Pairing: Lucas Luthor/Batman
Summary: Like it matters which Luthors live and which Luthors die.
This next drink will be his very last drink and his very last drink will be his next drink and so he drink drink drinks until there's nothing left in his glass and his lips curl back from his teeth in a grimace as the vodka sears and burns its sour, loving way down his throat. When he looks up, into the dented mirror behind the bar, he doesn't recognize what he sees there at all. And that's good, because if Lucas knew a man who looked like his reflection Lucas'd probably hate him or hit him or hell, maybe he'd fuck him, because he likes that hard edge of danger there in the eyes. Two deep dark desperate holes in his face - looks almost like they've been burned into his skull. Like they're the souvenirs of something that hurt very, very badly. And as the bartender pours him that next drink which is his very last drink, he thinks that assessment is not too far off, because his eyes are a souvenir of being Lucas Luthor/Dunleavy. It hasn't killed him yet, but of course it will, no one can doubt that.
Diagnosis: Luthor. Prognosis: Terminal. It's pretty fucking funny. So damned funny he laughs out loud, and knocks the bowl of empty peanut shells on the bar to the ground. The guy sitting next to him starts looking at him like he's crazy. Lucas bares his teeth, and the guy gets up. Leaves the bar altogether, giving Lucas these little nervous looks over his shoulder like he thinks Lucas is going to follow him out and fuck him up with his belt or something. That's pretty fucking funny, too.
He's not drunk enough. He's far too drunk. He's falling off his stool, and wiping the back of his mouth with his hand. The bartender asks for his keys, and Lucas flicks him off, pushes himself up and make his way outside where it's cold and it smells bad but he loves Gotham, he really fucking does. He loves it so much he braces one hand on the cold stone wall by the bar door and pukes all over its beautiful, beautiful dark sidewalks. Feels like he's emptying his whole body out, and he kind of likes that idea - get rid of everything inside, start out clean. Maybe things would be better like that.
He can't hear a thing except himself, retching into the gutter, so when hands pull him backwards and there's a cold switchblade to his throat, he's pretty damned surprised. Lucas bets he looks pretty hysterical, those scary eyes of his all big with shock. That tiny little knife pokes at his skin until he bleeds, a tickling trickle of blood that makes its way all the way down to his collar, where it sticks his shirt to his skin.
"Give me all your money," the guy growls in his ear, trying to sound tough. Lucas used to run this game back in Edge City, and this guy isn't half the mugger he was. Asshole's shaking, he's so nervous. He hates amateurs, so Lucas elbows him in the gut, tries to take him out but Lucas forgets how drunk he is. Ends up face down on the sidewalk, too clumsy and slow to even fend off this guy, and that's pretty damned sad.
"I will cut your fucking throat, I swear to God," the guy shouts, his voice cracking - fucking cracking. Lucas shakes his head, tries to push himself up, and gets shoved down, hard. He can feel his nose crack, and he's pretty damned glad he's so drunk because it's going to hurt like hell in the morning.
"No," a gravelly voice somewhere behind Lucas says, "you won't," and the guy who's holding Lucas down goes still and he stinks like fear all of a sudden, and Lucas thinks whoever the asshole is who's talking must be some kind of big guy. Somebody just as dangerous as advertised by that deep, gritty voice, and here he is - just a drunken Luthor bleeding all over the sidewalk and so yeah, he's pretty much fucked. And that's fine with him, because hey, if it's going to end? If he's going to die? Why the hell *not* tonight?
"Put the knife down," says this new guy, this scary motherfucker, this person who Lucas is pretty sure will end up killing him. "And I'll let you go."
So this guy doesn't want to give up a cut of the profits, and Lucas gets that. He's done it a time or two himself, but never with the balls out confident mastery this guy's got going for him. The mugger just drops his knife right onto the concrete by Lucas' face and gets the hell out of there, his feet pounding hard as he runs.
Lucas pushes himself up on one arm. He wants to see this guy, wants to watch death come at him head on, the way Lex probably did because Lex was one brave son of a bitch, and Lucas has always kind of admired that. So if he does nothing else like his brother, he's going to do this, this one thing. He's going to look death in the face, and he's not going to do anything clichéd like laugh, but he's not going to blink.
So he raises his head, and looks up, and sees...a guy in black rubber with a cape and these bright, bright blue eyes. "Are you all right?" he asks Lucas, and Lucas just stares, mouth working.
"You're Batman," he says finally, blinking once or twice, and fuck if Lucas wasn't sure that it was all a damned myth until this second.
The guy just nods once, of course, because it's not fucking news to *him* that he's Batman - he already knows that and Lucas really isn't drunk enough for *this*.
"Are you all right?" he asks again, and Lucas just blurts out, "My brother's dead."
"I know," Batman says, helping Lucas up. "I'm sorry." And the bastard really sounds like he is, like he knew Lex, like he cared, like somehow it fucking matters to anyone that Lex is dead. Like it matters which Luthors live and which Luthors die. Like he knows that it matters to Lucas, which it doesn't, it really fucking doesn't, even if Lex was the only person who ever seemed to give a shit about him for no real reason.
"Didn't know him well, or anything," Lucas says, steadying himself against the wall behind him. "I didn't like him, either. He was a real bitch, sometimes, you know?"
And hell if Batman doesn't laugh out loud at that, and nod. Lucas can see he's smiling underneath that thick rubber mask of his, and that he's got really nice, soft looking lips.
"Yeah," Batman says, and what the fuck does he know? But Lucas can't be too mad, because now he's just tired and cold, and whoever the hell this Batman guy is, he's having the first real conversation with Lucas that anyone's had in a while.
"How are you going to get home?" Batman asks him, reaching out one black rubber-covered hand and touching Lucas' arm.
Lucas laughs, a mean sound that bounces off the walls. "Drive," he says. "I'm going to drive home, mow down a couple of old ladies while I'm at it. What the fuck are you going to do about?"