A FedEx parcel didn't change much. A post card shouldn't have either. But Tony knew that handwriting and he hadn't expected to ever see it again. He knew it from a stack of old letters, and Tony didn't keep many things – he wasn't sentimental. He had a photographic memory, so he didn't need to see them; he compared them to the post card anyway.

"Don't lose yourself."

The picture was of a bar with the name visible. The only other indication of origin was the word "Sicilia". There were hundreds of bars in Sicily. And the majority of them – small, old, family places – didn't have websites or ratings on Google. He was Tony Stark. He found it anyway. And then he sat there for four days in a row before the man who had brought him here joined him.

"I thought you were dead," Tony snarked.

"Did you?"

"The chances were 87% in favor."

"I sent you something."

"That could have been arranged in advance. Or Alfred could have sent it. And, can I

just mention: I no longer accept snail mail, effective immediately. I get weird messages."

Bruce Wayne smiled. "All right. It did its job." Looking down at the table, he noted the little can standing in front of Tony.

"I always loved the Italian Aranciata, too."

Tony huffed. "Thought I'd take a few pages out of your book and try sobriety. Not gonna go as far as pretending to be dead though. I don't have that luxury."

Bruce pursed his lips and nodded. Perhaps he was disappointed that he wasn't going to be joined by another billionaire superhero in exile. Tony wondered whether he was happy being away from the action.

"Ross is already gunning for me."

"No surprise there. Let's talk through your other options then."