Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

They'd started using individual tents while with the nomads, just because there was no reason not to. It didn’t make any real difference; it became known quickly that if the two foreign teenagers were tired in the morning it was because they chose to stay up each night, sitting around a fire, bundled in blankets or just sheltered from the elements, discussing whatever it was they could think to talk about. 

It had been their habit before they’d temporarily joined their trainer’s tight-knit group, and it had stayed their habit after they’d moved on. Their tents were only ever used when they finally, hours after their conversation had started, wore each other out and collapsed.

Mongolia had been beginning to lose its summer warmth again when the pair had - mutually - decided it was time to go. The closer they got to Moscow, the colder it was getting, and neither had wanted to get stuck camping in the middle of a Russian winter. There had been a brief discussion about waiting until it warmed up again, maybe. Brief enough that it hadn’t mattered. Trains would be catchable before long, and neither of them could tolerate a moment’s wasted time. They would get to Moscow well before the cold truly set in. 

Still, the chill was undeniable, especially after the sun went down.

It wasn’t just yet the small hours of the morning when Ghost-maker unzipped the entrance to Bruce’s tent and poked his head inside, not-quite-whispering Bruce’s name. 

…Cold fingers pressed on a previously rather comfortable neck. 

“You aren’t that heavy a sleeper. Don’t pretend.”

Bruce immediately swatted Ghost-maker’s hand, keeping his eyes stubbornly shut. Not missing a beat, though, he replied, “I’m not pretending. Look, I’ve become so fluent in Russian that I’m sleep-talking in it.”

He did concede enough to roll over, face scrunched in tired grumpiness as he squinted up at the other boy. “If this is because you actually worked out a solution to my last one, I still won’t be impressed enough to forgive you. What the hell’s so urgent that it can’t wait ’til sunrise?”

"My sleep," Ghost-maker replied, like the answer was obvious. "I'll figure out your overcomplicated mystery in the morning, when I'm not so exhausted. Move over."

Ridiculously, he found room for himself in the tent, giving Bruce absolutely no say in the matter. In fact, shoving him somewhat to one side. As he did, like that explained everything; "It's snowing. I'm getting wet."

Bruce’s stomach flipped as Ghost-maker was abruptly very, very close to him, any clever quip or snark of complaint at the cold absent from his head as he found himself dumbly asking, “W-What are you doing?”

"I'm getting warmer. You might run like a furnace, but some of us function at usual temperatures," Ghost-maker griped, pulling at the blanket Bruce alone had just been nestled under. "And I'm not going to lose sleep while you snore in here. That's unfair, and a tiny bit cruel. I hope you heard me when I said it's snowing. Going deaf would be terrible for our training."

Bruce’s heart was beating so fast and so loud that it was entirely possible he wasn’t hearing Ghost-maker correctly. “You want to sleep wi-” he caught himself just in time to avoid saying with me. Swiftly rephrased, “In here?”

"Of course I want to sleep with you," Ghost-maker said, then tugged the blanket again, all but kicking Bruce. "Move over. We are next to Russia. People die from the cold here all the time, and I will not be one of them because you won't share a blanket."

Bruce’s brain was still in the process of tripping over itself, which was apparently enough to have him relinquishing the blanket to Ghost-maker. He did move— practically all the way out of his makeshift bed, surrendering his pillow and leaving little more than his knees covered by the blanket. He didn’t have enough presence of mind to turn away, though, staring at Ghost-maker with widened eyes.

Ghost-maker didn't hesitate to fill the space, taking the opportunity with speed enough to make it clear that he was sincerely chilled. He left room for Bruce to return to more or less where he'd been sleeping before. 

He was still quite ridiculously close. And looking at Bruce expectantly, now that he was comfortable. 

Something about the scrutiny got Bruce to finally focus. 

How could he expect to take on Gotham’s criminals if embarrassment was enough to damn near immobilize him? Here he was, floundering and gawking like an idiot, when all Ghost-maker had done was steal his blanket. He was better than that.

Heartbeat decently slower and confidence increased, Bruce shifted back over to where he’d been previously.

“Okay,” he said, albeit still more timidly than he wanted to sound. He lifted his arm up, making room for Ghost-maker to come closer. “…The blanket won’t trap our body heat as well if we’re spread out,” he offered in unnecessary explanation, “so we should minimize any empty space.”

Ghost-maker blinked at the offer, his expression blank, surprised. 

Still, the hesitation was only momentary - he gave Bruce no time at all to change his mind. He took the opportunity for warmth with a grin that carried absolutely none of the self-consciousness Bruce was doing his best to work past. 

Ghost-maker rolled as he got comfortable in his new position, closer than he'd been at any other point in the night, and his shirt moved as it fell typically loose below his shoulders. There was a tear, small and old, near his stomach. 

Bruce knew it. He'd made the tear in Paris, walking too carelessly close to a metal fence during a robbery with Lucie.

"I'll take warmer," Ghost-maker said. When he was settled, he wasn't quite pressed against Bruce, but he was close enough to be held. And he was cold. Jumping between tents would do that. "I'm starting to think you're just stealing my blankets. It doesn't matter how hot you tend to be; this much difference implies a crime."

Bruce swallowed. The uneasy, molten feeling in his gut was familiar by now, already expected with Ghost-maker wearing his shirt, but newly intensified by their proximity.

It was more than he should let himself have, but Bruce’s hand still found the back of Ghost-maker’s head, and slipped lower, then lower, until it was splayed out fully against the bare skin between the other boy’s shoulders. Ghost-maker's breath caught, but that was the only reaction he deigned to give. Bruce’s thumb stroked steadily back and forth, encouraging his warmth to transfer over until it could be shared properly between them.

“I haven’t been stealing your blankets,” Bruce denied needlessly, muttering a little as he focused on keeping his voice even. “Maybe you just set up your tent wrong.”

Ghost-maker's eyes had dropped to look at nothing, head dipped beside Bruce's on the pillow. Not quite pressed against him, still, but not avoiding contact. One of his legs was resting against Bruce's, his arms at Bruce's chest. 

"I've never set any tent wrong, mine or otherwise," he argued, but he was half-murmuring in response to the closeness, his voice low. "I take offense that you'd believe I have."

Bruce smiled, the gentle affection in his eyes invisible for as long as Ghost-maker wasn’t looking directly at him. “I don’t,” he admitted, rather than teasing any further. “I just wanted to get back at you for calling me a criminal.”

Ghost-maker laughed, the noise quiet enough to almost just be his shoulders shaking beneath Bruce's touch. "Ah. Even, then. For now."

“For the rest of the night. At least,” Bruce established. “We already stayed up; I’m not sacrificing anymore sleep for you.”

"Whatever you say," Ghost-maker accepted. He adjusted himself absently as he made himself comfortable enough to sleep, and ended up with his head just slightly closer to Bruce, eyes at last closed when he settled. He sighed, content, a burst of warm breath against Bruce's collarbone. Truly murmuring, now; "Sleep it is."

Bruce could tell when Ghost-maker eventually did drift off, familiar enough with the changes in his breathing to know when he really was asleep.

His thumb had kept moving long after their temperatures had equalized - the warm, rough pad of it tracing the same short path back and forth across Ghost-maker’s spine. It always brushed the very edge of a scar he’d had since before the two of them had met, seen countless times in passing by Bruce, but only now so suddenly tangible. 

Feeling distinctly like the thief Ghost-maker had accused him of being - the thief Lucie had taught him how to embody - Bruce moved his hand the small distance that was necessary to feel the scar in its entirety. 

He wanted to hear where it had come from. He wanted Ghost-maker to tell him, to share any part of himself that Bruce had yet to see, piece by piece, until Bruce could know the whole of him. 

He wanted a lot of things, when it came to Ghost-maker.

Bruce looked over the other boy’s face, taking in his sleeping expression. There was no smug, self-assured edge to Ghost-maker like this, no pretense of unshakable pride. Just…calmness. Contentment. Bruce considered how thoroughly Ghost-maker was acquainted with his violence - just how much he’d seen of the weapon Bruce was honing himself into. He’d been hit, harmed by Bruce more times than anyone else in the world. Yet here he was, trusting Bruce to hold him while he slept.

Bruce…loved it. There was something almost reassuring in the duality of it, something that grounded Bruce in his capacity for true gentleness. Not just pain. Not just fear. He could harden his exterior as much as was necessary to fulfill his mission, but there would still be a person with whom he could always be soft. 

As he stayed awake, holding as still as he could manage, it was less out of worry he’d wake Ghost-maker up than it was out of something like responsibility. As though he was Ghost-maker’s protector, keeping him safe while he slept. Bruce didn’t get much proper rest of his own, but he couldn’t find it in himself to mind.

The following evening, where he might previously have proposed they race to see who could set up camp fastest, Bruce instead noted, “It’s already colder than it was this time yesterday.” Not quite looking at Ghost-maker, he pointed above them, continuing, “You know what those clouds mean just the same as I do. There’ll be more snow tonight.”

Ghost-maker had turned to look as Bruce gestured, as though they hadn't been travelling beneath the same sky all day. He stayed looking at it, turned away from Bruce, for maybe a few seconds longer than he usually would have. Maybe. Or maybe Bruce was just overanalyzing. 

His smile was the same as ever when he at last turned back to Bruce. 

"So I do," he said. "I'd hope you were comfortable, but I don't think you get much say in the matter."

Bruce scoffed. “If I wasn’t comfortable, I wouldn’t be offering,” he dismissed. “You should help me with the tent, though, if you’re going to be that unapologetic about taking it up. Bring your blanket, too, this time.”

It earned Bruce rolled eyes, but no argument. "Ah. Did I steal too much of yours? I was quite cozy."

“I just want to put it underneath us,” Bruce corrected. “We’ll still share mine, but we can use yours for extra padding. It’ll go to waste otherwise.”

Ghost-maker's expression flickered as though he'd caught the generality of the statement, the implication of a 'waste' being longer than a short, night-long break. If he had, he said nothing about it. "You could do with the extra insulation. I think you had me laying on a rock, yesterday. You're lucky I slept at all."

“In that case, how about you lay down the groundsheet?” Bruce decided. “Pick a spot, clear it out, and I’ll do the rest. At least so long as you cook dinner.” He tossed the tent bag at Ghost-maker. “Get to it.”

And so it went, night after night, unspoken and easy. A given, regardless of the weather. They still stayed up late to talk, but more often than not now it was in Bruce’s tent, laying in bed facing each other as they fantasized about their future. Their life.

Whenever they wound down, Ghost-maker would always fall asleep first - Bruce waiting patiently every time to ensure he was sufficiently warm and settled.

It was on a night where Ghost-maker’s breath had yet to even out fully, tucked against Bruce’s chest and once again dressed in his shirt, when Bruce quietly asked him, “Why isn’t anyone allowed to know your name?”

The question was one he’d been considering more and more with how much time they spent alone together. As someone who was choosing not to share his own identity and past, Bruce could see the hypocrisy in pressing Ghost-maker for details. But he wanted to know. 

It didn’t feel right to love someone this much and not get to say their name. For all that it wasn’t Bruce’s decision to make, he figured it was at least okay to ask.

Ghost-maker was on his side, facing Bruce, and so Bruce could see every darkness-softened detail in his face as he opened his eyes, unexpectedly disturbed. 

There was a beat where all he did was look at Bruce as the question processed.

"How many people have you told your full name to, since you set out?" he asked, lips twitching into a smile. "I certainly don't know it."

“That isn’t the same,” Bruce insisted, the smile left unreciprocated. “You aren’t interested in it from me. And I never gave you a pseudonym. ‘Bruce’ isn’t my full name, but it’s my first name. The name my parents gave me, that I’ve had my entire life. It’s-” After a moment, he decided, “It’s personal. ‘Ghost-maker’ isn’t personal.”

"That's the reason, Bruce," Ghost-maker replied. His hand was resting by Bruce's shoulder, and his fingers lifted slightly without pulling entirely away in unconscious punctuation. "I didn't set out on this mission to be personal. We're turning ourselves into something more. It doesn't matter what our names are; only what we're working to achieve."

“It matters to me,” Bruce earnestly corrected. He paused to rein himself in slightly, but continued, “…You matter to me. Not just the things you do. Not just what you’re- What we’re both training to become.” His throat bobbed, eyes searching Ghost-maker’s as though he could see all of him if he just looked hard enough. “You.”

Ghost-maker stared at Bruce like he’d been stunned silent, his eyes wide. His thumb moved over the fabric of Bruce's shirt, toward his neck. 

Ghost-maker's laugh was a burst of otherwise silent air, glancing away at nothing and then back to Bruce. 

"You're always so dramatic," he said, too late and too strangely shaken to seem unaffected. "My name is Minhkhoa. Khan, if you want to really have me at an unfair disadvantage."

“…Minhkhoa Khan,” Bruce slowly whispered. As he weighed the words carefully on his tongue, he wasn’t assessing or analyzing them, but familiarizing himself with them. Determining their shape, discovering how they felt in his hands. Minhkhoa Khan. Minhkhoa Khan.

Gently, fragilely, Bruce told him, “Thank you.”

"Thank you," Minhkhoa scoffed, as though he were making fun of Bruce for the sentiment, half-rolling his eyes. It came too much across as averting them, instead. "I told you. Always so dramatic."

Bruce reached up enough to scoldingly ruffle the back of Minhkhoa’s hair - a weak excuse just to touch him. “I’m serious,” he said, but it was with a quickly growing smile. “You didn’t have to tell me that. But you did. And I appreciate you.” His hand had settled just shy of Minhkhoa’s nape when he teased, “Most people like being appreciated, Minhkhoa.”

It was too dark in the safety of the tent to tell if Minhkhoa had gone red, but everything about the way he was looking at Bruce called on the want to escape— albeit without actually trying to leave Bruce's hold. The fingers in his hair had even earned his eyes back on Bruce. Self-consciousness was a staggeringly new - and wildly entertaining - look on him. 

"Enough. I haven't done anything but lay here. Where's your adoration when I do something actually exciting? I would appreciate it more then."

“There isn’t much to adore when I can do that something just as well,” Bruce countered. “I give you plenty of credit whenever you manage to beat me. If you want me to start coming up with consolation prizes whenever you lose, though, you need only have asked.”

"Please. What prizes do you have that I don't? You've given me most of what you own already," Minhkhoa pointed out. Nestled in Bruce's shirt, within Bruce's tent, the argument had basis. "I never lose against you for long. It's a wonder you haven't started to worry about being left behind."

“By you?” Bruce giddily recited, “Never.”

Minhkhoa rolled his eyes, looking fonder than he had when it seemed he'd sooner be on fire than under Bruce's excited scrutiny. He made a point to settle back to being comfortable, leaving Bruce's hand at his neck. Free of the teasing now, buried back into Bruce's pillow, he was smiling. "Heh. So you hope."

“So I know.” Bruce hugged Minhkhoa just a bit closer, fingers curling in the short hairs at his nape. “Wherever one of us goes, the other will always catch up.” He declared, “Like it or not, Minhkhoa, you’re stuck with me.”

"That," Minhkhoa decided, having let Bruce move him closer without so much as a murmur of protest, his smile just a little wider in the dark, "is a threat."

“If it is, I need to work on being scarier,” Bruce hummed. “You don’t seem threatened at all.”

"Hm. No, Bruce, this is just me realizing that I'm going to have to drag you around everywhere," Minhkhoa replied. "You really will have to work hard."

“I don’t think I will.” Bruce reasoned, “I’ve made myself indispensable as your heated blanket.”

Minhkhoa scoffed, and moved his hand. It had just been resting at Bruce's chest, Minhkhoa already closer than he usually rested. It slipped lower, along with his other arm. He kept adjusting himself without disturbing the blankets until he was tucked beneath Bruce's chin - not dissimilarly from the moments before they'd started travelling, when he'd buried his head into Bruce's shoulder.

Bruce could feel how rapidly his own heart was beating. He knew Minhkhoa could feel it, too. Could probably even hear it with how close they were now. 

Muffled, and somehow sounding entirely smug at this new degree of warmth, Minhkhoa said, "I don't mind that much."

Bruce’s hand had tightened reflexively in Minhkhoa’s hair, fingers burying themselves in place. Voice uncertain yet somehow earnest, Bruce heard himself begin, “Minhkhoa—”

The sentence cut off before he could quite figure out what he’d been about to confess. 

Minhkhoa had stilled under Bruce's hand. At Bruce's side, his fingers had tightened alongside his grip, so minutely it was unlikely Bruce would have noticed had he not felt the pressure of it, had he not been so entirely aware of his friend's body against his own. Minhkhoa's head had turned slightly when Bruce had said his name, his face hidden from view.

Bruce swallowed, exhaling as he relaxed his grip, trying his damndest just to breathe. “Are…you really going to be able to sleep like that?”

"I can fight, I can crawl, I can do anything at all," Minhkhoa replied, easy and playing and as relaxed again as ever. "You did wake me up to ask what it is I'm called, anyway. I'm not wrestling against being well-rested."

“You weren’t asleep,” Bruce defended. “I can always tell. I was mostly just checking that you can breathe down there.”

"More or less," Minkhoa reported. "What an embarrassing way to die that would be. Suffocated by my own heated blanket. Bruce's only kill. I hope that I haunt you."

“Don’t joke about that,” Bruce murmured, closing his eyes and brushing his thumb softly through Minhkhoa’s hair. “You’re not dying anytime soon. Especially not on my watch.”

"Please. It would be me saving you," Minhkhoa argued, but there was no energy to it. He'd reacted to the gentle movement in his hair with a yawn, turning his head a little to do it - presumably, as Bruce had suspected, to be better able to breathe. "We agreed you're only here to keep me warm."

“Safe, too,” Bruce quietly insisted, tucking Minhkhoa’s head a bit more firmly under his chin.

Minhkhoa let him; his only response was to shift again and kick him. Gently, really - and it wasn't a kick, in truth. He'd pressed his foot against Bruce's shins, knocked one back purposefully. His motive revealed itself quickly enough when Bruce's foot lifted and Minhkhoa could interlock their ankles, his satisfied sigh warm air against Bruce's chest. It gave him enough space to lay there against the boy holding him, curled up ever so slightly, buried beneath their blankets.

"Mm." The will to argue seemed gone from him, then. "If you say so."

…

The cell was freezing. 

Bruce lay on his side atop the stained, bare cot, shivering and wheezing his breaths as he wrapped both arms around his aching torso. 

Everything hurt. 

Barely ten hours had passed since they were first caught and thrown in here, but every second of separation from Minhkhoa felt like an eternity. Bruce likely would have been able to detach from his own torture, had their captors not been putting Minhkhoa through the same abuse only a cell away from him. Every agonized sound they managed to tear out of Minhkhoa echoed clearly off the walls, hitting Bruce far harder than a beating ever could.

It was Bruce’s own fault. If he’d been checking on Minhkhoa - if he’d just kept his guard up - then they wouldn’t have snuck up on him, too. He would have been able to fight back. With all his training, he should have noticed them before they had the chance to knock him out. But he’d been too caught up in their search, too eager to spot the person they had come all this way to find.

Here they were, finally having made it to Moscow, and they weren’t even above ground. Instead, they were trapped and forced apart. Prisoners of the KGB.

It hurt to speak, but Bruce projected his straining voice enough to ask Minhkhoa, “Are you awake?”

"Ah." Minhkhoa took his time replying further, but the cells they were being held in were otherwise silent, and the noises of Bruce's friend moving were answers in themself. His voice sounded as rough as Bruce's must. "I was getting worried they'd let you drift off. I'd respect their torturous prowess a little less, if they had."

Bruce’s arms wrapped tighter around himself as he listened to Minhkhoa speak. He wanted to hold him. He wanted to sit Minhkhoa down somewhere he could see, somewhere he could assess each of his wounds and tend to them himself. 

“You shouldn’t talk more than what’s necessary,” he scolded. “I didn’t check in because I wanted you to hurt yourself. I just…need to know that you’re okay.”

"I've been better," Minhkhoa accepted, and then entirely disregarded Bruce's advice. "Still, this is all very exciting, don't you think? I can't say I've ever been interrogated by a secret police before. I've heard..." He cut off to grunt, as though he was doing exactly what Bruce was so desperate to help him with and checking his injuries, pressing against a wounded point. His chest, if the breathlessness of the noise was anything to go by. "Ow. So many stories. I'd feel I was missing out if we never collided with them at all. Some tourists we would be."

Normally, Bruce would have matched Minhkhoa’s lightheartedness - would have countered with jokes and barbs of his own, let them both get lost in the endless banter. But the wall between them, the distance that he was barred from crossing, kept him from easing up. 

“I…can’t make fun out of this, Anton.” Bruce tacked on the fake name as a reminder to himself, recognizing that there was no way they had been left unsupervised, no way they weren’t being monitored.

The resulting pause from Minhkhoa was almost unbearable. "How badly did they get you?"

“I’m fine,” Bruce immediately dismissed. “I’m just-” he swallowed. I’m scared. “I don’t like being separated like this.”

"I have to say, I'm surprised we can hear each other at all," Minhkhoa said, as though that was all Bruce had meant. "I would expect us to be entirely alone, if they had asked me. Disliking it and hearing it all anyway is probably the point."

It was. Bruce knew that. And it was working, at least on him. Nothing about this upset him more than Minhkhoa being targeted alongside him. “How badly did they get you?” he asked back.

"Ah, they hardly touched me," Minhkhoa disregarded. "I think they liked you the least."

“They hurt you,” Bruce insisted. “I could hear it.”

"You're not fretting too much, are you? I do hope you have more faith in me than that," Minhkhoa said. 

At one point he had cried out, as someone had done something awful and drawn out to him in retaliation for being mocked. He'd laughed at them again afterward, and Bruce had heard him being hit.

"Please. None of them are good enough to keep us in here for long. We can even enjoy some creativity, when we go, to make sure they tell stories about our daring escape forever onward."

“We have no idea how long we’ll end up stuck here, or what we’ll have to endure until it finally ends.” Bruce sighed, “Please, just…stop provoking them, if nothing else. For your own sake. We can’t even do proper first aid here; if you goad them into hurting you more, there’s no guarantee that you’ll heal right in the aftermath. Whatever damage you sustain could easily become permanent.” Bruce’s throat closed up in dread at the thought.

"Yes, okay, if you'd like. They made my nose bleed. If that's the level of damage we can expect, I don't mind giving them a little goading. I can't very well get tortured by the KGB themselves and not gain so much as a scar," Minhkhoa replied. "That would be a terrible waste of a dangerous situation."

“Why didn’t you mention your nose before?” Bruce ignored his own pain to push himself up, hissing slightly as he stood shakily on his cot. At his height, he could reach just high enough to be able to peer through the small window connecting their cells. “Show me,” he demanded. “I’ll check if it’s broken.”

Minhkhoa stared back, a little startled to see him, and then laughed. 

He'd forgone furniture entirely, the cold of the floor about as comfortable as the frame of the bed. He was sitting with one knee raised and one sprawled in front of him, immediately opposite Bruce. His hair was out of place, and he had one hand pressed to his side, cradling some kind of blunt force injury. His laughter cut off with a wince. True to his word, his face was smeared with blood. 

"Ah. Hello," he said. "Fancy meeting you here. You look unwell."

Bruce felt his stomach flip. 

It occurred to him, very suddenly, that he had never seen Minhkhoa wounded by someone else’s hands. Any injuries he sustained were usually all from Bruce - the results of their practice sessions, tempered sparring that never had the intention of any serious damage. 

As such, this - Minhkhoa grinning up at him, disheveled and covered in his own blood - was not a sight that Bruce was particularly accustomed to.

Bruce knew what a broken nose looked like for the same reason that he knew how the cartilage felt caving under the force of his fist. It had been years since his last round in a ring, but he could feel the phantom ache in his knuckles as clearly as if he’d been the one who’d thrown the punch.

Bruce thought, I could have done that to him.

The idea was as sickening as it was enticing. Bruce rarely allowed himself to outright fantasize about Minhkhoa - mostly limiting himself to undefined, unspecific desire that he tried his best not to elaborate on. It seemed like some kind of breach to think about someone that way without them knowing. 

But he had spent a not-insignificant amount of time imagining kissing Minhkhoa. It was always unbidden, out of his control. Almost instinctive. Minhkhoa would just look at him a certain way, or smile in that smug way of his, or lean in too close to Bruce like it was the easiest thing in the world, and Bruce would picture bringing their lips together. 

Now that brief, half-familiar fantasy merged with the sight before him, and Bruce imagined the aftermath of a hard-won round in a ring. Minhkhoa as his beaten opponent, the same blood running down his face dripping from Bruce’s knuckles. He’d look up at Bruce and smile, and Bruce would drop to meet him on the ground, push him back down and lick past Minhkhoa’s lips just to taste the blood in his mouth.

Bruce thought, There’s something wrong with me.

“It’s broken,” he announced as he averted his eyes, not quite able to keep the roughness out of his voice.

Minhkhoa lifted his hand to touch his nose, as though to confirm, and of course flinched back from his own fingers with an involuntary gasp. The resulting grin at himself was wide and full of bloodstained teeth, his laugh a pained exhale.

"There was some intent behind it," he elaborated, rolling his head back against the wall to look up at Bruce. "Why on earth are you standing up? Did they not hit you, too? You look as though they did. Your poor face."

Bruce couldn’t see himself, but he had no doubt that he looked awful. There was swelling above his eye, causing a constant pounding in his head, and bruising that ran from his cheekbone down to his jaw. His hearing was off, he felt nauseous, and he was almost entirely certain that he had a concussion. And that was just what was visible on his face.

“I told you, I’m fine,” he said. But he did lift a shaky hand up to wrap around one of the iron bars breaking up the window, keeping himself just a bit steadier. He would lie back down later. Right now, he would rather keep being able to see Minhkhoa. “I didn’t insult any of them looking for a worse beating.”

"What a shame. You look like you might be about to fall over, anyway," Minhkhoa commented. More carefully - and the concussion must have been shared, because it was a less coordinated action than it would usually be - he lifted his hand to his face, trying to rub away the blood. It didn't really help. "As you can see, I have settled quite comfortably. Let's try not to hurt ourselves, when we have so many other eager options for injury."

Bruce considered what might lay beneath the words, glancing over Minhkhoa’s injuries. “Would…you rather I didn’t look at you right now?” he checked slowly.

"You can do what you want," Minhkhoa answered, seemingly sincere. He grinned at Bruce again, licking his teeth clean for nothing but effect. "The blood is all drama. It's you who looks more beaten up than me. I don't want you to make it worse by toppling over - unless they gave you something plush, and you're keeping it a secret from me."

Bruce’s gaze lingered on Minhkhoa’s mouth for a moment too long. Or maybe more than a moment. He was too worn out to know or care, the added effort of standing making his head protest as much as his body. It didn’t matter.

“I only dragged myself up here to check if you had a blanket, actually,” he managed to joke. “I think I’d be able to sleep on this rotted cot if I could just get warm.”

"Somehow I get the feeling they won't let that happen," Minhkhoa replied, his smile widening as Bruce made the attempt at lightheartedness. "I don't think we're supposed to, anyway, in our states. I'd appreciate the favor if they hadn't been the ones to hit my head." He paused, then continued, "Then again, they've left us alone for long enough. Maybe they're hoping we're scared of them, and are too busy shaking in fear to consider anything like a restful nap."

Bruce responded to that with a mirthless scoff. The brief seizing of his chest sent a fresh wave of pain through his torso, though, and he winced, gripping a little tighter to the bar holding him up. 

“I can’t say I’ve reached that point just yet,” he mused, pausing for a moment as he took a few steadying breaths. “But I am…worried, if I’m being honest.”

It looked like Minhkhoa had nearly moved toward their window, wariness stabbing through the edges of his expression as though he'd sincerely thought he was about to see Bruce fall. He didn't bother pretending to play it off when Bruce didn't, going limp against the wall with a tired breath and a returning smile.

"Don't be. You'll take all the fun out of it, like that," he said. "We're trapped underground, probably, by a network of Russian super-spies. It's thrilling. A true adventure at last."

Bruce rolled his eyes. “For a masochist, maybe.” He complained, “You don’t have to act tough. This is an objectively awful situation; we won’t achieve anything by pretending it’s ‘fun’.”

Minhkhoa flashed his teeth at Bruce, his expression a challenge. "I'm not pretending. Who else will be able to say that they got captured by the KGB and escaped? I plan to brag, when we're out."

Bruce’s brows pinched together - a movement that was more painful than he’d thought to anticipate, given his swelling - as he regarded Minhkhoa with open confusion. 

He liked to think he knew his friend well enough to tell when Minhkhoa was posturing and performing. Ghost-maker tended to bury any uncertainty he might feel beneath a mountain of unshakable confidence, only ever evading when Bruce tried to address whatever Minhkhoa didn’t want him to see.

But right now, Minhkhoa wasn’t evading. Denying, sure, but in a way that was seemingly factual. 

“So, what, you’re-” Bruce’s throat bobbed as he grappled with the idea that, “You’re actually enjoying this?”

"I don't believe you can't see why," Minhkhoa replied. "I could do without the frost forming on my eyebrows, but you couldn't ask for a more authentic experience. This is all part of why we're here in the first place. I'd have been disappointed to miss it."

“Torture,” Bruce reminded, as though Minhkhoa had simply forgotten. “You’d have been disappointed to miss torture.”

"By the KGB," Minhkhoa pointed out, with an air that implied this made all the difference in the world. "I don't care to be tortured by just anybody. We won't be in here long, anyway - what do we have that they would care about?"

Well, to start: Knowledge of their former greatest spy turned their potential greatest enemy. Knowledge not only of her existence, but of her trade. And the means by which to inherit her skills - her secrets - for their own.

But of course, neither Bruce nor Minhkhoa were ever going to admit that. Whatever they were going to be put through here, the two of them would never break.

“The KGB has murdered innocent Americans for far less than deviating from a tourist itinerary,” Bruce asserted. “It doesn’t matter that we haven’t done anything, or that we aren’t spies.” At least not yet, anyway. “We were somewhere they didn’t want us to be, so they’ll keep us here until we give them an excuse more dramatic than the truth. Or until they’ve killed us. Whichever happens first.”

Minhkhoa laughed - or tried to, cutting himself off and part curling up in pain as it put pressure on whatever was wrong with his chest. Broken ribs, probably. At least. "That's very defeatist. Did they give you a pamphlet in there to read, alongside your blanket? I feel very left out."

Bruce huffed. The unreciprocated worry was starting to get to him, alongside the countless physical reasons he had for wanting to lay back down. 

“…We need to stop straining our injuries,” he decided. “No more laughing. And no talking unless we absolutely have to.” With that, he let go of the bar, leaning against the wall briefly for support before settling himself back down on his cot.

"Yes, sir," Minhkhoa replied, but even with the wall between them, Bruce could hear the tired way he sighed, now that the need for conversation had been cut off. "I'll be here."

…

There were always four of them. Three soldiers - lower rank, lackeys - whose names Bruce didn’t know. And Officer Yahontov, the boss.

“Let us try again, American.”

The soldiers always held them and hurt them. Yahontov always served as their interrogator. He addressed them exclusively in English, accented but fluent - likely as a show of dominance. If there was one thing the KGB had made clear to Bruce since his capture, it was that for as long as they were here, they were meant to feel small.

“Who do you work for?” Yahontov allowed his men to shove and kick at Bruce as they subdued his calculated, minor attempts at resistance, forcing him to stay in place. “And what were you looking for?”

“I’ve already t-told you,” Bruce hissed at him, still pulling with only a fraction of his full strength against the soldiers’ harsh grips. “I don’t work for anyone. I-I’m a prospective student visiting from America. The same as Anton. He was robbed soon after we got here, s-so we were trying to find the thief who took his belongings.”

“The same story as before.” Yahantov raised his hand, and one lackey struck Bruce in the gut with his baton. “I find it hard to believe. My men have found no record of your arrival. No approval for your entrance into Russia.”

“Th-Then they…haven’t…been looking…in the right place.” 

Another vicious blow. As Bruce tried not to vomit, Yahantov continued as though Bruce hadn’t interrupted him. “There is no trace of you here.” He stepped closer to Bruce, looming over him. “But unlike your friend…your name has returned much information from America.”

Bruce’s blood ran cold.

“If neither you nor your Anton will talk,” Yahantov cocked his head, “should we seek our answers instead from ‘Alfred Pennyworth’?”

It’s a bluff, Bruce thought immediately, desperately. They have his name. Maybe his background. Alfred is on the other side of the world to them. He’s safe.

“So you do know him,” Yahantov smirked. “Your butler, yes? Very western decadent.”

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, trying to give as little away as possible. Choosing not to look at the mocking expression on Yahantov’s face.

“Perhaps you would not share your secrets with a mere servant,” Yahantov mused. “He is not here, after all. Still, you want him unharmed. Alive.” 

Bruce’s face crumpled in distress as he involuntarily pictured the alternative. The soldiers released him, one of them kicking his torso as he collapsed to the ground.

“Continue to lie to us,” he heard his cell unlock, then Yahantov begin to lead his men outside, “and we will not leave him alive for very long.”

Bruce’s eyes stayed closed as he listened to the door slam and lock behind them. As he waited for the sound of their footsteps to recede down the hall - for them to leave him alone to worry and to rot.

He stumbled to his feet to kick uselessly against the bars of his cage, the roar he let out equal parts rage and agony. It hurt. It hurt everywhere, but maybe that was what he deserved. Maybe this was rightful punishment for Bruce’s stupidity, his incompetence, his passivity, always, when others were under threat of death and the best he could do was stand there and watch.

Bruce and Minhkhoa weren’t often tortured together. It would be one or the other, while the unharmed could do nothing but grit their teeth and bear it. If they spoke out, the other suffered for it. They would share words afterwards in little attempts to comfort, to remind the other that they were still here, to check that they were both still intact enough to speak. This time, the silence lingered as Bruce's desperate outburst rang down the empty corridor.

Minhkhoa had gotten quieter as the days had dragged on. Maybe not as much as others might, but exhaustion and pain had taken their toll regardless. 

Still, it was him that broke it. His voice sounded rough. 

"If they could reach him," he said, "they wouldn't use that power to make one suspect tourist cry."

“I know,” Bruce’s voice broke, all his anger immediately caving under the weight of his fear. “But I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared.”

"...Bruce," Minhkhoa started, as gentle as he seemed able to manage through his own aching, "that's exactly what they want us to feel. They're lying to you."

Because I’m lying to them, Bruce thought hopelessly. He sat back down on the ground, leaning against the wall that separated him from Minhkhoa. “I don’t know how you can stand it,” he practically whispered. “I feel like I’m going crazy just from not being able to see you.” Maybe he shouldn’t admit that. They were listening. He knew they were listening. He missed Minhkhoa too much to care.

"I'm here. Stuck with you, the same as ever." Minhkhoa said it like a joke, like somehow he'd still managed to smile. It didn't last. "They're wasting their time on me, anyway. I don't get scared. Only bruised, it seems."

“Of course you get scared,” Bruce murmured, factual rather than scolding. “Everyone gets scared.”

"I don't. I never— have," Minhkhoa said, his voice catching, presumably as Minhkhoa adjusted how he was sitting. "I don't feel things like that. My great advantage."

Bruce’s face scrunched up in confusion as he did his best to process this. He interpreted, “You have a mental disorder?”

There wasn't an immediate response, beyond a barely-heard exhale from Minhkhoa that somehow found a way to sound indignant. Or maybe entertained. Both their breathing was labored enough to make the specifics difficult. "A mental disorder?"

“I have one, too,” Bruce quickly clarified. “They…said I did, anyway.” The child psychologists had all agreed: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Not that the diagnosis had changed anything. Bruce paused for a moment, then admitted, “I don’t know what else it’s supposed to be called.” 

"That's what they called it," Minhkhoa accepted. "I'm a psychopath. I don't feel things like empathy, or fear. The KGB's two favorite things, as it turns out."

“Oh,” Bruce murmured. Then, perhaps unnecessarily, checked, “…You don’t feel empathy?”

"No," Minhkhoa confirmed. "I never have."

“But you still…want to help people.” Bruce said it less like a dispute and more like a fact he wasn’t yet sure how to reconcile.

"I haven't been pretending, Bruce," Minhkhoa replied, with what approached a scoff. "I mean what I've told you before."

“I never said that you didn’t,” Bruce defended. “I’m not doubting you, I’m just-” He swallowed. “I want to understand.” He wished, hardly for the first time since they’d been separated, that he could see Minhkhoa’s face. “You’re the only person I’ve met who thinks like me,” he explained further. “It’s…strange how that works, if our brains function differently.“

"We want the same thing. We always have," Minhkhoa reminded. The defensive edge to his tone had been brushed away and lost, though he did pause. Thinking through his answer, probably. They were still being watched. "There are a lot of very evil, very hurtful people in the world. I don't need empathy or any fear of my own to know that's true. For example, I'm currently sitting in a cell wondering if I have any of my ribs intact. It serves as a solid reminder, I have to say."

Bruce managed a breath of a laugh at the joke. “That…makes sense,” he agreed. “It takes more observation than a natural empathetic response.” He amended, “It’s intentional, instead of automatic. I like that.”

"Heh. I'm happy to hear it. I agree," Minhkhoa replied. There was a pause, a longer beat of silence— and then Minhkhoa almost laughed. "Do try not to worry about me, or who it was they threatened. They can't get to him. And all they have for me are big sticks, like the one you tossed at me when we met. You remember. It seems the criminals of the world already had throwing those in their arsenal. It's for the best, I think. They aren't as effective as you made them feel."

Bruce was fairly certain he had internal bleeding because of those sticks. If not before, then almost definitely now. “It’s hard not to worry when you’re telling me how broken your ribs are,” he said, but it was tender, rather than fearful, like before. “…You don’t worry about me?” He corrected, “In the…not-experiencing-it sense, I mean.”

"Should I?" Minhkhoa asked. "I don't think so. You'll get through this just as impressively as I am, your friend will be none the wiser, and then we'll keep going on as we have. I think Moscow will be quite an adventure once this has all been smoothed out. Surely they're hiding something worthwhile, if they're going through all this effort."

Despite himself, Bruce did feel a drop in his chest at Minhkhoa’s easy dismissal. It wasn’t as though it didn’t make sense. If Minhkhoa couldn’t experience fear, then there was no reason why Bruce should be an exception to that rule. But it—

It meant that, unreciprocated by default, any fear that Bruce felt for Minhkhoa would be at best tolerated, and at worst unwanted. Unnecessary, obtrusive - even repulsive, from Minhkhoa’s point of view.

For the first time, Bruce found himself pushed to consider whether Minhkhoa would have a similar perspective on love, and got hit with a wave of dread so strong it made his nausea resurface. 

“Uh… ’m starting to feel sick again,” he excused. “Sorry, I think I’ve gotta lay down a bit.”

A second's pause followed. "You aren't hiding some bonus, extra-terrible injury, are you?"

“I’m pretty sure I’ve got some internal bleeding,” Bruce admitted. At least it was true.

"Ah," Minhkhoa said. "That's not good, even I'll admit. Can't say I've checked."

Bruce opted to scoot across the floor rather than force himself to stand again, maneuvering himself onto the cot with a strained sound and no small amount of effort. 

“They’re probably going to switch to you again next,” he reasoned, albeit distractedly, still. “Try not to give them a reason to render checking unnecessary.”

"I've been very good, so far," Minhkhoa argued, without spirit. "It's them that are misbehaving." Then, any feigned indignance quickly fading; "Try to rest, Bruce. We both need it."

“Okay.” Mind already a million miles away, Bruce echoed, “I’ll try.”

…

The first indicator of something being different was that there was only a single pair of footsteps. Yahantov, from the sound of it, but unaccompanied by any of his men.

Bruce forced himself up to be ready to meet him by the time Yahantov unlocked his cell, staying on the cot, his back against the wall. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” he said by way of greeting.

Yahantov scoffed. He began to recite, “Who you’re-”

“I’m not. Working. For anyone.” 

“And you were only looking for a thief,” Yahantov finished for him, unimpressed. He shook his head. “Your lies are no more convincing than before, American.”

“They’re the truth,” Bruce insisted, because he had to. Even if he knew what was coming next. “They have been since the start.”

“Hmph.” Yahantov reached into his suit jacket and retrieved something - a photograph, which he leaned down condescendingly to hold out in front of Bruce. “Your butler was not difficult to find,” he said. “He will be even less difficult to kill.”

Bruce couldn’t tell when the picture had been taken, but there was no doubt that he was looking at Alfred. His guardian was frozen in time, just outside Wayne Manor, tending to the garden. 

It could have been an older photo, from god knows how long ago. Bruce hadn’t kept up with local newspapers - it very well could have been taken from a recent clipping. But Bruce had nothing to go on. He couldn’t even tell how long ago the film had been developed, because he was looking at a transmitted photo instead of an original.

He didn’t know what to believe. But he still couldn’t break.

“Don’t you think I would tell you anything if it meant guaranteeing his safety?!” he strained just to shout. “You found the right button to push— congratulations, you know exactly what would get me talking. But I don’t have anything to talk about. I’m a tourist. That isn’t going to change no matter who you threaten or how long you keep us here. I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”

There was the smallest change in Yahantov’s expression - something Bruce wasn’t able to identify - there and then gone in an instant.

“…If you insist, Mr. Wayne.” He tucked the photo back into his jacket, rising again to his full height as he leisurely made for the cell door. “We will see each other again soon.”

Bruce had heard the metal clang followed by the dull click of the lock so many times by now that for a good few seconds, he assumed he’d simply blocked out the sound.

But no. Yahantov was gone, and he had left without locking the door behind him.

…It was a trap. There was no way it wasn’t. But Bruce still pushed himself up to his feet, stumbling slightly as he approached the door—

And then pushed it open.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

For once, Minhkhoa was quiet. There was maybe a sound of movement when the door whined open. The ungainly and injured drag of a foot against the floor as the other boy stood. But there was nothing else. The air was electric, and Minhkhoa was listening.

Bruce almost tripped over in his eagerness to reach the other cell, taking a few rushed, shaky steps before he noticed a key on the ground to his right.

He scrambled to pick it up, forgoing the alarm bells in his head, just focusing on the cell he had to unlock. His hand was tacky with his own blood, and the key stuck uncomfortably to his skin as he jammed it into the lock, jerked it to the side, and shoved the door open. Immediately, he held his opposite hand out to Minhkhoa, quickly curling his fingers toward himself twice in a silent beckoning motion.

That first time hadn't been the only instance where Bruce and Minhkhoa had glimpsed each other through their barred window, but as the torture and their own incapacitation had progressed, so too had their small visits dwindled. Too little energy, too much pain. 

Minhkhoa hadn't fared any better than Bruce. The blood on his face was still there, dried and refreshed and dried again, with similar scenes across his body and hands. Beaten, bruised, broken and swollen, he stepped back to let Bruce open the door and slipped out into the corridor with him the moment the signal was given.

His teeth were gritted with pain as he moved, but he managed a flashed grin at Bruce. He stuck to the area of the corridor Bruce had already moved in, wary of being just out of sight of someone else. It was only when he was sure Bruce was ready that he started forward, gesturing for him to make sure the doors were closed behind them. You never knew what would be caught out of the corner of someone's eye and lose you precious seconds.

Almost immediately outside their designated cell block were two unconscious guards - only one of which Bruce could recall having seen before. He silently considered why they would be here, why they wouldn’t have come with Yahantov, if they had been this close by. To say nothing of them being knocked out.

He glanced habitually over at Minhkhoa, then back down to the two bodies, before it finally struck him- The difference in the guards’ builds was uncannily specific. Uniforms. There was one for each of them, the right for Bruce, the left for Minhkhoa, approximated to easily match their respective sizes.

This isn’t a trap, Bruce considered, in utter disbelief. It’s a test.

Really, there was a decent chance that it could be both. But Bruce and Minhkhoa took it even so, shrugging on the guards’ jackets and concealing their faces the best they could beneath their hats.

Even with the disguises, it was hell to keep from being spotted. Bruce’s broken body was carried almost completely by adrenaline, still half-convinced that he was dreaming as they navigated their way around the stationed guards that were very much still conscious. They focused on reaching higher ground, ascending level by level until they eventually got to the roof. Bruce couldn’t think of anywhere better to go.

Opening the door came with sudden light, the morning sky above them a dazzling, indescribable relief.

“Gentlemen…” It was Yahantov who stood directly across from them, cast in shadow beneath the rising sun. “A beautiful day, no?”

Beside Bruce, half-crouched in a defensive pose that nobody on the roof was convinced he'd have the remaining strength to follow through on, Minhkhoa laughed. "You're quite something. Couldn't decide whether you want to keep us or not, yet?" He adjusted his footing, blinking despite himself in the early light. "I do hope you have better accommodations, going forward."

Far more directly, Bruce demanded, “Tell us why you let us out.”

In a frankly terrifying movement, Yahantov hooked his fingers into the corner of his own mouth, pulling, stretching, then tearing off his own face—

Which turned out not to be a face at all. 

It was a mask, pulled away to reveal a woman. Her appearance was striking - sharp, arched brows, presumably drawn-on, and a head that wasn’t simply shaved, but entirely hairless.

She gestured casually to Minhkhoa with the hand still holding…Yahantov. Her voice was entirely different - still a bit low, and slightly accented, but seemingly her own. “Perhaps you would like to be shown to those ‘better accommodations’ first.”

Bruce stared at her with a mixture of relief and trepidation. There was only one person she could possibly be.

"Do you know, Avery," Minhkhoa replied, "I can't think of anything I would appreciate more."

…

“You’ll have to forgive me. I needed to determine if you could be trusted with secrets.”

Bruce frowned at Avery’s words as he continued to splint Minhkhoa’s nose, having insisted on doing it first before he’d move on to fully addressing his own injuries. 

Now that the adrenaline had faded, alongside the relief of being out of prison, he had allowed himself a healthy amount of bitterness. The painkillers their new trainer had provided were only doing so much. “My source had you documented as ex-KGB.”

“I am,” Avery confirmed. “Alexei Yahontov, however, is not.”

Bruce’s knuckle gently brushed Minhkhoa’s cheekbone in an absent desire for more contact. He caught himself and pulled it away. “Alexei Yahontov doesn’t exist.”

“And you believe ‘Avery Oblonsky’ does?” She watched them with an observational kind of interest, reclined on her couch with a drink in hand. Bruce…wasn’t all that adept at identifying alcohol. It was something expensive. “Your source is a loose end I’ll need to follow up on— that abrasive Frenchman who managed to track me down, I should think. But whatever he has documented can only have given you a small glimpse of who I am. That’s the nature of living more than a single life.” 

Minhkhoa had stayed mostly still as Bruce had cared for his nose, one hand resting absently at Bruce's leg as he leaned forward to let him do it. Far from his attitude with Kirigi, though, his attention was on Avery, his smile only slightly dampened by pain. 

Bruce's grudge, patently, was not shared by him.

"I assume, somewhere in all of that torture, you pieced together why it is we're here?"

“Ah, you mean to say that you aren’t prospective students?” Avery teased. She confirmed, “Yes. I know that you want to learn.” Her gaze fell on Bruce. “My first lesson for you: don’t spin more of a tale than is absolutely necessary. The bigger the lie, the easier you can be caught in your own web. Anton gave nothing, and so there was nothing that could be used against him.”

Before Bruce could complain or Minhkhoa could quite gloat, though, she addressed Minhkhoa with, “However, Bruce was right to warn you against provoking your enemy. Without my intervention, you would have invited much worse than a broken nose. Minimize risk, and know when best to keep your mouth closed.”

That got Bruce to snort, despite himself.

"You gave away more than I did, let's not forget," Minhkhoa reminded him, arguing automatically - though not with Avery. The somewhat dry reprimand was obviously aimed at the boy sitting a few centimeters from his face. "You were angry with her, a moment ago."

Bruce met Minhkhoa’s eyes automatically as he spoke, getting reminded of their proximity and angling himself away from Minhkhoa as soon as he did. “…I’m still angry with her.”

Avery took a sip of her drink, apparently unbothered. “Mr. Pennyworth was never in any danger.”

“The KGB knows about him now,” Bruce argued, gaze quickly flicking over to her, “and they’ve tied him to me. If I slip up again-”

“Then ideally, you’ll be a little smarter,” Avery smirked. “You’ve been wearing your own face, and doing nothing to compensate for it. I don’t have to remind you of the United States passport that was among your confiscated belongings, do I?”

“Well, it’s-” Bruce huffed, “It’s illegal…not to…” he trailed off, face heating up.

"You brought your passport?" Minhkhoa asked him. For a moment, before the revelation processed, he was just surprised. Then; "Your American passport? I'm sure our shadowy Russian turnkeys loved that. Small wonder they hit us so much, even without our new teacher there to encourage them."

“It’s not like I handed it to them,” Bruce defended. “Should I have— what, just thrown it away?”

“You’ll be able to, soon,” Avery offhandedly informed him. “I wouldn’t send either of you into the field without proper preparation. During the time it takes you to heal, I’ll teach you to forge your own documentation.”

"And," Minhkhoa started, leaning forward further to better demand from his new teacher - and paying absolutely no mind as to how close it left him and Bruce, "our own masks, I hope. I won't pretend I realized Yahantov was a fake, even trapped in a cell with him. I doubt the low light would have made a difference. It isn't all silicone and prosthetics, unless you had a mirror and a makeup team hidden in one of those dank cells next to us. What is it they're made from?"

“You’ll learn everything you need to know about the masks,” Avery set her glass on the table in front of her, “once you prove to me that you don’t need them. If you’re going to use them correctly, they should be a tool to you, not a crutch. An expensive suit can’t save a bad salesperson. Close a deal in rags, then I’ll allow you to dress the part.”

The challenge in that appealed to Minhkhoa - that much was clear in his answering smile. 

"I have questions beyond just infiltration, or a nose job," he relented, "impressive as they are. We're here to make ourselves into something more than what we are. Of course we plan to earn it." He turned his grin back to Bruce, eyes impossibly bright for someone so bruised. "Yes?"

Bruce blinked. It was as if he’d forgotten he was even part of the conversation, somewhere between observing it from afar and being off in his own head. 

“Yes,” he echoed - hollow, for all that his voice sounded firm. “Of course.”

One of Avery’s exaggerated brows arched further as she assessed him. “You seem distracted, Mr. Wayne.”

“Just call me Bruce,” he muttered back. 

“Bruce,” she complied. “If you’d rather begin to get settled, you’re not obligated to sit here and chat.”

“I…” Bruce shrugged a little, averting his eyes. “I just want to tend to my injuries,” he excused. “And wash up, beyond wound cleaning.”

“You’re welcome to any of the three spare rooms,” Avery offered. “By all means, familiarize yourself with the accommodations. I won’t hold you to a schedule.”

“Okay.” Bruce pushed himself to his feet, belatedly saying, “Thanks.”

Minhkhoa stood up to follow, his smile gone as he looked at Bruce. 

Neither of the boys walked quickly as they exited the living room, too aching and battered to so much as try. Despite the offer of three rooms, Minhkhoa stuck with Bruce, following him like the thought of going anywhere else hadn't occurred to him. 

He waited until they were out of the room and out of reasonable listening range before he asked, "What's wrong? Obvious aches aside."

Bruce didn’t know. It felt stupid to be so preoccupied with Minhkhoa’s brain chemistry when he had a rib cage full of fractures to worry about instead, but that self-consciousness was only adding to his mounting uncertainty. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be so inescapable if Minhkhoa and Avery hadn’t clicked so easily. This was the first time that Bruce even remotely felt that he and Minhkhoa weren’t matched in their interest in a new skill, and he just…didn’t know how to compensate for that difference. 

He didn’t like how flippant Avery was about his identity. About Alfred. The whole reason Bruce had set out on his mission in the first place was because of who he was. He had no doubt that he’d need to deceive people and infiltrate inner circles in order to gather information - to get close to criminals that he might otherwise be unable to reach. Avery’s skills were valuable, and they would be essential. But the idea of needing to sacrifice his actual self to fully succeed in acquiring them made Bruce… uncomfortable. 

He would and should always be Bruce Wayne, son of Thomas and Martha Wayne, citizen of Gotham City. He owed it to his parents to honor their legacy while he fought to prevent their tragedy from ever repeating elsewhere. With the way both Avery and Minhkhoa talked, it was like they expected him to already consider that irrelevant. Disposable. To Avery, Alfred was someone he should just separate from, if Bruce wanted him to be safe. 

But Bruce wasn’t willing to do that. He’d continue his training, and then he’d be able to keep Alfred safe himself. Alfred, and everyone else he could possibly help.

Minhkhoa kept following him as Bruce went to retrieve his bag from the entryway of Avery’s penthouse, and he had no doubt Minhkhoa intended to follow him to whatever guest room he picked, too. He had no idea how to deal with that, either. The added context of Minhkhoa’s psychopathy was making Bruce second guess every observation he’d ever made about his friend. 

They thought the same. They shared the same goal. Bruce knew who Minhkhoa was to him. But he was no longer certain of who he was to Minhkhoa. He didn’t know what had and hadn’t been interpreted correctly on his part, didn’t know how much of what Bruce felt could possibly be acceptable to Minhkhoa, if he couldn’t feel the same way in return.

Bruce didn’t actually think he needed reciprocation— he didn’t even think he wanted it, with how much he felt already. It seemed like it would be too much, if it were to be mirrored back at him. But he didn’t want to let out more than what Minhkhoa could tolerate and repulse him in the process. He didn’t want to be too much all on his own.

Before Bruce went to pick up his bag, he faced Minhkhoa, taking in his countless injuries. Both of them would hurt from it, but Bruce still thought about pulling Minhkhoa in, wrapping both arms around him and reassuring himself that Minhkhoa was here again, that they weren’t separated anymore, that Bruce could hold him close and know that he wouldn’t be alone whenever he chose to let go.

But maybe that was misleading. Maybe his endless desperation to touch Minhkhoa was just…physical, from Minhkhoa’s perspective. 

Bruce didn’t try to bring them any closer. 

“I’m not…really moved on from everything in the prison, yet,” he excused, bending down and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve even fully processed that we’re out. It’s hard to relax.”

In avoiding the contact, he’d surprised Minhkhoa. Bruce could tell that much, when he automatically picked out his friend's reactions - as he thought he knew them, anyway. Minhkhoa took a step back to let him pass. It was almost awkward, but they were both too hurt to move normally. That much was unavoidable.

Minhkhoa had his own bag to pick up. He did so with a grimace, blowing air through his nose at weight against injury. 

But he had no problem relaxing. The horrors of a KGB prison cell, where they could have easily both been injured beyond help and left forgotten, had been brushed off as unceremoniously as dust from his shoulder. They'd had nobody to threaten Minhkhoa with. He hadn't even been worried about Bruce.

"We'll be on all but bedrest," Minhkhoa replied, "so we don't need to rush any of that. I expect her bedrooms are actually comfortable, and not a mere one step up. I really will have problems forgiving her if she teased a hot shower and a luxury blanket, only to give us no such thing."

Bruce scanned their surroundings for a path to the guest rooms, intending to simply seek out the nearest one, rather than comparing each individual option. He didn’t really care about minor distinctions like furniture setup or color theme. Proximity to the entrance was enough. 

“How can you forgive her at all, so quickly?” he pressed, leading them down the corridor as he began his search. “I get that you don’t— worry. It wasn’t emotionally upsetting to you, if I’m understanding that right. But doesn’t it at least piss you off to have been locked up for so long?” To have been kept away from me? 

"Of course," Minhkhoa replied, his own search a vaguely nosy one, glancing around corners when they existed just to see what was there. "I tried to hit Yahantov, at least twice. But I wouldn't give up our life with any less of a test. I couldn't trust what she was teaching us if she just let two people into her house and started giving us a guided tour of her masks. And, all that aside, I do plan to like it here."

“But…” Bruce exhaled. Frustrated. But that doesn’t change what she did. That doesn’t make it all hurt any less. He didn’t know how to explain it - not in a way that would make Minhkhoa understand. Minhkhoa was just…already past it. Bruce felt like he was grasping at air, trying to drag Minhkhoa back to him but never finding any purchase. He wanted more than anything to close that distance, but he wanted Minhkhoa to…wait for him. To stop and turn back until Bruce was ready to move onward. He didn’t want to speed past his own reservations just to keep from being left behind.

An open door caught his eye, and Bruce guided them toward it, eager to set his bag back down. He didn’t continue his sentence from before. 

“I think I’m gonna shower, before anything else,” he said instead. Bruce lightly kicked the door open a little wider, simply tossing his bag inside without examining it any further. He nodded to the bathroom that was perpendicular to them, situated within easy reach of the two adjacent guest rooms. “You mind?”

Minhkhoa caught his arm, though Bruce hadn't made a move toward the bathroom without his assent. He just used his hand to angle him, bag still slung over his shoulder, leaning in a little as he evaluated the damage to Bruce's face, the marks of the multi-week beatings he'd taken that Minhkhoa was so keen to shrug off. 

"Don't forget that Kirigi made us both freeze half to death just to learn how to throw a kick," he told Bruce, as he did. "And anybody can do that. It isn't so easy to wave away torture, true, but that's why we're here. We're the ones good enough to overcome it. You know it'll be worth it, too."

He let Bruce go with an easily affectionate squeeze and a smile. He kicked Bruce's door further open with his foot, and used his bag to keep it there. "Now, I'm going to collapse on the end of your bed, to make sure you don't take too long. I feel disgusting."

Bruce mustered up a genuine, however small, reciprocation of Minhkhoa’s smile. “I’ll be quick,” he assured, and headed for the bathroom.

For the first time in what felt like - and might have legitimately been - years, there were temperature controls on both the shower and sink, but Bruce still kept the water next-to-freezing. Cold was more soothing against his injuries, and more familiar, besides. He reasoned that he could do with some familiarity right now.

It was only once he stepped out of the shower and began to dry himself off that it occurred to Bruce that he hadn’t brought anything to change into. Stupid. He was going to have to go back to the room in just his towel, knowing full well that Minhkhoa was waiting for him there. To his detriment, Bruce imagined exactly what Minhkhoa might look like on the end of his bed, and had to cut off the thought before it could spiral into anything worse. 

Bruce rubbed at his temples, exhausted. He wanted to lay down too much to keep standing here agonizing over something unavoidable. Better to just get it over with. He dried himself the rest of the way off and secured the towel around his waist, bunching up his dirty clothes in his hand. Then he steeled himself, opened the bathroom door, and returned to the bedroom—

Only to find Minhkhoa asleep, passed out on top of the covers. 

Bruce let out an actual sigh of relief at the discovery. He padded into the room silently, lowering himself to open his bag as quietly as possible and fishing out the blanket he and Minhkhoa had shared so many times on their way here. Gently, he draped it over Minhkhoa’s body, not disturbing him any further once he was covered.

With that, Bruce took his bag and switched over to the other guest room. He could tolerate at least a single night of solitude, if it meant being able to think.