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In the flood's aftermath, a lot of things suddenly became clear.
One, Gotham could change, but only for the worst. Two, every active police case that was ongoing at the Gotham PD before the flood had lost every single piece of evidence they had. Not to mention, three, so so many people died in not only the floods but the chaos that happened after.
So four, the organized crime scene was in a panic. Everyone was grabbing for power and killing each other, which left space right at the top for Carmine Falcone to just meander back in. No consequences, no reckoning for all the harm he caused. Just an eyepatch and a cane, and a city to own.
Bruce’s glass shattered in his hand from how tight he had been holding it.
“Bruce,” Alfred said tightly. He was still hobbling around. There were still bandages on his body that he had grudgingly allowed Bruce to change daily, and Bruce could still hardly look him in the face. Bruce’s hands were bleeding, and there were shards at his feet. He made a wounded sound the moment it appeared that Alfred was going to bend to clean it up.
“I got it,” he said, voice low, inner turmoil hidden.
“I know this is a shock to you,” Alfred said.
“A shock?” Bruce said, feeling his eyebrows rise. “I held his dying body in my hands, I heard him take his last breath, I stopped Selina from,” He stopped talking, dragged his hand against his mouth, and rubbed under his chin. Rotated their last interaction around in his head, thinking about Carmine’s face, the similarities it had to Selina’s, the fear in his eyes, and the certainty he had as they led him out of his club. Bruce bumped into one of the old antique chairs and leaned heavily against it, suddenly heavy.
“Alfred.” His voice strained against the emotions inside of him. He started breathing hard, like he was close to the edge of a panic attack, as the facts of the situation became all the more clear in his head. “He knows. He has to.” Before Alfred could even respond, denial clear on his face, there was a knock at the door. Unneeded considering that the door to the room was already open.
“Sirs.” They both looked back. Bruce’s eyes had to be wild with grief from the step she took back, but she spoke anyway. “Mister Falcone is here.” Rushing in his ears. Alfred gripped his cane in his hand, forced his back straight, and looked Bruce right in the eye.
“Get yourself together,” Looked down at the glass at Bruce’s feet before he brushed off his vest. His hands shook. “We have guests.” Bruce bit his tongue and forced himself to breathe.
Like all pieces of Gotham, The Wayne Manor was in disarray. After the explosion that damaged the penthouse, Bruce knew it was no longer as safe as it could be, so he turned his gaze to the dilapidated Wayne Manor, unaffected by the flood but ruined by time. The orphanage that had been inside of it had clearly only been a failure, and it was time for it to become something new.
They cleared it out room by room, and repaired whatever they could. Offered its open spaces to anyone in need. To people who had lost their homes. Repairing Gotham had brought jobs in the devastation and Wayne Manor soon became a part of that process, returned to being a part of the city. And Bruce Wayne returned as a true son of Gotham, had stood in front of cameras next to Gotham’s new mayor, had promised to help wherever he could, to undo the damage that his father had caused to the city they loved.
“Remember to smile,” Alfred had said. It was hard, taking off the mask, becoming Bruce again, but it was needed.
“You are not welcome here,” Alfred said sharply as Carmine entered the room. His steps were slow, the clicking of his cane leading the way. Death had aged him. His wrinkles were more defined, but his smile, the sly, slick smile, was the same.
“Alfred, please,” Bruce said. Lifted his chin, offered a small grimace of a smile to the man. “What can we help you with today, Mister Falcone?” And there should be nothing but hatred welling up inside of him. This was the man that got his mother and father killed. This was the man who had ruined Gotham and needed to be exposed to the light. But there was hardly any hatred at all, because at the end of the day Carmine Falcone had been nothing but a coward and a snitch. Bruce felt his mouth curling into a sneer.
“I can’t just want to see what the Prince of Gotham has been up to?” Distaste curled in Bruce’s stomach. “Look at this.” Gestured to the mostly empty but clean room around them. “I remember this place well, how fine it used to be. Your old man would be proud.”
“Don’t,” Bruce said, sharp even to his ears. Alfred was gripping his cane so tight, his knuckles turned white.
Carmine nodded as if to say fair, holding up his palm to signify that he meant no harm.
“I wanted to speak to you,” He said. “Alone.” He turned his eyes on Alfred and smirked. “Businessman to Businessman.”
“I don’t think,” Alfred started to say, protectiveness rearing its head, like he would stand his damaged body in front of Bruce if it meant saving him from this man.
“Okay,” Bruce said, speaking over him. “Just give us a second, Alfred.” Alfred stared at him for a long moment, his eyes searching. What are you doing? They asked, and Bruce hoped his eyes gave the right answer.
He hobbled to the door and left it open as he turned down the hallway. Without him, Bruce suddenly felt slightly defenseless.
“He would be proud, you know?” Carmine wandered over to the fireplace, and ran a finger across the mantle. They still needed to update it, Bruce thought absentmindedly, and when Carmine raised his hand, Bruce could see gray dust and ash coating the surface. “Thomas always knew you had steel in you.” And Bruce hated that this man who was responsible, who had hurt so many people, could talk about his father with such fucking familiarity. “Knew you would step up when it mattered. Look at what you’ve done.” If the words were meant to comfort, they didn’t. Each one delivered like a slap. Bruce felt stuck to his spot, felt like he couldn’t move, his stomach hurt, sweat accumulated on his brow. “He would be so proud of you.”
“Please, Mr. Falcone,” He bit out every word. “Did you need something?”
“No,” the man finally said. “Just wanted you to see my face. Especially considering how our last meeting ended.” He smiled, and there was no kindness left in his remaining eye. “I think we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the future.” He put a hand on Bruce’s shoulder and the Batman would have certainly thrown him off. Bruce does not move a muscle. “Don’t you?” His cane clicked as he walked towards the door. “See you around, kid.”
Here was five: Carmine Falcone knew who The Bat was, probably knew who the Cat was as well, and knew the role they played in bringing him down. And he was back.
So six, Carmine Falcone could ruin everything, could kill the Bat with the knowledge he held. Had the power to snatch away the hope that Bruce had only started learning he could have, if he wanted to.
Only time would tell.