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Glass & Patron

Summary:

You're Marguerite Elliot. Beautiful, brilliant, black, funny, rich, and a Wayne (by adoption, as you like to remind people).

But the only thing that impressed him is how adept you are at breaking people's hands.

An AU Gotham fic, where you're Bruce's older sister. Sort of.

Notes:

Take the journey.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: Get Some

Chapter Text

 It’s only after you pound the flat of your hand against Carmine Falcone’s door and wait the six seconds for it to swing open that you even think to be afraid. You’ve been sustained this whole time by anger and indignation, by a need to protect, you haven’t worried about just how likely you are to survive this encounter. But you’re already committed and the bodyguard’s glare is so sharp that you can’t back down now. You dart past him and into the cavernous office, a knot of deep anxiety worming it’s way down your throat and into your chest.

Falcone is just a man in person, dwarfed by the legend of his infamous firebombs and killings. His presence, the sharp lever of his gaze, is really what alludes to his strength. He’s surrounded by men. All manners of them. The bodyguard closes the door behind you and you spread your arms and legs, sighing through your nose as his hands slowly work down from your sides. You fix your eyes forward, smile at Falcone gently, then let your eyes track over the room. It’s very him; classic oak paneling, stone fireplace in the wall to your right. His desk is a behemoth, a double pedestal made out of ancient-looking mahogany, with beautiful carved plinths at the bases, and an intricately carved rendition of the Falcone family crest in the panel facing you.

The bodyguard deliberately, clearly, gropes your ass. You spin before you can stop yourself, grabbing his right hand and pulling it sharply upward, then kicking the back of his knee and shoving him by his right shoulder to the ground, his arm wrenched behind him upward in your hands, his wrist cocked at an awkward and painful looking angle. He lets out a sharp cry. You glare, your heart racing as you hear an untold number of safeties click off.

“Watch your hands, mate, or I’ll break them off,” you say, your softened English accent commanding and stabbing through the edges of the flat New Englander. The bodyguard glares at you as you hold his arm in place, his anger undercut by the pain in his eyes. You hear chuckles as you release his arm and step away. He rises to his feet, then advances on you. You have your arms up in a defensive position when Carmine clears his throat.

“Stop,” The bodyguard freezes and turns to him. His gaze is piercing. “Did you touch my guest inappropriately?” The bodyguard blanches a bit, then starts to shake his head.

“I swear I—”

“Quiet.” He falls silent immediately. “Stand over by the window.” He does.

“Victor,” Carmine continues, raising a cigar to his lips. “Since you’re here. Check her. Don’t be cheeky.” A pale, bald man, dressed in a crisp black suit and pristine black Doc Martens steps out from behind Carmine’s desk and moves toward you. You raise your arms and spread your legs, again. Your mother didn’t raise a stupid woman. You wore a t-shirt dress, leggings, your favorite boots, and an oversized cardigan. Your long braids are pushed behind your ears, the ones usually hanging in your face pulled back into a low ponytail. You can only imagine how you look, in the middle of this room of professional bad guys, dressed like you just left a dance studio, with a long scar, still red, marring your brown cheek.

He holds your cardigan open, to inspect your dress, the pats down each pocket. His hands then go to your sides, just underneath your armpits, skim down your waist to your hips, then down each leg. Then your arms, left first, down to your hand. When he reaches your right hand, balled up in a fist, he gives you a look. You open it, a key between your fingers. He plucks it out of your palm, then continues his search, patting down your chest, pulling your room key necklace and your mother’s pyramid-shaped pendant out, and your back, his fingers skimming down your spine. He stops in front of you, his dark brown, almost black eyes fixed on yours.

“She’s clean,” he murmurs, holding up the key.

“Check her hair too,” Carmine murmurs. You give him a look over the man’s shoulder.

“Seriously, Carmine?”

“I’ve had more than one black woman sneak her way in here and try to kill me with a knife she stashed in her afro,” Carmine replies. “I don’t take chances.”

“My hair isn’t even…bollocks it, go on,” you sigh, rolling your eyes as the man runs his hands through your hair, from scalp to ends, and you shiver gently when his fingers skim the back of your neck. Satisfied, Carmine beckons for you to come closer and you oblige, standing before his desk.

“Please sit, Ms. Wayne,” he gestures to the seat by you.

“I’d rather stand, thanks. I’m not going to be here long,” you start. Three behind you, not including the pale man, who was packing at least three different ways to kill you. Two by each window. Four behind the desk, not including Falcone, whose left hand had dropped below his desk top when you walked in. A partition in the corner, with a suit hanging from it. Looks like no one is back there, at best there’s an escape exit, but you’re not gonna need to take the risk. Hopefully.

“What can I do for you then?” Falcone replies. You clear your throat.

“I dunno if you’ve noticed,” you start, gesturing to your face, “but I was in a bit of a barney not too long ago.”

“I did. It’s a shame, you’re a very pretty girl. Spitting image of Carmen.” You barely stifle your flinch at his mention of your mother.

“Well,” you say, “you have one of your boys to blame for this.” Falcone’s eyes narrow. The pale man shifts behind you. You’re trying not to shake from the anxiety, your adrenaline is still spiked from that run-in with the bodyguard, but you manage to stay calm.

“Why would that be?”

“My uni roommate, Madison Lee, two or so months ago, got a loan for her tuition from one of your sharks. A week ago he came round the dorms, asking for half the money plus interest. When she explained why, for obvious reasons, she didn’t have it, he got very physical, and I had to get very physical in return. He showed up again, three deep, a day ago. We got this,” you gesture to your face, “and a broken window for his trouble. I tried to rectify the situation, but he’s clearly quite upset. So I decided to come to you to straighten things out.”

Falcone watches you. Then delicately places his cigar on the asher by his elbow and steeples his fingers.

“So it’s you,” he replies, “that threw one of my men out of a third story window and has my loan man pissed. What are you proposing?”

You take a deep breath. “The fact of the matter is, I don’t want to keep kneecapping your men. I have midterms in less than a week. And you don’t want your men to keep getting kneecapped. Most importantly of all, since you’re trying to go legitimate, you don’t want the bad press that would come with a socialite getting hurt or murdered by your men over a little thing like $7,000. So. I’ll pay off her debt, and she’ll never take money from you or your men ever again. And we’ll never speak of this.”

Falcone watches you. Then tilts his head, slowly.

“If you’re worried,” you broach a joke, “I’m an Elliot by birth and a Wayne by adoption. You know I’m good for it.” Falcone smiles. The anxiety knot in your chest loosens a bit.

“You’re a damn good negotiator, Marguerite,” he murmurs. “Perhaps when you graduate you’d be interested in working at my nephew’s law firm.” You smile back.

“I’m flattered, but I don’t think Thomas would take a shine to that.” Falcone laughs, his left coming up to the table top empty.

“He surely wouldn’t. So,” he leans back in his seat. “Where is this debt payment?”

You bite your lip. “Sorry, but. I’m going to need you to say it.”

“Say what?”

“I know you’re a man of your word. I need verbal confirmation of our agreement.”

Falcone smiles wider. “You’ll be wasted over at Wayne Enterprises, you know that?” He rises to his feet. “Lift up your shirt.” Your eyes go wide.

Excuse me?

“You want verbal confirmation. I want to know that you’re not wearing a wire.”

“Your man just checked me!”

“All the same.” He gestures for you to lift your dress. You realize now you’re in deep “this is already so weird, this other thing might as well happen” territory and you sigh, then nod to the partition, jabbing your thumb at the pale man.

“Can he at least check me back there?” Falcone nods, then gestures to the pale man. You walk over to the far corner, sliding your cardigan off your shoulders and handing it to him as you go. He’s turning the sleeves inside out when he joins you back there, then tosses it over the top to hang there. You yank your dress over your head, toss it over the partition too, then put your hands on your head and wait. His (hairless, you finally notice) eyebrow cocks.

“We’re well past the point of modesty, mate,” you sigh. His eyes fix on yours and his hands cup your breasts through your lacy black bra. You inhale, sharp, as his fingers reach underneath the band, and go around to your back, probing. Then over the edges of the cups, his gloved fingertips skimming against your skin, lingering just under too long. Then the straps; his knuckles brush against your neck and you shiver, again. His hands drop to your waistband, and he pulls it away from you. You stiffen.

“Past modesty, right?” He says. He’s waiting for you, you realize, and you nod. He peers in. Then looks up at your chest. “Hm.” Your eyes narrow.

“What?” He says nothing, reaches behind you, and you feel his leather covered palms skim across your lower back, his fingers scarcely touching the lace on your panties. Your body reacts, instantly, heat flooding all across your skin and sinking lower into your core. Your breath hitches, softly as he pulls his hands out, lays the waistband back against your skin, and drops to his knees.

“Well, would you look at that,” he’s kneeling before you and staring up at you with a huge, surprisingly silly grin. He gestures to your boots, then his. “We match! The odds!” You shut your eyes briefly. This also might as well happen.

He nudges your knee. “You can drop your arms now. Lift your right foot,” he says, and you obey, standing stock still as he checks the heel of your Doc Martens. “And your left.” You do, switching your center of balance with nary a wobble. He rises to his feet.

“Are you a dancer?” he queries, picking up your dress. You stare at him. He looks up from his inspection. “You’ve got good balance.”

“I was,” you reply, the end of your sentence curling upward into a question.

“Ballet, I bet,” he shakes out your dress, and looks you up and down, his head tilting to the side, the corner of his mouth quirking so slightly, you almost think you imagined it. “You’ve got the build.”

“Thank you?” He hands it back to you and you yank it back on, meeting his gaze as he holds your cardigan by the shoulders. You slowly slide back into the sleeves, and he lays the fabric across your shoulders, delicately pulling your braids out of your collar. You’re expecting it this time, but you can’t help but shiver again as his gloved hands brush against your neck.

“Peppermint,” he murmurs. “Right?” What? You turn to look at him. His gaze is fixed on your hair. You blink, then nod.

“And shea butter,” you add. He hums, then smiles as he leans toward you, the soft and unexpectedly pleasant scent of pine wafting over you.

“You smell really good,” he replies. “Don’t think I didn’t hear that sweet little gasp.” Then he exits. You’re a tiny bit befuddled and more than a bit overheated when you follow him out from behind the partition and back to the spot in front of Carmine’s desk, but you can’t let yourself get distracted right now.

“She’s still clean,” he says. Carmine, still standing, offers his hand to you.

“If you pay off Madison Lee’s debt, and she no longer uses our…services, in perpetuity, I swear that I and my men will bring no harm her or you, on pain of death. You have my word.” You take his hand and shake it. When he releases you, you gesture to the pale man behind you.

“That gentleman there who stopped short of checking my tonsils is holding a key. It’s the key to a safe deposit box at Gotham First National Bank. In that box is $15,000. I expect that’ll cover interest plus damages.” Falcone nods.

“It certainly shall.”

“Thank you,” you say. “I hope we never see each other again. Outside of charity benefits,” you add, turning to exit, your eyes alighting on the pale bald man as you glide past him.

“Wayne,” Falcone catches your attention. You stop and turn. “My men. They didn’t hurt the two of you too badly, did they?” You grin before you can stop yourself, and you can clearly see Falcone is taken aback by it.

“No,” you say. “I’m sure the hospital bills you received from them reflect that. That’s another thing I inherited from my mum.”

 

Your calm breaks when, after a subway ride and five minute walk, you reach your dorm. When you get to the elevator, and the doors close, you collapse, your hands sweating, and your body shaking from a barely contained panic attack. You heart hammers in your chest, sharp, terrifying, your palms drenched in sweat. When did you start crying? You breathe. You can hear your mother’s lilting voice in your head: You made it. You’re fine. You did it. You’re fine. I’m bloody proud of you. Now to bed. Up you get.

You can only manage to drag your body off the floor, trudge to your room, and collapse in bed, vowing to call your roommate and give her the all-clear to come back in the morning. You crawl under your sheets, calm, but still exhausted, the sensation of the pale man’s hands still lingering on your skin.