And jesus, there’s an attraction there he can’t deny. No matter how much his decades of jaw-clenching professionalism earns him, when they’re smiling at each other across martini glasses, entrenched in their personas, he can imagine they met due to happenstance, and his imaginings lead him to dangerous places, moments that give him pause when their lives are at the mercy of trigger fingers—and she knows, feels his weakness underneath the brush of her hand on his back when they retire, the lingering gaze of his eyes on her thigh when she double-checks her extra blade. He’s no longer an asset, which means (according to her files) he’s long since gone—but she’s here, tonight, sharing a drink. And he knows what that means, knows because he’s kissed her skin enough to remember the taste.
They’re both fucked, when it comes to it.
But Bruce can’t bring himself to care.
