thewhysarewise:

Jay’s mouth said friend. His eyes did not. Eddie doubted he had many—otherwise they would be present, especially if there was so much as a shred of truth to his next grandiose statement. He certainly couldn’t complain of uninteresting conversation He felt like he was trapped inside an hourglass, searching for the one illuminating grain of sand that would reveal just how much truth was in the concoction of Jay’s tale. But the sand kept raining down on his head, getting in his mouth and eyes—everything was distorted. Eddie’s eyes narrowed by a fraction, irritated because he didn’t disbelieve.

“That is quite an achievement,” he said carefully, lifting his glass to take a sip. 27 years of brewed gasoline was what he tasted, but not a trace of his  displeasure showed on his face. “How does one go about coming back from the dead—without a considerable amount of paper work? Though I suppose it is rather a hobby for Gotham’s wealthy.”

If Jay hadn’t been part of his company’s unsanctioned missions—if he had never seen a battle before, Eddie supposed he might as well walk off the nearest bridge because his deductive skills were slipping. He nodded, biding time more than offering courtesy.

"Me?” he drawled the word as harmlessly as he could, before flicking his eyes up to meet Jay’s iridescent ones. “I own half the patrons in here—and they’re all so…blissfully unaware of the fact.”

Eddie allowed the smallest of smiles to tug at his lips. Two could play at the game of vagueness.

“Let’s just call me an entrepreneur." 

Jay’s eyes twinkled, the humor of Eddie’s words not lost on him.

"Oh, you know. The heart stops, you get supposed brain death. They toe tag you, then you wake up in a body bag. The usual, right?”

Amusement crossed his face, then sadness. The thousand yard stare is back, aimed at nothing in particular.

“Oddly enough, they say I’m healthy as an ox now. No lasting effects, but…well, for some reason, the eyes changed. Nothing I could do about it. Kinda funny that way, you know? You never get to control the things that matter most to you.”

“Managed to stay alive after that, however. From Gulags to the plains of Africa to the alleys here at home, nothing else was as bad as that night.”

Why the hell was he talking so much? The challenge of knowing that this stranger was dangerously smart? The whiskey? Maybe, although Jay’s liver was nearly indestructible these days. Maybe it was the sentimentality of it being his dying day.

“A businessman. Good ol’ honest capitalism! Except, come on now Eddie. You’re not a frontman for any company. What are you, on a board? Shadow organization for a new world order? You’re far too well dressed to be insane, so I’d have to assume you’re well off-or very good at pretending.”

thewhysarewise:

“Sure,” he supplies as if the answer absolutely doesn’t matter. “If you like…”

The man was entirely too stable as the tipped glass hovered over the tumbler, especially when one considered his rather prolonged state of inebriation. There was limited-if any-swaying, he poured the drinks with precision, Eddie watched the ripples fill the glass. They barely trembled. He glanced at the bottle, now almost entirely emptied. Jay’s level of balance would take a control that was more than practiced, that was instinctual. A need to defend, to be sentient at all times, it was ingrained in him. Even by Gothamite standards it was excessive—it had to be bred. Childhood habits either shed themselves like snake skins against bark and stones, or clung on like an armor—eternal.

Eddie’s blood had been shaped into a consistent state of flight over fight—until he’d clawed it all out of his system. He had been a pitiful, frightened child…But this, this was not a man born out of fear—or at least, not fear cut of the same cloth as Eddie’s. This man had realized his power much earlier—and Eddie wondered why.

“So, Jay…Tell me, what is it you do?” he kept his tone polite but vaguely disinterested, people felt more obliged to reveal secrets when he pretended he had no interest in hearing them. “No offence…but this bar seems a tad…snooty for your tastes.”

“Snooty?” Jason snorted. “This is twenty-seven year old whiskey, Friend. Not just every bar has this stuff.”

But he was right. Men of Jason’s size and disposition didn’t normally associate with coked out Wall Street types, not in Gotham. There was a caste, a system of who-was and who-wasn’t. Jason was not in his assigned group.

“You’ve got a point, though. I’m here for an-oh, how do you say this. Fifteen years ago, I was murdered. I came back. It’s a celebration party.”

He cocked an eyebrow, waiting the shrewd man’s response. It wasn’t often that he told truths like this, but there were just so many variables to dying that he felt confident in his ambiguity. Plus, no one would believe the real story.

“I have a private security business. Army for hire, government contractors, the works. Cut my teeth in the East, mostly Mongolia and Russia. A little bit of Italy.”

He grinned, swirling his whiskey. 

“Man of many hats, Eddie. You?”