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There are always moments that balance on the edge of a coin, where if it had fallen the other way, a life would have been changed. A boy does not fall down a well, which means he does not leave an opera early, and thus his parents live. Bruce may no longer believe it was his fault, but it does not mean he does not believe in cause and effect. A boy falls so that a man may rise.
And Ducard falls, too, as Bruce rejects the choice given to him to kill a man and instead burns down the temple and takes his mentor, for it is not in him yet to kill, nor is can he leave someone who can still be saved .This will change, or it will not, but in this moment, as he prepares to leave Ducard, to go back to Gotham and begin a new life, a hand reaches out and--
Ducard opens his eyes. Bruce has come to know Ducard, to read his emotions as best he can, and what he sees is terror quickly masked, likely unconsciously, to be replaced by a curious blankness. His eyes flicker around the hut before they stop on Bruce.
Bruce braces himself, waiting for rage or sorrow or some recognition that it is Bruce who has taken his life from him, even if it was one that a man should not be forced to choose.
He does none of this. His face softens ever so slightly. “Do I know you?” he asks.
It is not a question Bruce was expecting. “Yes,” he says.
Ducard nods. “How?”
Bruce opens his mouth. The words form upon his tongue, lies that will sound convincing enough, and it would not matter even if they did not. There is no one to tell him otherwise.
There is no one, he thinks.
And that is how they leave, Ducard at the side of Bruce Wayne, as the prodigal son of Gotham returns home, towing his shepherd with him. There will be no fatted calf slain for either one of them, though perhaps Alfred will put on a pot of tea.
“Are you certain this is wise, Master Wayne?” Alfred asks. In another room, Ducard is placidly sipping a cup of Darjeeling. He did not seem particularly startled on arriving in Gotham – nothing seems to faze him, which must be an innate trait of his.
Of course it isn't wise, Bruce thinks. But nothing about what he's doing is anymore. It's all a series of risks, some more calculated than others. Saving Ducard was the right move. Taking him home was... well, Bruce has had better ideas.
“I had no choice,” Bruce says instead. “If I had left him there, he would have been a sitting duck.” Perhaps it would not have been so serious as that, Bruce thinks, with the League all but destroyed, but any remnants might have believed Ducard to be working with Bruce and without his memory, he'd have no defense.
Then again, it could all be a trap, he thinks. Ducard could be playing him for a fool, waiting to get--
Well, that's the question and Bruce needs to know the answer. What does he remember, what does he not, and what of those two is real?
Bruce did have a choice, as he always does, but it's also an illusion. There's only one decision to be made.
Alfred sighs. “Well, we do have the space,” he says. “I trust that he'll stay out of the basement.”
“Let's hope.” Bruce allows himself a small smile and goes to see Ducard.
He's still sitting where Bruce left him, though his cup is empty. “Bruce,” he says calmly. He's wearing the clothes that Alfred provided him, a soft gray sweater and charcoal slacks, but it does not diminish the intensity of his stare as he fixes his eyes upon Bruce. Even as memory and motives waver and blur, the ground below them still unsteady from the aftershocks of Bruce's actions, Ducard keeps his footing.
“Henri,” Bruce replies. The name falls awkward on the tongue. “Are you... settling in well?”
“Well enough,” Ducard says dryly. “Your house is a bit small.” He had taken in Bruce's manor with the same equanimity he took in all of Gotham as they drove through it, observing all from the highest, glittering towers to the gutters beneath their feet. And Bruce recorded it as well, knew that as he watched Gotham, Ducard must be watching him too.
That, too, seemed intrinsic to Ducard.
Bruce smiles. “I prefer cozy.” He takes his hands out of his pockets, leans against the wall. “I am sorry,” he says, and not for the first time. “Have you remembered anything?”
Ducard tilts his head, regards Bruce with a considering look. “Flashes of images,” he says, “but nothing concrete. Were you hoping for something more?”
He is used to sparring with Ducard, and his mentor, as always, is able to land the first blow. “Just hoping something might come to you,” Bruce says. “I can always get a doctor if you think you need one.”
Their eyes meet, Ducard's lips curling up, and both of them know that no one's going to be called.
It is not easy to hide what you're doing from a man who basically trained you to do it, but Bruce perseveres. Alfred helps by monitoring Ducard, making sure the man is nowhere near the caves. Surprisingly, it's not as difficult as Bruce might imagine.
“He reads a lot,” Alfred says. “And sleeps and meditates. Stays out of trouble. One could take a lesson from that.”
“I've missed you,” Bruce says.
He meets Rachel again and if there is a twinge in his heart for her, it is that of a child mourning the loss of what could have been. Bruce and Rachel might have been a thing, two childhood sweethearts reunited after so much time apart.
Batman cannot have such a thing. By virtue of what he is, he must remain alone.
“It's difficult to adjust to being back,” he confesses to Ducard. They eat dinner together some of the nights, and the peace is nice, given the chaos that's barely controlled in the city. “After all that's happened...”
“It wouldn't be easy,” Ducard says. “You have changed. So has your city. Neither one of you would recognize each other if they truly saw each other.”
“There is no going back, is there?” Bruce says. “To what I was before?” It is a foolish question to begin with and even more foolish to ask of a man who cannot even remember what he used to be. And yet...
And yet.
Ducard sets down his knife and his fingers are cool against Bruce's wrist. “I do not know who you were before,” he says softly. “I never met the boy that you might have been. But the man I know now would never be afraid of his own shadow.”
Though the curtains are open, the moon is behind a cloud when Bruce kisses Ducard and the sigh that Ducard lets out when the kiss breaks sends the candle before him flickering, the world shivering once again at what Bruce has done.
This is not the first conversation they have had like this, nor will it be the last. There are times when Ducard talk, be it, in sparring, in dining, or in bed as Bruce wonders just how terrible the mistake is that he is making, that remind him of those early training days, each statement layered with meaning, and Bruce waits, wary, for the push and the plunge that will send the ice cascading down around him. But it does not happen and Bruce wonders...
But there is no time to wonder. There is too much to be done. Falcone is taken down easily enough, especially with the help of Jim Gordon, who's one of the few pillars of strength left in a city with crumbling foundations. People like him give Bruce hope that someday, he can save Gotham, rebuild it, make it stronger...
“He still remembers nothing?” Alfred asks.
“I don't know.” Bruce is tired, Falcone's insane, and he has this feeling that someone's out there, pulling the strings. He can't figure out who, not yet, but things are spiraling quickly and if he doesn't get control over this. “I'm still trying to find out.”
But he's not, not really. There's a lot in his life he doesn't know, but Ducard is there, the flip side of Alfred, for if Alfred knows who Bruce always was, Ducard can sense who Bruce is now.
There are two sides of him at war now and he's not sure if he knows who will win.
They leave him there, twisting and screaming, the poison running through his blood, Alfred leaves him, and it's too much for him to take, too goddamn--
“Hush,” the voice says, and a hand presses down upon the brow. “Your men are working on saving you even now.” The voice laughs, rueful. “I knew you inspired loyalty, but I had no idea how great it was.”
“I don't—Scarecrow--”
“He really shouldn't have done that.” The voice sounds angry. “I told him not to use such a high dosage. And on you, of all people. Fortunately, you're stronger than he thinks. Stronger than I even imagined.”
He thinks he knows the voice even as everything around him wavers in and out. “Ducard,” he says. “You're--”
“You won't remember this,” Ducard says quietly and there's something soft against his forehead, warmth pressing down and grounding him. “You should, but you won't. All of this will be lost.”
“I won't forget,” Bruce grits out. He's hot, twisting on sheets, and then he's cold, and he needs to tell Alfred about what's--
“You will,” Ducard says. “No matter how much I try to teach you, you will never learn.”
Bruce reaches out, flailing, and something takes his hand, holds it tight.
“But perhaps it's a failure of the teacher as well,” Ducard says. “If the student does not learn, then the teacher must change the way they teach.”
“I--”
“I will not lose you, Bruce.” Ducard's grip is painful but Bruce does not try to escape it. The world is spinning out of control but Ducard is unyielding, the stone left after everything has burned to ash. “Not when we've come so far.”
The world is darkness again until--
“Happy Birthday,” Alfred says. He looks exhausted, which if Bruce has been out for two days, makes perfect sense. Bruce looks over and Ducard is there as well, his eyes unreadable, though he does smile when he meets Bruce's glance.
Was he—Bruce remembers him being there, he thinks, but trying to get the memory is water slipping through his grasp, leaving him nothing more than a vague impression of heat, shadows, and a hand that held on tight.
“Yes,” Ducard says softly. “Happy Birthday.”
He walks out of the room without saying anything further and an hour later, Alfred reports that he seems to have disappeared entirely.
It's started to get even too loud for Bruce. Crane's toxin might be gone from his bloodstream, but the effects still lingers – Bruce Wayne's parties are always too much for most, and all Bruce wants right now is some peace and quiet to think about things.
Ra's is dead. He knows this. He killed the man, saw the temple crumble on top of him, so who really is the one behind Crane, who is--
It's quiet in this part of the house, the guests not having made it that far. Most of them are too drunk to notice that the guest of honor has absented himself, and those that do will likely think he's gone off to have a tryst.
There shouldn't be anyone here.
But there is.
Bruce opens the door and sees Ducard sitting there on the bed. He's in a dark suit, his eyes steadily watching Bruce, as if he knew all along Bruce would be here at this time, in this place. Perhaps it should also be a surprise to Bruce to see him here, but it is not. There are no more masks, no shadows, just two men who finally see each other.
“Ra's is dead,” Bruce says. “I watched him die.”
“But is Ra's al Ghul immortal? Are his methods supernatural?” His face is only lit by moonlight, and it's hard to see his expression, but Bruce already knows what he should have known all this time.
“Or cheap parlor tricks to conceal your true identity, Ra's?”
Ducard—no, Ra's—beckons him forward. “Surely, given what you engage in on a nightly basis, you would not begrudge me my own deception,” he says.
Bruce does walk to the bed. He doesn't know who else might be here – if Ra's is here, then he might have men, and there are plenty of unknowing hostages for him to use. “You were lying to me all this time.” he says. “I should have expected that.” He should be more bitter about this, but there's just a dull resignation, the knowledge rising up in him of what's likely to come next.
“No,” Ra's says thoughtfully, pulling Bruce down to sit next to him. “Not all this time. I could not have convinced you so well if there was not an element of truth to it. I did not remember at first, and as the memories came back, it was easier to pretend to be that man and see what you would do.” His hand tightens around Bruce's arm. “Your compassion will be your downfall, Bruce.”
“What do you want, Ra's?” Bruce asks quietly. “I know Crane's doing your bidding.”
“What do I want?” Ra's echoes. “To see you fulfill your destiny. To do what we planned all this time, clean up Gotham, burn down the rotting foundations, expose the true corruption at the heart of it all.”
“I won't let you destroy this city,” Bruce says. “I can't let you--”
Ra's kisses him, fierce and hard. Bruce doesn't fight it, doesn't even think he wants to. Hasn't it been leading to this all this time, the final lesson for him to learn? Ra's has always been guiding him, shaping him, and if he can--
“I would have you not lie back and think of Gotham,” Ra's says calmly. “But you will anyway. You have a choice, Bruce. You can walk away from this.”
“And if I do?” Bruce asks. “Am I responsible for the death of all these people? Your quarrel is with me, not with them.”
Ra's smiles tightly. “You misunderstand me, as you always have. I have learned that you are far too stubborn to be persuaded to do things my way and I suspect that nothing short of death itself will stop you from thinking you have to oppose me. But it does not have to be that way,” he says.
“No?”
“No. We can walk away from this. Your guests will survive, Gotham will continue to decay, and one day, when you have truly learned your purpose in life, you will come to understand why this is necessary. Or you can stay and fight and die, choking on the ashes of your own city and I will mourn what could have been.”
Bruce watches Ra's face. His eyes are sad, knowing, and in that moment, he looks like the immortal he claims to be, a man who lives his life measured in how much he has lost. Even as he opens his mouth, he can see that Ra's knows what he will say.
“I'm not leaving Gotham,” he says. “You must know that.”
Ra's leans over to kiss him again, lips on his forehead. His arms go around Bruce, embracing him tightly against him. “I know that,” he says. “Just as you know that there is no choice.”
Something pricks Bruce's neck and he struggles, trying to break free, but the drug takes him far too quickly and he collapses against Ra's, held secure in his embrace.
“I know you, Bruce,” Ra's says softly just before Bruce knows nothing more. “And I will not let you fall.”