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Bruce meets Carmine Falcone for the first time when he's just six years old.
Well, he supposes 'meets' is a bit of an exaggeration; they don't say two words to each other, technically don't even stand in the same room. But it's still an event that sears itself into Bruce's memory, a turning point for his life he could feel even then.
It's the middle of the night, and Bruce is startled awake by a thunderous banging. He remains in bed for a moment, heart pounding as he listens, and his brow furrows with confusion when he realizes that someone's at their front door, and apparently determined to get their attention right then.
Always a bold child, Bruce can't resist the urge to get out of bed, creeping to his door and pulling it open as quietly as he can.
He hears footsteps on the stairs, catches a flash of his father moving down them and muttering to himself, a bat clutched in his hand. Bruce's mother stands at the top of the stairs, one hand wrapped around the railing and the other clutching at her robe over her heart. Bruce can't see her face from where he is, but he can picture her worried expression clear as day.
"Master Wayne?" comes Alfred's voice from down below, anxious but with unmistakable steel threaded through it. He says something else, too quiet for Bruce to catch, and his father's response is equally as indecipherable.
For a moment the house is still, the only sound coming from the door as whoever-it-is initiates another round of pounding, hard enough that Bruce almost expects the door to come right off its hinges.
"Who's there?" Thomas demands, his voice ringing out through the hall, commanding and powerful. The pounding on the door stops.
"Someone who needs your help," is the response that comes a moment later, a breathless quality to it like they've been running. "Come on, Doc, you gotta let us in. You want someone's death on your conscience?"
Bruce hears his mother suck in a sharp breath, and he can't resist the urge to step out of his room, curiosity getting the better of him and forcing him down the hall on silent feet. He gets close enough to be able to just see over the landing, enough to see his father begin to approach the door. The man hesitates for a second, hand hovering over the lock, and then his shoulders square and he undoes it in one quick movement, reaching for the doorknob in the next moment.
Immediately, Thomas jumps back as four men come soldiering into their home. Martha jolts back a step, and Bruce hears her breathe, "My word," before she's suddenly moving forward, rushing down the stairs fast enough Bruce almost fears she'll fall.
Her leaving allows Bruce to move closer, and he does so, shoulders hunched and arms crossed in an instinctive defensive position as he comes to crouch down by the railing, peering through the metal bars. His eyes are wide as he watches the scene below.
His first impression was slightly incorrect—there are three men pushing into their home, and the fourth is being dragged between two of them, his arms flung around their shoulders as they try to keep him upright. His head is lolling forward, just barely stirring as he clings to the edges of consciousness.
Both Bruce's father and Alfred are standing close to them, his mother closing the distance quickly, and there are so many raised voices that Bruce can only make out snatches of statements.
"—to a hospital—"
"No can do, Doc, we're—"
"—don't have the equip—"
"—stand by and let him die—"
They seem to come to a decision, and there's a flurry of activity as they move further into the foyer. Thomas calls out instructions to everyone present, and Bruce marvels at how powerful his father looks; Bruce always thought Thomas was a shining beacon when in front of a crowd, strong and unbeatable, but here he looks like a general, and not a single person present hesitates to follow his orders.
Alfred is sent to go get a long list of supplies. Martha is given the task of clearing off the large table—which she does hurriedly, nearly everything ended up scattered on the floor in her haste—just in time for the two men to drag the one between them up to the table and onto it, following Thomas' instructions on how to lie him out and strip his suit jacket and shirt.
The man on the table gives a shout of pain at that, struggling for a moment before the shock to his system seems to bring some lucidity back to him. His eyes lock on Thomas, and even from the landing Bruce can see the wildness to his gaze, the heaving of his chest, the—the blood.
It absolutely covers the man's torso, thick and dark and seeping down into his pants, splattered up over his neck. It's all coming from a wound on his chest, one that's been haphazardly packed with a bandage that was likely once white but is now soaked through with red.
"Mr. Falcone," Thomas says loudly, one hand settling on the man's shoulder and attempting to ease him to lie flat on the table. "I need you to please calm down. My name is Thomas Wayne, your men brought you here for me to help you."
The man—Falcone, Bruce has heard that name before, hasn't he?—gives a breathless laugh, and then slumps back on the table, letting out a grunt of pain as his men then slide him further up so his entire body is lying on it.
"Yeah, I know," Falcone says, a slight wheeze to his voice. "Told 'em to. Knew you'd help, huh?"
Thomas rakes a hand back through his hair with a sharp breath, and nods tightly. "Well you're right about that."
Alfred returns then, arms full of a myriad of medical items, Thomas' black medical bag tucked through one elbow. He hurries over to the table, dumping all the supplies as he comes to a stop beside Bruce's father.
The pair move quickly from there. Hands are washed quickly with antiseptic wipes, metal utensils cleaned the same way. Falcone watches this all with hooded eyes, his three men tense and hovering around the opposite side of the table, Martha much the same a few feet behind Thomas.
"Do you have any allergies to medication?" Thomas asks as he begins filling a syringe with a clear liquid.
"No drugs," Falcone says. His voice is weaker than before.
Thomas' movements still for a moment. He looks up from what he was doing to meet Falcone's gaze. "Mr. Falcone, I'm about to dig a bullet out of you, it's going to hurt like hell. Trust me, you're going to want pain medication."
"Boss," one of the men says, quiet and with an edge of request, and Falcone grits and bares his teeth for a moment before saying, "Fine, but don't knock me out, alright? Somethin' local. Don't you dare do more'n that, Doc."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Thomas replies, almost dryly, but the way he sets down the syringe he'd been prepping to instead grab a new one—and new bottle of anesthetic—says clearly that that had been the plan.
The needle is inserted immediately, just to the side of the still-bleeding wound. Falcone is limp by now, head lolling faintly on the table, just barely conscious. He doesn't even react when another needle is inserted into the crook of his arm, this one connected to Martha, now sitting at the table with her arm extended—with an O negative blood type, she's a universal donor, and didn't even hesitate to step forward and give her blood to the stranger in front of her.
"This will still hurt," Thomas warns, hands covered in gloves and tools poised above the wound. "The local anesthetic will help numb it, but a gunshot wound—Well, you're still going to feel it."
The corners of Falcone's mouth twitch upward in a faint smile. "I get it, Doc. Do what you gotta do, I can handle it."
Thomas huffs a breath that could be amusement or exasperation, and then, with one final shared glance with Alfred, he gets to work.
It's strange for Bruce to watch his father operate. It's something he's never experienced before, never seen anyone like this before, and Thomas' quick and sure movements are fascinating, keeping Bruce's gaze drifting between him, his mother, and the hovering criminals who have guns on their hips.
When Bruce's gaze drifts briefly up to Falcone's face, he finds that the man is looking at him, and he freezes, breath stilling in his lungs. The eyes are hooded and dazed, pain and exhaustion making them hazy and slightly distant. But still, his gaze is locked on Bruce, and one of his hands briefly lifts an inch off the table as if in a wave.
Bruce is frozen, incapable of responding, but Falcone doesn't seem bothered, a faint smile flitting across his face before he finally breaks the eye contact, gaze drifting somewhere else. No one else seems to take note of the interaction, and Bruce takes a slow, shaky breath, hands tight around the bars of the railing.
He doesn't move an inch after that, watching the entire procedure. He watches his father work with expert hands, Alfred assisting him, Falcone eventually succumbing to unconsciousness. He watches Thomas clean the wound, and stitch it up, and smooth a bandage over it, and give firm instructions to Falcone's men over what their best should do going forward, getting promises from them to pass on all the information once Falcone has woken up.
Watches as the men slowly lift Falcone up, murmuring thanks to Bruce's father and shaking everybody's hands with respect and a few vague threats about keeping this to themselves. Watches the men leave, and Alfred lock the door behind them, and Thomas slump against the table with Martha folding into his side to offer gentle touch and comfort.
Only then does Bruce find it in himself to peel away from the railing, getting to his feet and walking back down the hall to his bedroom on numb legs.
His mind is racing, his body thrumming, and he crashes as soon as he reaches his bed.
The next time Bruce meets Carmine Falcone, it's only two months later.
They're out to dinner, Bruce and his parents; they're celebrating something but Bruce doesn't know what, something in relation to his mother's job he thinks. It doesn't much matter, though, Bruce simply enjoying the happiness that permeates the atmosphere around them, the way Martha laughs with eyes that crinkle and says yes when Bruce asks if he can have extra dessert after dinner.
Falcone arrives then. He approaches their table with a bodyguard, the guard hanging back a few feet as Carmine smiles and catches Thomas' eye. Bruce's father goes tense, expression flickering through a few expressions before settling on something polite but wary.
"Dr. Wayne, Mrs. Wayne," Falcone greets congenially. "I'm sorry to disturb your evening, but I wanted to convey my thanks. I wasn't exactly...able to, last time," he continues with a crooked smile, "and I thought it appropriate to do so."
Some of the tension in Thomas' frame eases, and his smile seems real when he says, "Of course, Mr. Falcone. It's good to see you on your feet."
"You know," Falcone says, hands sliding into the pockets of his slacks. "You know, it's funny that you actually seem to mean that."
A tiny furrow appears between Thomas' brows. "I don't understand."
Falcone chuckles. "No, I figure not. Just a good man, huh, Doc?"
"I..." Thomas hesitates, then huffs an amused breath, an edge of something helpless to it that Bruce doesn't understand. "I try to be, Mr. Falcone."
With a hum and a nod, Falcone says, "I won't forget this, Dr. Wayne. Trust me on that, alright? I treat my friends well. And please, honestly, call me Carmine, yeah? Anyone who's had their hands in my chest I figure has earned first name basis."
Thomas laughs a little. "Sure. Call me Thomas, then."
"Martha," Bruce's mother offers, and Falcone sends her a pleased smile, inclining his head in acceptance. "And this is Bruce."
Then Falcone's gaze is shifting over to Bruce. It doesn't freeze Bruce in the way it did the last time, but there's still an intensity to it that makes him have to fight to not fidget, to not look away.
"Cute kid. Good to meet you, Bruce," Falcone says, and actually offers Bruce his hand.
Bruce can't help the way he smiles, reaching out to shake the extended hand the way grown-ups do. No one's ever tried to shake his hand before, except for Alfred! It makes him feel older, acknowledged. He likes it.
"Nice to meet you," Bruce returns, shaking firmly like Alfred taught him, and Falcone chuckles, glancing over at Bruce's parents.
"Good manners. Better than my rugrats, that's for sure." He glances at the watch around his wrist. "I have to head out, but it was good talkin' to you. Let me know if you ever need anything, alright? Just say the word, Thomas."
Something serious settles over his father's expression again, a hint of his earlier wariness coming back, and he nods gravely. "I appreciate that. Thank you."
Falcone hums and nods. "Have a nice evening," he says as he turns away, and then he and his bodyguard are weaving through the tables towards the front doors.
There's a moment of silence, and then Martha says, "Thomas..."
"I know," is Thomas' reply, voice tight and eyebrows pulling together. He glances up at her, smiling in a way that looks more like a grimace. "But it's better to have him like us rather than hate us, right? If he feels like he owes us, he won't...do anything."
Bruce's mother nods; she still looks worried, but the tension clinging to her shoulders loosens slightly. She takes Thomas' hand, giving a gentle squeeze.
"Are you okay?" Bruce asks, anxiety rising in response to his parents' disquiet.
Both heads turn towards him instantly, and in tandem their expressions soften. His mother reaches out with her free hand to hold Bruce's, and her smile is reassuring and free of the worry present only a moment earlier.
"Yes, darling," she says. "Don't worry, okay? Mr. Falcone is just a powerful man, one who...does not trust many people. It's simply—new, to have his trust. But everything's okay, I promise."
Bruce nods, accepting her words as truth because she's his mom and has never lied to him before. Besides, he still has about half his dinner left, and it's too delicious to leave abandoned for very long. A little odd behavior doesn't matter much to a six-year-old, not when faced with food.
Over the next two years, Falcone pops up enough for Bruce to stop thinking about him as 'Falcone' and instead as 'Carmine'.
He attends his parents' charity events here and there, always bringing a generous check with him. Thomas and Martha seem more and more relaxed around him with each interaction, the monetary contributions to causes close to their hearts certainly helping.
He also always engages Bruce in conversation, whether it's as brief as to comment on how fast he's growing, or to actually ask him about how he is, how his soccer team is doing, how he's liking school as he climbs grades. It's cool to have an adult interested in what he has to say that isn't his parents.
Just a few months before Bruce's eighth birthday, Carmine has his children with him at a gala for some museum, and introduces Bruce to them. Sofia is Bruce's age, with Mario two years younger and Alberto only fourteen months old. Alberto is quickly handed off to his nanny with his mother Louisa fluttering back and forth between the crowds and her infant, while Bruce, Sofia, and Mario are left mainly to their own devices.
Bruce at first can't decide if he likes Sofia or not. She has a sharp and shrewd mind, even at just barely eight years old, and her tongue can be biting. But she's also terribly charming, and doesn't hesitate to pull Bruce in on a million inside jokes like they've known each other for years rather than an hour. She sneaks them extra chocolates and offers the waiter eyeing them suspiciously a picture perfect innocent expression. She's bold and confident and Bruce is a little in awe of her, even if some of the sharp things she says make him uncomfortable from time to time.
Mario is far quieter, content to just watch and listen rather than be the center of attention like Sofia, but he has the same sharp eyes she does, examining everything like he sees things none of the rest of them are noticing. Bruce catches himself watching Mario a few times through the night, caught by that look on the face of a boy so very young, and has to shake himself each time, reminding himself it's rude to stare.
That isn't the last time he sees Sofia and Mario. That evening ends with Sofia declaring that she wants to see him again, and going so far as to wear that innocent expression again and ask Bruce's parents if she and Bruce could pretty please have a playdate sometime.
They say yes, of course. They look endeared by the girl, and then Bruce watches as his parents and Carmine Falcone exchange contact information, making plans for them to get together sometime.
So, he sees the Falcone children again, and again. He gets used to Sofia's sharp tongue and mind, finds himself smiling in amusement instead of getting offended, enjoying when she turns that tongue on other people, usually at a distance, often with comments that would have Bruce's parents horrified if he said them. Mario and Sofia become his friends, really, and so it makes sense for him to invite them to his birthday party.
The whole Falcone family attends, Carmine and Louisa mingling with the grown-ups in attendance and Sofia dazzling all the other children, Mario a permanent shadow behind her, occasionally latching onto Bruce and making Bruce feel...special. Trusted. It makes him understand what his mom meant, so long ago.
He likes Sofia and Mario, and their parents. He doesn't notice the few glances the other grown-ups give them, some of the nervousness that exists at the edges of the party. He just allows Sofia to drag him around to all the attractions, laughing and smiling all the while.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," Bruce's father says, voice strangled.
Bruce freezes in the hall, suddenly feeling thoroughly unsettled even if he isn't quite sure why. He doesn't think he's ever heard his father like this, so...unsure. So unraveled. Thomas has always been a pillar, always in control, always calm and a guiding light for Bruce and Gotham alike. This is—new, and not in a good way.
"I mean—Christ, Martha, I didn't think he'd—fuck, what did I do—"
"You didn't do anything," Bruce's mother cuts in sharply, and Bruce can picture that stubborn expression on her face clear as day, the one Alfred says Bruce inherited from her. "Okay, Thomas? You didn't do anything. Carmine, he—this isn't your fault."
Thomas laughs humorlessly. "Isn't it though? I went to him, Martha. I asked him to get involved. And then he..." A heavy, uneven breath. "A man is dead, Martha. A man is dead because of my actions. How is that not my fault?"
"Because it isn't," Martha says stubbornly. "You trusted him, and that...That's our mistake. That is what we're responsible for. But his actions? No. No, Thomas. That rests solely on the man who actually did it."
"What am I going to do, M?" Thomas says miserably. "I...what am I supposed to do here?"
There's a long pause, during which all Bruce can hear is his own heartbeat. Then, so quietly that Bruce has to strain his ears, Martha says, "Why do you have to do anything?"
"Why do I—" Another humorless laugh. "Because someone is dead, Martha, and the police have no idea who did it. I do. How can I just stand by and let that go?"
A hitched breath, followed by a sniffle. "And what then, Thomas? What then? Carmine won't just let that go. If you tell...We already have Salvatore Maroni to worry about with the way he's been circling, with the threats; do we really want to add Carmine to the list? After everything? After—knowing what he's capable of?"
"Sweetheart," Thomas murmurs, sounding so heartbroken. "God, Martha, I'm sorry. I just...couldn't live with myself. I couldn't. How could I look our son in the eye, preach doing the right thing, if I let this stand?"
A slow, shaky exhale. "Just...be careful, please. Please be careful."
"Always," Thomas promises fiercely, and silence falls again. Bruce waits, still frozen in place and barely daring to breathe, but it soon becomes clear the conversation is over, and he forces himself to walk back the way he came, treading the familiar path to his room.
He doesn't understand any of what he just heard. He doesn't—the fear in their voices. The argument. It fills him with fear, even not knowing what's going on. It grips him tightly, and he wants answers so badly but he has no idea how to go about asking for them.
Maybe Sofia might have an idea. He's set to see her this coming weekend, and she's always been so blunt and straightforward with him. If she knows what's going on, then she'll tell him. And if she doesn't, she'll probably be curious enough to go find out.
Decision made for his next step, Bruce feels slightly more settled, but he finds himself still sitting in silence in the isolation of his bedroom, unable to shake the anxiety completely. He just...needs to see Sofia. And then he can figure out what's happening, can help his parents with whatever's going on. Just has to see Sofia and it'll all be okay.
(But he never gets that opportunity. In three days, he and his parents will be walking home from a movie, and a man with a gun will confront them in an alley. A story that never ends well, and this is not the exception.)
There are so many people at the funeral, but Bruce barely recognizes any of them.
Not that he cares to try, really. There's an endless parade of people offering him their condolences as he sits in the front row of the church, staring blankly at the caskets on the platform in front of him. He's vaguely aware of all the words and faces, but they blur together, and he's extremely thankful for Alfred, who stands at his side and keeps people moving.
His mom and dad are dead. Murdered right in front of him for a wallet and some pearls.
Anything other than that just...doesn't matter.
At some point he realizes that Sofia is beside him, that she's managed to wiggle her way to the front and claim a prime spot. She sits with a grave expression and her chin held high, and she offers Bruce her hand when she sees him look at her. Bruce takes it on automatic, and his throat feels thick at the firm squeeze she gives.
Carmine and Louisa are there as well. When they step up to speak to Bruce, Carmine crouches in front of him, actually capturing Bruce's gaze in the way no one has yet, has even tried.
"You'll get through this, kid," Carmine says, so sure that Bruce almost—almost—actually believes him. "Your parents were the best kind of people, and they passed all of that onto you. And you're not alone, alright? Anything you need, Bruce, my family has your back."
"That's very generous," Alfred cuts in. His voice is tight, and Bruce blinks up at him, not understanding (and, frankly, not caring to) the look on the man's face.
His guardian's face. Because his parents are dead and he has no other family and Alfred is absolutely all he has left.
Well. Alfred and the Falcones, he supposes. Because when Carmine says my family has your back he truly seems to mean it. And Bruce knows from his parents that having the trust and backing of a man like Carmine Falcone is a powerful thing to have.
It's not a comfort, because nothing is comforting right now. But it is a...consolation, of a sort. Something to hold onto when everything else seems to turn to dust in his fingers.
Detective James Gordon of the GCPD promises they'll find the man responsible for killing Bruce's parents.
Detective James Gordon of the GCPD means well, but as months begin to pass with not a single lead or suspect for who did it, Bruce comes to realize that the man is a well-meaning liar.
Bruce is angry, and spiteful, and filled with blame for everyone on the planet. He resents the world for continuing to turn when his parents are dead. He resents people for being okay when Bruce never will be again. He's angry with the police and with Alfred and with Gotham and with his parents and he can't seem to stop the anger, the desperation for something to change.
He gets into fights at school. He narrowly avoids a suspension after a particularly nasty one, and he barely keeps himself from screaming at the principal because the look of pity on her face is something he just can't stand. She's treating him gently because of what happened. Alfred is grateful, because it means Bruce doesn't have to leave school. But Bruce just wishes someone, anyone, would fucking do something, even if that 'something' is sending him on suspension.
After one fight, he's sitting in the waiting room outside the principal's office waiting for the lecture he has memorized by now, waiting for them to call Alfred and have the man give him that sad, disappointed look that is ever so familiar by now. But instead, Carmine Falcone walks through the door.
Bruce blinks at him, frowns faintly, confused. Carmine walks over to him casually like he has every reason to be in a school his children don't attend, approaching a child that isn't his. He acts so confident about it that Bruce almost doubts if he's wrong about whether or not it's okay for Carmine to be here.
"Hey, kid," Carmine greets, hands in the pockets of his coat, head tilting as he examines Bruce. "I hope the other guy looks as messed up as you."
Yeah, Bruce knows what he's talking about. Can feel his split lip, the throbbing of his cheek that means he has a dark bruise settling in. The scrapes on his forehead that still sting.
And no, the 'other guy' does not look as shitty as Bruce does. The other guy was two years older than Bruce and, with that, stronger and bigger. The fight was over before it even began, really, and part of Bruce knew that starting it was pointless. That it wouldn't end well.
He just—didn't care.
Because the kid said his mother's name and he was laughing while he did it and Bruce didn't even know or care about what the context was, he just got to his feet and swung a punch, letting his anger fuel him. It didn't end well, but then, Bruce wasn't expecting it to. Maybe didn't even want it to.
At least when he's broken and bleeding he feels alive. At least the more often this happens, the more likely he is to get some kind of reaction from somebody. Anything other than this gentle pity from well-meaning grown-ups who just don't get it and never, ever will.
"He doesn't," Bruce replies blankly, and Carmine laughs quietly, nodding a little.
"Alright, come on," he says, body angling back towards the door, head jerking in that direction.
Bruce frowns. "What?"
"Ever heard of a jailbreak, kid?" Carmine asks. "You want a reaction? I guarantee this'll get you one."
Bruce doesn't know how Carmine knows what's been going through Bruce's head, but he doesn't much care. Because the man is right. Leaving school without telling anybody, that would surely piss Alfred off, even if it's just anger from a place of worry. This would have to get him to do something, right?
"Technically this isn't a jailbreak, it's kidnapping," Bruce can't help but point out.
Carmine smiles crookedly, head tilting down to meet Bruce's gaze over the top of his sunglasses. "Well then you'll just have to keep my involvement to yourself, right kid? A little secret, between friends."
Bruce finds himself smiling back. It's small, but it's more than he's managed in a while, and he doesn't hesitate from there to get to his feet and follow Carmine to the door, allowing the large hand that settles on his shoulder to guide him.
"Where are we going?" Bruce asks once they're outside, as Carmine leads him towards the waiting town car on the curb. His heart is pounding, still not quite believing that he's actually doing this. He's just—leaving school with Carmine Falcone.
"Looking for a reaction or not, this getting beat up shit ends here," Carmine says. An armed man gets out of the car, opening the backdoor for them to slide inside. "You're gonna learn to fight. I'm gonna teach ya."
"Why?" Bruce asks, mystified, a warm feeling rising in his chest that he can't let himself trust. He doesn't know what to do with this kindness. This...no-nonsense kindness, not the pity and gentleness from everyone else. Not even the sad understanding from Alfred. This is—acceptance and confidence and it makes Bruce feel like a real person but he doesn't want to want it, not if it's all going to go up in smoke.
Carmine glances over at him. The car begins to move. "Because I care what happens to you, Bruce," he says. "Your parents were my friends; my daughter considers you one of her best friends. I look after my people, kid. And whether or not you understand it, you are my people now. I'm gonna help you, Bruce. You lost your dad, and nothin' will ever make that better, no one will ever be able to fill that hole. But I'm offerin' some of that, 'cause you need it. For your parents, for my Sofia, for you—I'm in your corner. And that's that. So suck it up and accept it."
Bruce looks out the window, trying to blink back tears, swallowing around the lump in his throat.
"Yeah," he manages eventually, voice hoarse. "Yeah, okay."
Alfred is pissed later, once Bruce returns home. He's furious with worry, and actually shouts at Bruce, actually shakes him. And Bruce is physically and emotionally exhausted after spending three hours training to fight, AKA getting hit a lot and somehow managing to learn something along the way—so he bursts into tears.
It's a release he didn't even realize he needed, and it's worth it even with the panicked expression that takes over Alfred's face before it turns sad again and he folds Bruce into a hug.
(The next fight Bruce gets into, three weeks and two more training sessions later, he wins by a mile.
He's grinning all the way to the principal's office.)
Something that is abundantly clear to Bruce is that Alfred does not in any way like Carmine Falcone.
Bruce doesn't know why, not when the man has only ever been good to Bruce, and Alfred never explains past saying that Carmine is not a good person; not that Bruce gets what that means, because yeah Bruce knows Carmine is involved in some less than legal things—people don't get gunshot wounds and avoid hospitals because they're on the up and up—but he really doesn't seem bad to Bruce.
Not when he's one of the only people in Bruce's corner. Not when he seems to get everything Bruce is feeling so much better than anyone else. Not when Sofia and Mario adore their father, and are always amazing friends to Bruce. Not when Carmine is supportive and understanding and makes time for Bruce as if Bruce really were one of his own.
So as time begins to pass, months turning into years, Bruce keeps secrets. He doesn't tell Alfred when he's spending time over at the Falcone residence, past any planned 'playdates' with his friends (playdates that always make Alfred purse his lips but still allow, not hating Carmine enough to deprive Bruce of his friends).
He doesn't tell Alfred about doing his homework in their living room, or discussing the broken judicial system over their dinner table, or explaining all of his rage with downcast eyes that is only ever validated instead of looked down upon. He doesn't tell Alfred how much Carmine has come to mean to him. That maybe his father is gone, maybe Alfred tiptoes around the role, but Carmine just does it.
Bruce is eleven when an offhand comment from Carmine puts a goal in Bruce's head, a goal he didn't even realize had been simmering at the back of his head for three years until now, until it's impossible to ignore, until he needs it so badly he feels like his skin might peel off if he doesn't do it.
He's going to find the man who killed his parents. The police have failed him—have failed so many people, considering all of the things Carmine has told him—but he won't fail, not when he's so dedicated. He's going to make the man pay for what he did. The police might not be able or willing to punish the criminal, but Bruce will.
And Carmine is going to help him.
The man has him keep training, spending a few hours a week with some of Carmine's most capable guards, the men teaching him to fight, to be good at it, better than schoolyard brawls. Sofia is there sometimes too, determined to be able to defend herself with more than just words. Carmine pops in from time to time to observe, but overall he leaves them to it, telling Bruce he trusts Bruce to have Sofia's back.
(Bruce is practically glowing for hours after that trust is bestowed upon him. And he takes it seriously—he will have Sofia's back. If anything were ever to go wrong, he'd make sure she was okay. He'd never let anything happen to her. He'll make Carmine proud. He'll keep his best friend safe.)
Carmine starts giving him other lessons, too. He says it's important to be more than just brawn, that if he's going to find the person who killed his parents then he needs to have the brains for it. More than just book smart, he says— "Which I know you already have in spades, kid." Street smarts, being analytical, being sharper and faster than his opponents. It's all necessary.
He and Mario play games with old case files Carmine produces from somewhere, testing each other to solve the cases, to spot all the little details before the other can. The friendly competition helps push Bruce, and he gets better and better everyday, unable to fight the way his chest gets warm and the smile that breaks out over his face any time Carmine expresses pride in him.
Alfred is suspicious of where Bruce is spending so much of his time, suspicious of all the excuses Bruce gives him. But he's unable to stop Bruce, and so Bruce continues on his path, determined to be the best he can be. So glad that he has Carmine Falcone helping him.
When Bruce is thirteen, Carmine offers him a chance at some real-world experience.
A small job, a little test to see how far he's come. If Bruce really does have what it takes to continue on as he's been going. He's given a name and a photo, told to find the person and take them down, then call Carmine when he's done.
It's a choice, Carmine makes that abundantly clear. He doesn't have to do this if he doesn't want to, no one will blame him. There's no shame in backing down, in leaving everything to other people, allowing others to take the lead when it comes to his parents' murders—
With all of that in startling, horrifying clarity, it isn't really a hard choice at all.
So despite Bruce's anxiety, despite the bubble of disquiet he pushes deep down, he commits himself to the task, and feels a swell of relief and joy when he sees the pride on Carmine's face. When the man cups the nape of his neck and smiles at him and says, "That's my boy."
The task consumes his mind for the next two weeks. It's different to be actually hunting someone down, no longer working in hypotheticals or brain teasers or already-solved cases. Bruce is now actually trying to find a living, breathing person. One soul in a city that houses millions.
And doing all of that knowing that once he finds the person, his next step is having to fight them, beat them.
A test for both sides of the training Falcone has been giving him—mental and physical, working in tandem. Exactly what he said Bruce would need to accomplish his goals. And Bruce has always known that Carmine was right about that, because it made sense, but now that he's actually having to put it in use—Well, he's just really glad Carmine's prepared him as well as he has.
All the time, all the effort, all the emotion Carmine's put into him...Bruce still struggles to understand it, to wrap his head around the man bringing him into his home so readily, but god is he grateful for it. He doesn't know where he'd be without the Falcones, without Carmine. He doesn't really want to know. What might've become of him, without a guiding hand like Carmine's? So many horrible possibilities.
It takes him two weeks, nearly three, of obsessing over the job Carmine gave him before he finally does it, he finally locates the man he was tasked with finding.
For a minute he doesn't even know what to do with himself, too filled with elation and excitement and pride to do anything but stare at his collection of evidence, at the final piece of the puzzle that he's finally managed to fit into place. He actually did it. He actually did it.
He buys himself a black ski mask, and that night he dons it along with black boots, pants, shirt, gloves, and jacket. He takes the motorcycle Carmine gave him for his thirteenth birthday—the one he hides in the back of the parking garage, where Alfred has no reason to ever check and thus won't see it—something in his chest like excitement and anxiety all rolled into one as he takes off through the streets of Gotham.
He perches on the fire escape opposite the building where his huntee is crashing, binoculars held up to his eyes as he watches and waits, running through some breathing exercises to center himself and settling in for as long as it's going to take.
Thankfully he doesn't have to wait too long, lights flicking on in the apartment less than an hour later. Bruce's heart begins to race, and he watches closely as a figure walks through the apartment, eyes narrowed and waiting for a good look at the person. He needs to be sure, after all. He won't half-ass this. He won't run back to Carmine to tell him he failed, that he wasted time and energy on a mistake and didn't accomplish the simple job he was entrusted with.
And then—there. The man turns mostly towards the window as he tosses his jacket onto a nearby chair, and Bruce has spent enough time staring at the photo Carmine gave him to have the face of his quarry memorized; it's him. He did it.
Slowly, Bruce slinks down the fire escape and across the street. The building is run down and thus has shit security, and it's easy as pie for Bruce to put to use some of the skills Carmine's people taught him, picking the lock on the entrance door in thirty seconds and smiling in satisfaction as he lets himself in.
From there it's a quick elevator ride up with no cameras to capture anything he's doing, and just ten feet to the man's apartment door once the elevator stops on the right floor.
His pulse is thudding in his ears, his limbs tingling faintly, but he feels...in control. Anxious, a little unsure, but fully in command of himself. He can do this. The time has come for him to prove himself to Carmine. Prove to himself that he can do this.
He picks the lock on the apartment door as easily as he did the one downstairs, but he takes his time on this one, working extra hard on being as silent as he can be. The lock slides open with barely a click, and Bruce eases the door open, shoulders tense and eyes darting from side to side.
No sign of the man in the small living room, nor the attached kitchenette. Bruce shuts the door carefully behind himself and locks it for good measure, setting his bag of supplies down next to it so it won't get in the way or weigh him down in the fight to come.
As he makes his way across the apartment, he has to wince when a board creaks below his feet. He keeps his pace as slow and gentle as he can, trying to keep the creaking to a minimum even if he steps on some of those boards. He must do an okay job of it, because he doesn't hear anyone moving around, no sign of someone having been disturbed by the noise.
When Bruce reaches the bedroom, he finds the door cracked, and he peeks carefully inside. The room is faintly illuminated by the moonlight shining through the window, and Bruce can see the man lying in bed, occasional snores escaping him as he sleeps.
Bruce slides through the opening of the door, and then hesitates, biting his lip as he considers.
He's...not really sure how to go about this. The last few years he's gotten used to fighting grown men, seeing as all his trainers have been Carmine's bodyguards, but that's always been with one of them standing in front of him at the ready. And none of them were really out to hurt him; they sure as hell didn't go easy on him, but they stopped short of doing anything that would cause noticeable or long-lasting injuries, and they definitely never tried to kill him.
This man, though. He isn't on Bruce's side. He isn't going to hold back, he won't care. He'll do what it takes to win, no matter what harm that means doling out to Bruce. Is Bruce good enough to handle that? Carmine thinks so, but Bruce...How can he know? He might be walking straight to his death here. Maybe he's not good enough.
But that's the point of this, isn't it? To see what he's capable of? To test his dedication, his skills, his capabilities. To find out if he really does have what it takes. And there's no way to know if he can win against a person out to kill him until he fights a person out to kill him.
Bruce draws in a deep breath to steady himself, takes a few measured steps forward, and then lunges onto the bed.
Things get a little...fuzzy after that. Or maybe it's just the opposite, maybe things are moving so fast, in such startling clarity, that Bruce can't even fully wrap his mind around them. Punches are thrown, kicks are landed, Bruce's head rings and his side aches but he's still up, he's still fighting, he can feel that—
And then, after what feels like hours and simultaneously feels like it's been only seconds, the fight is over. His opponent is on the ground, groaning, limbs moving sluggishly as he tries—and fails—to push himself back up.
Bruce stands over him, panting heavily, in pain but barely feeling it for the moment, and realizes that now, he gets to call Carmine.
He gets to tell him that he was successful, that he completed the task laid out before him.
He gets to make the man proud of him, gets to deserve a little bit more all the time and attention that's paid to him. Gets to live up to the Falcone family, and the high standards they have for everyone they work with.
So Bruce pulls out his phone, and finds that he's smiling as he presses the speed dial for Carmine's personal cell.
Bruce stands awkwardly in the corner, arms folded over his chest and fighting the urge to fidget. He wants to be calm, cool, collected—all the things everyone else in the room are right now.
Well, everyone but one person.
Bruce's quarry, a mean-looking, long-limbed man by the name of Peter Merkel, sits tied to a chair in the center of the living room. He's a little bloodied and bruised, both from his fight with Bruce and from...what's happening now.
One of Carmine's men stands in front of Merkel, examining him with a sharp eye, fingers curled to hold his brass knuckles in place. There are flecks of red dotting the metal, left by having punched Merkel in the face multiple times with them. Merkel looks dazed, but his eyes are wild and bright, the madness there unsettling.
To the side of the man with the brass knuckles is Oswald Cobblepot, a high-ranking man in Carmine's organization. He's always unsettled Bruce, any time they've interacted; there's just something about the way he looks at him, the vague but loaded comments he makes to Carmine when he doesn't think Bruce is in hearing range—it just doesn't sit right with Bruce.
The guy's never been anything but polite, congenial, even, but Bruce has never been able to shake the feeling that makes him want to avoid being alone in a room with 'Oz' if he can help it.
Oz has been leading this whole thing, this interrogation. Because that's what it is, what Bruce caught this man for. They want to interrogate him. Want to beat the answers they seek out of him. They think Merkel stole from them, and they want to know where the money is and if anyone put him up to it. So far, Merkel hasn't given any answers.
Bruce didn't know this was the end goal when he set on to complete his task. Carmine didn't mention it. And he supposes it doesn't really matter, he didn't need to know this, not to do his part, to pass the test Carmine gave him. It just leaves him feeling—off-balance. Uncomfortable.
He's never seen a person beaten before, not outside of a fair fight. Not tied to a chair, the end goal information instead of just winning. He's never seen metal slam into vulnerable flesh, heard the recipient shout with pain, watched someone writhe against the ropes tying them down as they instinctively fought to escape even knowing how pointless it was. Never seen dispassion on the face of someone doling out blows, or cruel amusement on the face of the person ordering each punch.
It's different. It's unexpected. Maybe it shouldn't be, maybe Bruce should've understood, but he just—he didn't. He didn't stop to consider why this man, why Carmine wanted him found and incapacitated. He feels like an idiot now, for not wondering. For never even having the thought cross his mind.
He just...trusted Carmine. Didn't question him, not for a moment. He was hesitant in the beginning, unsure, conflicted, but none of it was about the person. And how quickly those emotions faded away when faced with Carmine's potential disappointment...
That's a little scary, Bruce thinks, brow furrowing as he lowers his gaze to the ground so he doesn't have to watch as a new round of punches start up. His—his loyalty to Carmine, because that's what this is. He's loyal to Carmine and it's so much deeper than he thought it was. Deep enough that he's just standing here without a word of protest, watching a man be tortured for answers, almost positive that there's only one way this is going to end—
"How y'doin', kid?"
A jolt goes up Bruce's spine, head snapping to the side. He hadn't even heard Carmine approach, had been that damn out of it that he didn't even notice—god he's supposed to be more situationally aware, he's trained for that—
Bruce manages a tight smile, because it's Carmine and Bruce always wants to give him his best. The man had been standing over on the other side of the room through all this, observing with a cool gaze as Oz asked their prisoner questions and Brass Knuckles delivered the punishments for not answering. A king surveying his subjects. Powerful and intimidating and like the flipside of the coin from Thomas Wayne, so the same and yet so different.
He greeted Bruce when he first arrived, though. He didn't just go straight to the interrogation, didn't ignore him. He barely spared a glance for Merkel, leaving that to his men, heading right to Bruce. He looked him over with a critical eye, checking for damage, and then offered Bruce one of those crooked smiles he loves so much and said, "Goddamn, kid."
Said, "Amazing job."
Said, "I knew you had it in you."
Said, "I'm so proud of you."
And Bruce was on cloud nine, not even noticing what Carmine's men were doing, too focused on that smile and those words. On the feeling of Carmine when the man ruffled his hair and then settled his hand on the nape of Bruce's neck, firm and protective and maybe possessive but in a way that made Bruce feel wanted and like he's a part of something great.
They stood there like that for a while, Carmine's fingers kneading gently and absently at Bruce's overheated skin, soothing Bruce down to his very core, before Carmine slipped away from his side and Bruce actually took note of the changes that happened in the room. The new set up. The man tied to a chair, who brought with him a stone in Bruce's gut.
And now Carmine is over here with him, no longer paying attention to the interrogation, his focus instead solely directed at Bruce. It makes guilt flare in Bruce's chest, and he has to fight not to squirm; he doesn't want to be an inconvenience, doesn't want to get in the way of Carmine's work. Isn't able to fully wrap his head around the fact that Carmine just—did that.
The man just...stopped watching something important to instead come talk to him, all because he could see Bruce wasn't feeling great. Even through the guilt, Bruce can't deny the kernel of warmth that brings with it. Having Carmine's ready attention. Carmine putting him above his business.
"I'm okay," Bruce says, because he wants to be strong for Carmine and he is already feeling a little better, just from this reminder that Carmine always has his back. Carmine arches a dubious brow at him, so Bruce continues with, "I—I mean I...I've just never seen anything like this before. And it's—a lot. I wasn't expecting..."
He feels childish for even saying it. Poor little rich boy, didn't get told every single detail of Carmine's work and now he's all uncomfortable about it. Weak. Not what he's supposed to be.
But Carmine doesn't look annoyed or disappointed or anything like that. Instead he nods, humming an acknowledging noise as his expression shifts into something...regretful.
"I should've warned you," Carmine says. "I didn't think; I was just so excited to hand you your first job, you know? Didn't even cross my mind to mention what would happen next. You're brand new to this—I shouldn't expect these things to just roll right off your back."
"I can handle this," Bruce says stubbornly, feeling the need to push back against Carmine's words. Even if that is how he's been acting, he doesn't want Carmine to think he's too...soft for this.
Carmine smiles at him. "I know that, Bruce. That was never in doubt." Bruce's chest fills with pride and relief. "But being able to handle it doesn't mean a little warning isn't nice, yeah?"
His arm lifts, and he throws it around Bruce's shoulders, pulling him in against his side. Bruce stops breathing for a moment, cheeks warm, a smile taking over his face, and then he melts against Carmine's side, letting himself bask in the easy affection.
"Next time, kid," Carmine says, squeezing Bruce gently. "Next time I'll let you know whatever's gonna happen; sound good?"
"Sounds good," Bruce agrees, even as the idea of 'next time' churns uneasily in his gut.
It's just puberty, Bruce tells himself, anxious and nauseous as he sits on his bed. It's just my hormones going haywire. I'm fourteen, this is how these things go.
Telling himself that doesn't actually make him feel any better, though. Because this is the fifth time he's woken up from an...intimate dream like this, one not staring any of the pretty girls from his school or the actresses on TV, but instead—Carmine.
Hormones, Bruce repeats inside his head, raking a hand back through his hair. That's it. This is fine. I'm fine. It's a fluke.
The words ring false no matter how hard he tries to believe them. Because this isn't...random, it isn't sudden, not really. It's just the largest step yet, the one he hasn't been able to deny, hasn't been able to convince himself is nothing or doesn't mean what it feels like it means.
But the truth is his feelings towards Carmine have been...progressing, this last year. He can't even say changing, not really, because it's never felt like a shift has occurred. He's always loved spending time with Carmine, sought his approval, his company. Never felt as happy as he does when the man is smiling at him and telling him he did well. So the way those things began to deepen...Maybe he should've seen it coming.
Oh god, he hopes it wasn't—isn't—obvious to everyone else. He thinks he would just drop dead on the spot if Carmine knew that Bruce—what, had a crush on him? That now his stupid teen body is coming to dreams about Carmine shoving him down and...
Life is good the way things are. He has Carmine's trust, his affection, his never-ending support. This past year Carmine has been raising Bruce up more and more, letting him in on the business piece by piece, giving him jobs with the utmost confidence that Bruce will get it done. Bruce would rather die than ruin this. And these little feelings of his—they will ruin it. And without Carmine, without the Faclones—Bruce will have nothing.
He can't let that happen. He just can't.
So he does his best to shove it all down, to not think about it. He carries on the same way he always has, pretends he doesn't feel like walking on water with every kind word that falls from Carmine's lips, every smile the man sends his way, every touch of a warm hand and solid body. Pretends he doesn't picture all the inappropriate things that flash through his mind when Carmine hugs him.
Bruce does his job. He goes to school, lies to Alfred, hangs out with Sofia and Mario, does homework, trains, does his job. Pretends he doesn't perk up when Carmine is around.
And life goes on, because it has to.
"No, no, aim a little lower," Oz says, gesturing vaguely to a spot on the man's gut a couple inches below where Bruce's punch landed.
Without a word, Bruce follows the instruction, his next hit landing right where Oz told him to. It makes the man—victim—criminal—enemy—tied to the chair wheeze and retch, chest heaving as he fights for air he can't draw clearly thanks to the tape over his mouth and blood streaking out of one nostril.
His face is screwed up in pain. Pain Bruce has caused him.
"Good," Oz says approvingly, and Bruce just barely manages to not flinch when the man pats him on the back. "Now again."
The bound man makes a desperate noise of protest, and Bruce does his best to tune it out, throwing another punch like he's been told.
Doing this is...new, for him. Brand new. Last week Carmine asked him what he would do when he found the man who killed his parents, what 'making him pay' really meant in practical terms. Asked him if he wanted to learn the proper way to do it, and help Carmine out as well.
Bruce said yes, of course. Of course he said yes, there was no possibility of him saying no. Not if it would help him get revenge on the man who ruined his life. Not if it will help Carmine.
And so here he is under the Penguin's tutelage, beating up a man who can't fight back. He doesn't know what this man has done, doesn't even know his name, but none of that...really matters. He trusts Carmine to know what he's doing, and this is—good for them both. A win-win scenario.
The only downside (other than the uncomfortable, squirming feeling that pops up in his gut from time to time) is that doing this means spending time almost completely alone with Oz.
Over the years, Bruce has been able to better put a name to the way Oz looks at him, in the way he couldn't when he was younger. At fifteen, he understands those dark eyes, that cruel smile. He looks at Bruce like he wants to pick him apart piece by piece. He looks at him like he's imagining all the best ways to devour him.
Bruce isn't afraid of Oz ever doing anything to him—the man wouldn't dare, knowing he'd have to face Carmine's wrath—but it doesn't make spending time around him any more comfortable, especially not when in close proximity like this.
So it's a relief when Carmine arrives a little while later, Bruce automatically angling towards him as the man surveys his work with an approving smile that makes Bruce have to tamp down on the grin that wants to escape.
Oz backs off a step or two as Carmine approaches, and Bruce loves Carmine's company anyway but this is always such a relieving part of having him around, too. Because his presence lessens Oz's closeness, his attention. Bruce doesn't know if Carmine even realizes any of it, but Bruce is grateful for it nonetheless.
"Nice work," Carmine says, a faint smirk on his face as his gaze slides from the bloodied face of their captive over to Bruce. "Always been a natural, huh, kid? You pick shit up so fast, lemme tell you."
This time, Bruce can't help the grin, and he ducks his head, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Thanks, Carmine."
"'Course," Carmine says easily. "Why don't you go wash up, alright? Dinner's in half an hour and Louisa'll kill me if I let one of you kids sit down at the table with blood on your hands again. I still haven't heard the end of it about Mario."
Bruce chuckles and nods. "Yeah, sounds good."
He glances briefly back at the beaten man, then to where Oz stands still watching, before following Carmine's instruction and heading towards the door. Carmine squeezes his shoulder as he passes, offering him a private, pleased smile that in tandem with the touch has Bruce glowing, and then he slips out of the room.
He's barely five feet down the hall when he hears Oz say, "Damn that kid would do anything for you, Carmine."
Bruce's steps halt immediately, face flushing red. He knows he shouldn't eavesdrop, should continue on his way and leave Carmine to his private conversation. But it's...about him. About a sensitive subject, no less. And for the life of him he can't get himself to move further down the hall.
"He hates this part, you know?" Oz continues, after no verbal response from Carmine. Bruce doesn't know if the man responded in any other way. "Doesn't like having to hurt someone who can't fight back. But still he does it without a word of protest, all because you wanted him to."
Bruce doesn't know if he should be ashamed for his weakness being so obvious, or happy that they know he's loyal, that he is dedicated to Carmine and would do what needed to be done, all Carmine would have to do is say the word. He doesn't know which aspect is better.
"Kid's got a deep heart," Carmine agrees. "He also should be going to take a shower instead of lingering in the hall."
With a hard thud of his heart, Bruce's chest tightens, guilt flaring and a wince twisting his expression. Goddammit, he shouldn't have eavesdropped. Of course Carmine knew he was still there, Bruce didn't go very far, didn't open any doors. How much more obvious could he be?
He moves hurriedly down the hall, not hearing whatever it is Oz says in response to Carmine's chastisement, instead locating the bathroom as quickly as he can to do as he's told instead of spying on Carmine.
Five minutes later, even through the heavy spray of the water, Bruce hears the gunshot.
He swallows against the squirmy feeling in his gut, reminds himself this is just Carmine's business and who is he to judge, and forces himself to not spend any more time thinking about it. There are far more important things in the world than one random criminal's death.
"Are you attracted to me, Bruce?"
Bruce sputters, bending over roughly as he coughs out the drink he choked on upon that question being posed to him.
When he manages to find the ability to breathe again, he looks up at Sofia incredulously, gaping at her and thoroughly unsure what to say. Sofia, in sharp contrast to him, is the picture of composure, her long brown hair falling in a styled wave over her shoulder as she observes him with a raised, superior—and amused—brow.
"What?" Bruce says, all he can think to say, the rest of his brain running on static. Did she just—did she really just ask him—what.
"It's a simple question," Sofia says. Her tone is so casual, so easy, as if they're discussing the weather and not whether or not Bruce wants to have sex with her. "Are you attracted to me? If I kissed you and put my hand on your thigh, would you be excited?"
Bruce's face is extremely warm, and he flounders for something to say. He doesn't think there's any right answer here. Either he says yes, and he's just told his female best friend and daughter of a powerful mobster that he'd be happy to fuck her, or he says no and probably offends her because it would be like he's calling her ugly or something.
The truth is that Bruce thinks Sofia is absolutely stunning, both in looks and personality, but no, he isn't attracted to her in the least bit.
Unfortunately for him, she's not the Falcone he pictures when he's alone. Life would be a hell of a lot simpler if she were.
"Sof, you're tormenting the poor boy," Mario says from where he's lying on the couch opposite them, voice dripping with amusement. "Look at him, he looks ready to combust."
Bruce shoots the traitor a look, but Mario only smirks in response. At fourteen, Mario has grown out of being Sofia's silent shadow, having become more confident as the years went by. He still can't hold a candle to Sofia—but Bruce doubts anyone could, with the way the girl refuses to back down from anything—but he has his own kind of strength, and overall Bruce has enjoyed seeing him grow up.
Except for right now, of course. Right now Bruce is missing the days where Mario said barely a word.
"No," Bruce manages to say, eyes flicking everywhere but at Sofia. "No, I...don't think of you that way. Sorry?"
Sofia laughs, and the sound draws Bruce's gaze back to her. She doesn't look offended or upset or disappointed, just amused, smiling at Bruce with eyes that shine. He relaxes automatically, not even realizing how tense he got during this whole interaction.
"Relax, Bruce, I'm not pining for you," she says. "My ego isn't bruised. I was just curious. So it is my father, then?"
Bruce stares at her, blood running cold. "What?"
With a smirk that's half pitying and half fond, Sofia flicks her hair over her shoulder and takes a languid sip from her glass, clearly enjoying making Bruce wait. Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce sees Mario roll his eyes, but Bruce can't focus on anything except what Sofia just said to him.
She knows. Jesus fucking Christ how does she know. No no no no no no—
"I'm not going to tell anybody," Sofia says eventually, crossing her legs and leaning back on the couch. "You don't have to worry about that. Mario simply had a theory, and I wanted to test if it was true."
Bruce looks at Mario. The boy gives him an unashamed, lazy salute.
"This is a very weird thing for us to talk about," Bruce says weakly.
Sofia snorts. "Yeah, well, when's anything ever been normal in our family? We don't care, Bruce. I just like knowing things."
Bruce turns his attention back to the book he'd been reading before this conversation, staring down at the page blankly without absorbing a single word. Sofia thankfully allows him his obvious retreat from the conversation, letting the subject drop as she goes back to what she'd been doing as well.
It takes another fifteen minutes before Bruce's head stops roaring, the panic and embarrassment filling him finally fading down to manageable levels. It's another ten minutes after that before he can actually understand a single word of the book in his hands, forcing himself to not linger on his panic any longer.
Though really, that's easier said than done.
"Excellent," Carmine says, eyes scanning over the documents in front of him. "Excellent. Top-notch work, you two."
Bruce beams, and even Sofia's chin lifts with pride. They're both standing in front of Carmine's desk, hands folded behind their back while they waited for him to go over everything they put together, waited to see his verdict on their hard work.
He partnered them together for this job, saying it was important, saying he had faith in them. Wanted to see how far they'd both come, what they were capable of. Could they think like the leaders they had the potential to be? Could they be trusted to act as an extension of Carmine's will?
Bruce thinks they did a good job. Sofia is an ambitious perfectionist, and that paired with Bruce's eye for detail and determination to make Carmine proud meant that their work is thorough and clever and hopefully would be exactly what Carmine was going for.
And, considering his reaction right now, they passed with flying colors.
Carmine looks up at them both, smiling. Proud. "Look at the two of you. Sixteen and already surpassing all my expectations, huh? Damn fine work."
"Thank you," they both say, and Bruce is trying not to let this all go to his head but he already knows he'll be unsuccessful, already knows that every kind word from Carmine fills him up like nobody else can manage. The days of trying to hope that doesn't happen are long behind him. He's reached acceptance. It might be no less embarrassing, but at least he isn't constantly at war with himself.
"Go do somethin' fun," Carmine says. "Enjoy your night, you earned it."
Sofia grins and nods, calling a thank you as she heads for the door, Bruce close on her heels. He stops, though, when Carmine calls out, "Oh, actually Bruce, hang back a second. There's something I want to talk to you about."
Bruce blinks, unsure how to read Carmine's tone, but nods and walks back over to the desk all the same, sitting down when Carmine gestures for him to do so.
"I think I know who killed your parents," Carmine says, not beating around the bush.
"You—" Bruce starts, but words fail him. He stares.
Carmine nods. "It seems like the Maroni family was responsible for it. They didn't like how close your father and I were getting, didn't like the relationship there. And then after I did your father a favor, Sal Maroni got spooked—thought that meant I'd have Thomas Wayne in my pocket, and he couldn't have that. Not with all the implied power there. So he killed them."
The words echo through Bruce's mind, playing over and over again and consuming him. The Maronis. The other largest crime family in the city, Carmine's largest rival, nasty pieces of work. Salvatore Maroni, their leader, is said to be one of the worst of the worst. The kind to kill innocent people just because it suits him. The kind to murder Bruce's parents without any real cause.
"What do I need to do?" Bruce asks blankly.
Carmine tilts his head. "'Do', kid?"
"Yes," Bruce says. His hands curl into fists on his thighs. "What do I need to do to take them down? Do we need funds? I have more money than fucking God. Manpower? Brain power? I can get as many people as you need here. What do I do, Carmine! Tell me how to ruin them. Please."
Carmine observes him with sharp eyes, searching for something but Bruce doesn't know or care what. There's something—pleased, in there too. Proud of Bruce's dedication, maybe. His willingness to jump in the fight.
"Alright, kid," Carmine says, a crooked smile turning his lips. "I'll tell you exactly what you can do for me."
An attack comes a few weeks later.
They're all sitting down to dinner. It's a quiet night after a quiet day, nothing particularly of note having happened. Alfred thinks he's at a sleepover with a kid from his biology class, and instead Bruce is enjoying the company of the family he's lucky enough to maybe be able to think of as his, just a little. The conversation flows easily, voices layering as everyone tries to speak over each other, Carmine laughing when Alberto starts getting a little too rambunctious.
And then a grenade comes crashing in through the window.
Bruce is aware of moving through air, and then his head slams against something hard. Pain erupts through his skull, vision blurring, ears ringing. He tries to push himself upright and finds his limbs slow to respond, his sluggish thoughts a never-ending echo of panic. He can hear shouts and gunfire, and he pushes harder, managing to heave himself to his hands and knees even as the world turns around him.
There are men in the Falcone house, men here to kill them. Carmine's men are fighting back, it's a full-on gunfight, and it takes Bruce longer than he wishes it did to get his head in gear and stumble up to his feet, looking around blearily to get his bearings.
The table has been turned up on its side, Louisa crouching behind it with Alberto clutched in her arms and Mario at her side. The boy's eyes are wild and angry, wide as they dart from side to side, unsure what he's supposed to do. Bruce can't see Sofia, but the girl is a survivor and he can't think about her when his eyes land on Carmine.
The man is ducked behind a wall, gun in hand and teeth bared in anger and—pain. There's blood on his shirt, his free hand clearly applying pressure to a wound, and Bruce is moving before he's even fully aware of it.
Someone tries to stop him. He doesn't know who it is, can barely make out any details, only knows that the person has a gun and is keeping him from Carmine so he takes the man down.
"Kid," Carmine pants roughly when Bruce reaches him. "Shit, this is a shitshow."
Bruce feels that's a bit of an understatement, but his mouth feels too slow so instead he turns his attention to Carmine's chest. The blood seems to be coming from a gunshot to the shoulder, and Bruce yanks off his jacket to press it against the wound.
Carmine nods in gratitude, grabbing onto the jacket to hold it steady. "We need to get the fuck out of here."
The exits are blocked, though. There's no way out. If their attackers reach them, they'll kill them all. The grenade landed right in the middle of family dinner—these people don't care who they kill. They'll take them all out to get to Carmine.
Bruce can't let that happen.
With hands that are steadier than he thought they would be, Bruce reaches out and takes Carmine's gun.
Everything is very much a blur from there. Bruce—doesn't like guns. He doesn't like what's happening. He doesn't get what's happening, not fully, his head a swimming wreck. But there's a gun in his hand and his finger around a trigger and the muzzle flashes as he fires and there are people on the ground and he...
Carmine's hand is a grounding weight on his shoulder, holding him steady as he sways on his feet. The handgun is still clasped between his palms, and he blinks down at it in incomprehension, gaze then drifting to the bodies.
He...did that. He—killed people.
The room is empty, otherwise. Time must've passed though Bruce has no idea how much, because there's a tightly wrapped bandage around Carmine's shoulder, and Louisa and the boys aren't present, nor any of Carmine's men. It's deathly silent, just the pair of them left, covering in blood and surrounded by bodies.
"You did good," Carmine says softly. His free hand reaches out, slowly enough for Bruce to be able to clear track the motion, and settles on the gun. He pulls it carefully free of Bruce's grip to set it on a table close by, and Bruce's arms fall limp as soon as the weapon is gone. He—doesn't know what to do now.
"I'm sorry you had to do that," Carmine continues. "But you did well, kid. You protected me, saved my life. Even hating everything about this, hating this weapon—you did it."
Yeah, Carmine knows how Bruce feels about guns. Taught him to use one, had to deal with Bruce's tension and anxiety and discomfort, the man always calm and collected as he walked Bruce through a skill he said was crucial to have, even if he's never going to use it.
Seems he did end up needing to use it after all.
Because—they were in danger. Carmine, Sofia, all of them. They could've died. Bruce had to...
"Of course," Bruce says absently, trying to shake off the haze that's clouding his mind. "I'd—do anything for you, Carmine."
For a moment, Carmine just looks at him, something Bruce can't understand on his face. It doesn't seem bad, though. And the fact that it's followed by Carmine reaching out to cup the back of Bruce's neck and pull him a little closer makes it all the better.
"Damn, kid," Carmine murmurs, hand squeezing just firmly enough to make Bruce feel grounded and connected without there being any pain. "I don't think I'll ever get tired of that."
Bruce blinks. His gaze is on Carmine's shirt, finding it strangely hard to lift his gaze when they're standing this close together. There's an intimacy to it that has Bruce falling perfectly still, and he doesn't know if he could handle it. Safer, to look at the buttons of Carmine's dress shirt.
"Of what?" he asks quietly.
"Your devotion," Carmine says, and Bruce would be embarrassed by it being laid out as simply as that except Carmine sounds so pleased by it that Bruce can't possibly consider it a bad thing. "You, always going two-hundred percent for me. Always doing as you're told, following orders, working hard to make me happy—your readiness, how willing you are, how goddamn loyal. Fucking stunning."
Bruce's breath catches. He nods a little, all he can manage. He is loyal. He would do anything for Carmine, for the man who has given him everything and asked for so very little in return. Absolutely anything.
"Look at me, kid," Carmine instructs, and Bruce is helpless to deny that order.
Carmine smiles at him when their eyes meet, his eyes hooded and something lazy and satisfied in the way his lips curl upward. Bruce waits while Carmine's eyes slide across his face, examining him with easy intensity, taking his time.
"Tell me again, huh, Bruce?" Carmine says, hand tightening on the nape of Bruce's neck. Bruce can't help but tilt his head backwards into the touch.
His throat bobs, and his voice is weak when he says, "I'd do anything for you."
"Damn right," Carmine says, a hint of a growl at the edges of the words, and then suddenly he's dragging Bruce forward and crashing their mouths together.
Bruce gasps, eyes flaring wide in shock. Carmine doesn't pause, doesn't slow, kissing Bruce forcefully and passionately, all-consuming and overwhelming. He thrusts his tongue into Bruce's mouth and bites at his lips, every action like a claim that has Bruce feeling a little weak in the knees.
This is—fuck, this is actually happening. Carmine is actually kissing him.
With a whimper, Bruce melts into it, slumping forward against Carmine's chest as he lets the man devour him, kissing back the best he can but overall letting Carmine do what he wants, take what he wants. He clings to Carmine's biceps and ignores his lightheadedness, ignores the blood still streaked across his clothes, focusing on nothing but the feel of Carmine against him, on actually getting what he's wanted for so long.
"My boy," Carmine breathes, breaking the kiss to mouth at Bruce's jaw, dragging his tongue along Bruce's skin and pulling a moan from Bruce. "Yeah, that's it, kid. Enjoy yourself. My good boy."
Bruce moans again, clutching at Carmine, doing his best to stay on his feet. "C-Carmine—"
"You like that, kid?" Carmine asks, a grin on his face as his head ducks to suck at Bruce's neck, making the teen gasp and arch against him. "You like me telling you how damn good you are for me? Because you are, Bruce. My loyal little boy. Say it again, kid. Tell me again."
"Anything," Bruce manages to get out, voice strangled. He feels overheated, the room spinning around him. And he wouldn't ask this to stop for the world. "I—anything for you, Carmine, I promise I will—"
"Yeah you will," Carmine agrees, a thread of something dark in his voice that Bruce doesn't understand, and doesn't pay any attention to once Carmine grinds forward against him, sending sparks up Bruce's spine. "You will, kid. We're gonna do great things together, you and me. You can count on that. Fucking perfect."
Carmine backs him up until he hits wall, the man pinning him there, surrounding him with his larger frame. He kisses him again, just as powerful as before, and his hands start to wander. They slide over Bruce's shoulders, his arms, down his chest. Settle on his hips for a moment, gripping hard, before one hand moves to cup Bruce through his jeans.
Bruce groans, arching up into the touch, making Carmine chuckle as he grinds his palm against Bruce's clothed cock. Bruce is already hard, and the touch—the touch from this man—is only making him ache with need.
"Carmine, please," Bruce says. Any other day he might be embarrassed by the breathy quality to his voice, the whine at the tail end, but he just doesn't have it in him to care. Not when Carmine is touching him, holding him, kissing him. Not when so many of Bruce's dreams are coming true.
"Don't worry, kid, I've got you," Carmine tells him. "You wanna please me, huh? You wanna make me feel good?"
Bruce nods jerkily. "I—yeah—anything, Carmine, I—"
"Good boy," Carmine says, a smirk flashing across his face, and Bruce whimpers and sinks easily to his knees when Carmine applies a little pressure to his shoulder.
For a moment, Carmine doesn't do anything, staring down at Bruce with a hungry expression. He runs his thumb softly down Bruce's cheek, then across his bottom lip. Bruce lets his lips part, heart pounding as Carmine takes the opportunity to slip his thumb inside his mouth.
"Damn, kid," Carmine sighs. "You'd let me do anything I wanted."
This is the man who's given him everything. Yes, he can do whatever he wants. Bruce can take it. Bruce wants to take it.
Face hot, Bruce closes his mouth around Carmine's thumb and sucks lightly, staring up at the man with wide eyes. Carmine's breath hitches, hips flexing in the air, and then he yanks his thumb out of Bruce's mouth to instead reach for the buckle of his belt, hurriedly undoing his pants.
"You ever done this before?" Carmine asks as he pulls his cock out. It's hard and leaking, and Bruce can't help but stare at it as Carmine strokes himself bare inches from Bruce's face. "Any of those little prep boys at your school?"
Bruce shakes his head. Barely manages to find his voice to say, "No, never."
Carmine looks pleased by the answer. "Tell me this—you ever picture doing this for me?"
Throat bobbing nervously, Bruce nods, and heat pools in his gut at Carmine's approving groan.
"Amazing," he says, and then he's stepping forward, one hand guiding his cock and then other settling around Bruce's jaw to hold him still—
It's an odd sensation, having a cock in his mouth. It's heavy and musky and large, fleshy yet hard, and it's hard for his brain to understand the sensation in full. All attempts at trying are scattered by the way Carmine presses deeper and deeper into his mouth, giving a quiet moan as he sinks himself into Bruce's open and ready mouth.
A shudder runs through Bruce when the head of Carmine's cock pokes the back of his throat, an instinctive gag reflex coming up. But Carmine says, "You're doing so goddamn well," and Bruce is incapable of pulling away, of trying to stop this. He breathes through his nose and tries his hardest to suppress the reflex, tears stinging his eyes as Carmine pushes deeper still.
"Fuck," Carmine pants, chest heaving as he stares down at Bruce with dark, captivated eyes. "Fuck, kid. Your goddamn mouth, your throat—so good for me, Bruce, just take it, you can do it, just take it."
Carmine begins drawing out slowly, and then pushing back in, hips rocking roughly through the air. It makes Bruce gag again, but he refuses to fail at this, refuses to let Carmine down. So he takes it just like Carmine said he can, emboldened by the man's faith, holding still as Carmine steadily slides into a rhythm, fucking Bruce's throat.
Tears spill down Bruce's cheeks, and Carmine swipes one away with his thumb, cupping his cheek for a moment before settling his hand on the back of Bruce's head to get better leverage.
"Let me do anything," Carmine groans, mostly to himself. "Could ruin you, my boy, my goddamn boy, so good, fuck—"
When Carmine comes down his throat, it's without warning, and Bruce convulses as he fights to not choke on the man's release. Swallowing it all down feels like an accomplishment, and he basks in Carmine's attention as the man gently strokes his hair, murmuring quiet words of praise that leave Bruce lightheaded and so turned on he can barely stand it.
"Wanna come for me, Bruce?" Carmine pants, still not pulling out of Bruce's mouth, letting Bruce's throat warm his cock. "Wanna come with my cock down your throat, baby? Like my good little boy?"
Bruce whimpers, nods as much as he can. His hands fumble towards his belt, but a chastising noise from Carmine has him freezing and looking up, unsure what he's supposed to do.
One of Carmine's feet lifts, the man bracing a hand on the wall for balance. His foot nudges Bruce's hands aside, and then settles over the bulge of his cock, pressing down.
Bruce can't help the groan that escapes him, eyelids fluttering, hips twitching upward as Carmine grinds his foot down against his clothed cock.
"Hump my foot, sweetheart," Carmine says breathlessly. "Go on, kid, make me proud. Use my shoe to get yourself off, huh? Good fucking boy."
Absolutely helpless to do anything else, Bruce does as he's told, eyes fixed on Carmine's face up above him as he thrusts against the hard sole of Carmine's dress shoe. It's humiliating in a way but also amazing, and Bruce feels lit on fire by the way Carmine is watching him, by how utterly owned he feels in this moment.
It doesn't take long for Bruce to come, and Carmine strokes his hair through it, holding Bruce close as the teen shudders through his orgasm and then slumps forward against him.
"Beautiful," Carmine murmurs, running his thumb over Bruce's lips where they're still wrapped around his cock. "Am I lucky or what, huh, kid?"
No, Bruce is pretty sure he's the lucky one out of the pair of them. Carmine has played an integral role in raising him, shaping the person he is today. He's made him strong, given him everything he could want, is going to help him take down the Maronis to get justice for the deaths of his parents. Carmine has given him everything, and Bruce doesn't think he'll ever be able to express his gratitude in full over that, over how much that means to him.
But keeping his promise is a good start—he'll do anything for this man. And maybe he'll be lucky enough that Carmine will keep him around for a long time to come.