oliver looked at him. “Showtime?”  

Bruce smirked. “Showtime.”  

The door burst open. Three guards. Armed.  

“Sir, this area is off-limits,” one of them barked.  

Bruce turned, expression blank, eyes cold. “You don’t want to do this.”  

One of the guards hesitated. Bruce wasn’t just any rich man—he was Bruce Wayne. And despite his carefully crafted playboy persona, there was something in his eyes now, something cold and calculating, that made the guards pause.  

Oliver stepped forward, smirking. “Here’s the deal, boys. You could try to stop us. But that would mean explaining why we were in this room, looking at these documents. And something tells me your boss wouldn’t like that.”  

Silence.  

Then, the lead guard exhaled sharply. “Get out.”  

Bruce gave him a slow, knowing smile. “Pleasure doing business.”  

They walked out, cool and composed, leaving the guards stewing in their failure.  

Back in the ballroom, Bruce and Oliver slipped into the crowd, their mission complete. The flash drive in Bruce’s pocket contained everything they needed to bring down their target.  

Oliver raised his glass. “To old habits.”  

Bruce clinked his own glass against Oliver’s. “To getting the job done.”  

Across the room, Roman Sionis watched them with an unreadable expression. For years, he had thought Bruce and Oliver had matured, they are adults now. But tonight?  

Tonight, he had seen the truth.  

They were still the same boys they had always been. Still the same masterminds, the same manipulators, the same forces of chaos.  

And for the first time in years, Roman felt something strange.  

Fear.

Because if Bruce Wayne and Oliver Queen ever decided to step off their pedestals of heroism and return to what they had once been—  

The world wouldn’t stand a chance.