Who: Bruce & Talia (aka Miranda)
Where: Some fancy upscale Gotham restaurant.
When: Uhh fuzzy timelines say recently.
Warnings/Rating: Probably none?
[Bruce knew exactly who Miranda Tate really was. He knew what her true purpose in Gotham was, behind the facade she presented to the world, and he had no intention of permitting her to succeed: no more than he intended to allow her father to unleash his madness upon the city once more. In his world, he'd thwarted her plans. He could do so again. As much as he had come to despise this Gotham, to resent it, he was still bound to it. Each and every life was a responsibility, a burden he bore. As he'd told Selina, it was what kept him alive. It was what kept the clock in his head ticking just a little bit longer. No matter how hopeless or bleak the situation was, he had to try. He was built to try, to keep fighting, even if it was instinct and no real spirit behind it. A dead man going through the motions because he didn't know how else to be.
But this evening was not a fight. It was dinner. He wore one of his most expensive suits, and thanks to a bottle of hair dye the only traces of silver were at his temples, left for 'sophistication', and he had his chauffeur drive him to the restaurant of choice. He arrived first, and the maître d' nearly tripped over himself in order to properly accommodate Bruce Wayne. The best table in the establishment, the finest wine, and a team of waiters at his beck and call.
He found it tiresome, now, but he still remembered how to pretend, smiles and politeness as he waited for his guest.]