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malcyon · 3 years

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Dusk To Dawn

Summary: “Alright. You don’t need my help,” Jason says, voice significantly quieter than it was. He glances at Tim hesitantly. “But do you want it?”

*****

Tim didn't mean to meet the Waynes, it just happened.

Ch 1

Read on AO3

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Tim’s dress shoes are too small as he stands in front of his father, trying not to fidget as the man does his bowtie with sharp, efficient movements. Mrs. Drake sits by the vanity, fixing her lipstick and watching him from the corners of her eyes. He wants to say something about how the tips of his shoes are pinching his toes.

She closes her lipstick with a snap.

Tim stays quiet.

Mr. Drake finishes with the tie, taking a step back to inspect his work, and Tim’s mother raises an eyebrow in the mirror. “Are you finally ready, then?”

“Yes, I think so,” the man says, dusting off the shoulder of Tim’s brand new, too big tux. He fiddles with the long sleeves, trying to ignore the itchiness of the cloth against his skin. His father frowns. Tim stops.

He hates parties.

His mother stands, heels clicking like a metronome on the shiny hardwood floorboards as she walks towards him. Janet Drake isn’t a tall woman, but Tim still has to tilt his head up to look at her. She takes his bowtie in her slender hands, tightening it until it’s snug against his throat. Her perfume smells expensive and it fills his nose.

“It’s an important night, Timothy.” She smiles a perfect smile. “Make us proud.”

Tim nods and smiles back.

They go downstairs and get into the waiting car without saying another word to each other.

He knows it isn’t normal to have parents that come and go out of his life the way his do. That show up for a couple of days every few months before taking off on another plane to another city. That don’t know his shoe size. That weren’t home for his birthday for the past four years in a row.

But it doesn’t bother him. It doesn’t.

And it isn’t hard to play the life Tim’s parents have created for him. His classes are relatively easy, and even though he doesn’t have any close friends, he sits at a lunch table with a few of the other kids. He keeps his grades high, just enough to make the teachers like him. He never gets in trouble and never breaks the rules.

And when his parents pluck him up and shoo him to one of their many parties, he smiles and goes without complaint. He charms the old women, makes the men in their stuffy suits chuckle and remember him as a future networker. Plays the room until his head is dizzy from the champagne in the air and his parents whisk him back to bed, leaving in the morning before he can even wake up.

Timothy Jackson Drake is a perfect student, a perfect son.

But Tim isn’t.

He isn’t exactly sure when he started paying attention to Batman. It began innocently enough; noticing the headlines and the news stories, ears perking up when the masked man was mentioned on the radio. And the information just . . . stuck.

He started to track the known locations of criminal organizations on a map in his closet, signed up for computer programming classes at school to learn how to code (and, on his own, how to hack), and started to listen to kids who he knew had familial connections to gangs. But it isn’t anything serious, just something to do when he got bored. Or, it was.

Tim was two when his parents had taken him to the circus. He still has the picture from that evening on a shelf in his room, him sitting on the lap of an older boy wearing a colorful costume. That same boy would go on to perform the Quadruple Flip of Doom as the rest of the Graysons flew through the air around him, all their tricks done without a net.

They should have had a net.

He had nightmares about it for weeks. Gave the nanny a heart attack every night when he woke up screaming. The tragedy was seared into his soul, branded into his brain.

And maybe that’s why it was so easy to put the pieces together. To figure out Robin.

Richard John Grayson. Formerly an acrobat prodigy at Haly’s Circus, currently operating as Nightwing at the Teen Titans base in New York City. Adopted at eight years old by billionaire Bruce Wayne after the tragic performance that left his entire family dead.

Adopted by Batman.

The realization was like a slap to the face.

It was hard to believe at first, that the man Tim had seen fall into his own fountain could be the same man that punched criminals through windows and dressed up like a giant bat. But the longer he thought about it, the more it made sense.

There was more to Bruce Wayne than he initially thought, and Tim had to know more.

So he watched. Started sneaking out of the house at night and catching the late bus, not like there was anybody that could stop him, a backpack slung over his shoulder and a camera clutched in his hands. And by now, Tim is sure he knows the city better than most people who live in it.

He isn’t an idiot, stays well away from the East End and Crime Alley. He even keeps pepper spray in his bag and a small pocket knife within reach, even if he hasn’t had to use them yet. Most people don’t even notice him as he slips in and out of the subway and bus stops, a tiny ghost among the city’s dim lights. Despite that, Tim keeps to the shadows, has figured out how to blend in with the darkness that appears at street corners.

That particular talent has kept him out of trouble more than once.

It isn’t like he’s seen anything horrible, just glimpses of gang brawls here and there, the Bats attacking one of their Rogues. Not that he sticks around long enough to learn what happens in any of those situations, Tim prefers to not end up as another smear on the sidewalk, thanks.

But still, he can’t help but wish that he could do something. Fight back, somehow—the way Batman does.

He’s never gotten close enough to really watch the vigilante work; it’s hard enough to guess where the man’s going to pop up. But still, hours of monitoring social media sites, searching the depths of the GCPD’s public records, and simply listening to street talk has gotten him pretty far. Sure he doesn’t see Batman and Robin a lot, but he’s seen them far more than anybody else in Gotham.

There’s a pointed cough in front of him, and Tim straightens from his slouch, thrust back into the bitter reality that he isn’t going to be on Gotham’s streets tonight. His mother leans over from where she’s sitting next to his father, plucking a microscopic piece of lint off his shoulder. He tries not to flinch.

Four and a half hours. He just has to make it through the next four and a half hours.

His father says, without looking up from where he’s tapping on his phone, “There are going to be several people I want you to meet tonight, Tim. Future connections. So smile, be polite,—” his dark eyes flick to Tim, once—“and do not be an embarrassment.”

The words are cold and Tim wants to say something in return, but his voice sticks in his throat. Instead, he swallows, nods, and goes back to staring out the limousine window.

It’s not often that Wayne Manor itself is used to hold the city’s annual charity gala, and his parents had pounced on their invitation, ready to primp and preen under the spotlight. They had flown in from his father’s digsite only yesterday, barely spared him a glance as they chattered about who was going to be there and was worth talking too.

He doesn’t know how they do it, this act they put on. Parading him around, telling the other rich socialites how, “Oh, yes, Timmy’s at the top of his class; he’s just so clever for a boy his age,” as if they even bother to check his report cards. Still, he goes along, beaming with every lie that comes out of his mouth about his wonderful, perfect family.

It makes something curl up and wither in Tim’s ribs, playing this game. Rotting him from the inside and making his smiles more brittle with every gala.

He wonders if this should be how most kids feel when their parents come home, like their chest is about to shatter as if made of glass. Like they’re going to snap. Tim stares at his reflection in the car window.

Only four and a half hours.

*****

Dick is already regretting this decision, and he hasn’t even entered the house yet.

The glittering lights and press blend together as he strides through the Manor’s front doors, offering the photographers a bright grin as he goes past. Their cameras light up like fireworks in response.

He ignores the questions yelled out to him (“Mr. Grayson, what brings you back to Gotham?”, “What’s your relationship with the model, Kory Anders?” and the favorite, “What caused the fallout between you and Bruce Wayne?”). Just keeps walking despite the stares burning into his back. The attention is almost tangible as it weighs down on him, and while Dick doesn’t mind being in the limelight now and then, the scrutiny makes him feel like an insect under a microscope. He suppresses a grimace as one particular older woman leers as he goes by.

There’s a reason he’s never liked these things.

Dick doesn’t stand in the front parlor to soak up his old home’s warmth, forcing himself to keep moving with the other guests down the roped-off path that leads to the ballroom. He doesn’t look at the walls, either, doesn’t want to see if Bruce has kept any of his pictures up.

His steps are fast on the old floors, whispers following in his wake as he enters the gala. He ignores them.

The party isn’t anything special, just another one of Bruce’s charity fundraisers. Dick can already feel himself growing bored with the backdrop of expensive velvet dresses and smooth jazz playing in the corner. He scans the people around him as he strolls through the crowd, looking for Jason or at least a familiar face.

Hell, he’d even take Bruce.

He keeps his head down as he passes millionaires and models alike, praying that nobody will recognize him for several more minutes. It doesn’t work.

The first woman seems nice enough, with long, dark hair and a blush covering her cheeks. She reaches up and straightens the bowtie around his neck, a blue that Kory had picked out. She’d told him it ‘matched his eyes.’

But the woman in front of him only says, “Your father really shouldn’t have let you out without fixing this first.” He smiles on reflex, but his stomach turns cold, and her words ring in his ears as several other party-goers quickly approach. Your father.

Their compliments and questions overlap and their faces meld together as Dick stares over their heads at the far wall.

Your father.

The first woman tugs lightly at his arm and he blinks, grinning to let her know everything is perfectly fine. She doesn’t look convinced.

He almost jumps when he feels a hand clasp his shoulder. Dick glances backward, relaxing as he realizes it’s only Alfred. The butler frowns, pulling him away from the small crowd that had gathered.

“I wasn’t aware that you would be making an appearance tonight, Master Richard.”

He shrugs and avoids the older man’s gaze. “It was a last-minute decision; Jason persuaded me.”

Begged was more like it. Alfred raises an eyebrow. “And Master Bruce’s invitation had nothing to do with it?”

Dick shrugs again. The expensive paper had stared at him from his nightstand the past week, a hesitant peace offering he’d received in the mail, one that he wasn’t sure he wanted to accept. At least, until Roy had practically kicked him out of the Tower, telling him to go sort out his daddy issues.

Dick had nearly pointed out how hypocritical that statement was but decided that being petty wasn’t worth getting shot with an arrow.

Alfred says nothing in response and only gives him a quiet smile. Dick returns it and lets the butler guide him in the direction of the desserts. No matter the problems he and Bruce have, Dick won’t bring Alfred into them. After all he’s done, trying to keep their broken family together, the man doesn’t deserve it.

As they pass tables laden with food, Alfred subtly nudges him in the direction of one of the columns in the room’s corner. Jason stands behind it, furiously tapping something out on his phone, and carefully hiding from prying eyes. Dick flashes the butler a grateful look and hurries over, trying not to grab anyone’s attention as he takes cover behind the pillar.

Jason glances up at his sudden entrance and his face splits into a blinding grin. “Holy fuck, you actually came.” Dick beams back and wraps his little brother up in a one-armed hug before ruffling his hair.

Jason grumbles and ducks out of the embrace, face scrunched in embarrassment, and Dick’s smile becomes a bit more real. Settling next to Jason, he says. “Course I came, wasn’t going to miss out on a chance for free food.” He gestures to the phone in Jason’s grip. “What’s that all about?”

Shoving his phone into his pocket, Jason mutters under his breath, “Just some bullshit.” Dick nods, words swirling around his mouth as he tries to figure out how to respond to that. He takes a stab in the dark.

“Girls?” Jason gives him a glare, and Dick flounders, tries again. “. . . Boys?”

Jason chokes, turning an interesting shade of red, “Jesus, no, no, I . . . Rena’s trying to get back together.”

“That girl in your social studies class? I thought you were still dating,” Dick says, tilting his head in question. A small part of him withers with his lapse in knowledge; when was the last time he had talked to Jason? Actually talked to him.

He knows that some of the other Titans worry about his little brother: Donna mothers him constantly, and Gar always tries to coax him out of his shell. And it’s helped, sure, but a small voice in Dick’s head whispers that Jason will look over his shoulder for the rest of his life. That no matter how much he trusts them, he’ll always be waiting to get stabbed in the back.

And that . . . that makes something deep inside Dick curl up and hurt. And the worst part is that some of Jason’s struggle is because of him.

Dick isn’t blind; he knows the comparisons people make between him and his adopted brother. He sees the wince Jason hides behind his smiles when they talk about ‘the new Robin.’ Forget the fact that Jason has held the title for years now; he’s always the one being dissected with every move, always in Dick’s shadow.

Not that he was always there for Jason either; Dick can own up to the fact that he was a petty asshole the first few months Jason had been taken in. A mixture of hurt, jealousy, and anger made it hard to even look the kid in the eye, knowing that whatever Dick had been as Robin, he hadn’t been good enough for Bruce. That his adopted father had decided to try again with someone new.

It took him too long to pull his head out of his ass. To personally give the kid his blessing and officially hand down the costume. Why the hell Jason even talks to Dick is beyond him considering how much of a jerk he’d been. He’s been trying to own up to it, stealing time for his brother when he could. Maybe that was why he came to the party and—God, he doesn’t want to think about that. That coming here tonight was just out of some messed up guilt for Jason’s sake.

He focuses back on Jason’s sour expression. Girl problems, he can do that. Maybe even give some advice. Isn’t that what older brothers are supposed to do? Give advice?

Dick raises an eyebrow and Jason shrugs, scuffing the floor with a polished shoe. He tries a grin, “Well, if you need any help, I’m only a phone call away.” Jason snorts.

“I think I’ll go to Barbara first, thanks,” he says, then freezes as the words catch up to him.

The air around them chills. Dick looks down.

Jason is the first to break the silence. “How . . . is she?”

He shrugs, ignoring the tight fists his hands have become. “ . . . Adjusting.” Jason nods, eyes flicking through the area around them, and Dick can suddenly see Robin doing the same thing on Gotham’s streets.

“Wanna talk someplace quieter?”

Dick forces a smile that he knows is too sharp. “Lead the way.”

Jason stares at him for a second, and Dick catches something fleeting and sad in his eyes before he turns away. They stay silent as they weave through the room, ducking and avoiding the attempts at conversation thrown at them.

Dick runs a hand through his hair, tries to focus on the back of Jason’s suit as they enter the areas of the house that were off-limits to guests. Distantly he realizes that Jason is leading him to the library, the one right next to Bruce’s study. He glances up at a picture frame as he passes by and openly winces at seeing his own, younger grin behind the glass.

He should have stayed home.

As soon as they enter the room, Jason shuts the door behind them before leaning against it to take a breath. Dick can’t blame him; parties were one of the worst parts about getting involved with Bruce Wayne.

Silence settles between them, and Dick bitterly watches the dust that floats through the air. Jason glances at him. “Seriously. How’s Barbie?”

Dick laughs, harsh and quiet. “Well, she’s lost all feeling in half of her body, so I’m pretty sure she’s not that great, Jason.” The other boy flinches, and Dick screws his eyes shut, rubbing his temples. Fuck, he’s not good at this. “Sorry, I’m . . . that was a shitty thing to say.”

He lets his head fall back against a bookshelf behind him, and Jason shrugs, but Dick can still see the hurt in his eyes. “It’s fine. I know you get tense when you’re around here.”

“Shouldn’t have said it, though.” Jason shrugs again. Dick takes a breath. “Babs is . . . upset.”

“No fucking shit.”

Dick actually snorts at that, stares at the ceiling. “God, it feels like everything is falling apart, you know? Including the Titans, I mean, Garth won’t talk to anybody about Tula, Roy is spending less and less time with the team, and he won’t fucking say why. Wally is literally running himself to death trying to live Barry’s life and–”

He stops, looks at Jason’s bewildered face, then presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. Makes a note to not unload this bullshit on the kid. Jason has his own problems, he doesn’t need Dick’s too. “Shit, I’m rambling, sorry. It’s just that I usually talk to Kory about this stuff, but we’ve been arguing lately.”

“I thought you guys were cool?”

“We are, this is the first time we’ve fought like this and—” He shakes his head—“Come on, aren’t I supposed to be giving you relationship advice?” The younger boy rubs his foot against the ground again.

“Maybe you should talk to her anyway,” Jason says carefully. Dick raises an eyebrow and he quickly continues, “I mean. . . Kory will always be there to listen and she probably wants to listen even if you’re fighting. You just gotta talk.”

Dick looks away and closes his eyes. “Yeah, maybe.” He frowns, forces his thoughts away from Kory and their differences and a million other things. “Speaking of talking, how are you holding up with B?”

Jason hesitates and opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but a thump followed by laughter echoes from behind one of the walls, makes him pause.

The door connecting Bruce’s study and the library suddenly swings open, and Bruce stumbles out, a giggling blonde latched onto his arm. Jason curses under his breath and Dick straightens up, jaw tensing.

Bruce freezes in the doorway with the woman still laughing into his neck. His gaze darts between them, the shock on his face snapping into a drunk smile. “Delphine, I believe we may have some company.”

The lady blinks up, looking over at Dick and Jason in surprise then back to Bruce with a bemused expression. “You need to talk with your children, yes?” she asks in a heavy French accent. Dick’s stomach lurches in a slow roll, and he forces himself not to look away from where Bruce’s gaze narrows at him.

He knows she doesn’t see the tightening of Bruce’s smile when he answers, “Yes, I’ll meet you in the ballroom. Save me a dance?”

She presses a red kiss to his cheek. “Of course, mon chéri.” The woman turns from Bruce, and Dick opens the door for her as she whisks past with a playful, “Merci.”

He nods his head and locks the door behind her, the metal knob chilling against his palm. Steeling himself, he turns back around.

Anything left of Brucie’s drunken facade is gone, and the man in front of him appraises Dick with familiar calculation. Dick can see Jason resting against the book-covered wall next to him from the corner of his eye, trying to appear relaxed but not quite pulling it off. Several tense seconds pass, marked only by the ticking clock above the dark fireplace.

Bruce looks him over. “Dick. I wasn’t expecting you.”

Dick stiffens, the words he wasn’t even going to say stilling on his tongue. “Wasn’t expecting me? You . . . You sent me an invitation, Bruce.”

The man blinks, looks between him and Jason slowly.

“I didn’t send you an invitation,” Bruce says, confusion barely marking his voice.

Something inside Dick goes very, very cold. Of course, he didn’t. Stupid, stupid, stupid, it must have been Alfred, or maybe his name had gotten mixed in with the invites somehow. It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t fucking matter.

He glances over at Jason, who seems just as taken back, eye flicking between him and their adopted father like he’s watching a flaming tennis match. Dick bites his lip and tries not to squirm under Bruce’s stare as he scrambles for words.

“Oh. Well, I . . . I guess there’s no reason for me to stay, then. I can be gone in ten minutes.” He reaches back to open the door, and the handle jiggles in place. Fuck, he’d locked it, right. He fumbles, manages to get it open even though his hand is stiff and clumsy. “Just got to call a cab. Tell Lucius and Leslie I said hello.”

Shit, shit, shit, he needs to run. Has to get out of this house. Heat is crawling up the back of his neck, horrible and burning and he needs to leave.

Jason starts desperately, “Dick, you don’t have to—”

But he’s already gone.

His steps are clipped and fast on the wood floor, heart thumping in his ears. He feels sick; hot and cold all at once, and, God, he never should have left New York. Fuck.

He doesn’t know why he thought it’d be different this time. Doesn’t know what he even expected by coming here tonight. An apology, maybe? But Bruce doesn’t do apologies, never has, probably never will. He should have known better.

Dick doesn’t even register the footsteps behind him until a large hand is on his shoulder and turning him around.

It’s Bruce. Face pinched and awkward and looking like he would rather be anywhere else, but it’s Bruce.

“I—No, no, don’t leave. I didn’t mean it like that, Dick.” His voice is cautious, gaze less intense than it was several seconds ago. “Stay, Alfred can make some tea. He’s missed you, I’ve— . . . We all have.”

Dick stares at him, brain scratching like a broken record. He can make out Jason peeking at them from behind the library door, expression hopeful. The younger boy locks eyes with him and nods meaningfully.

He shifts uneasily, looking back at his former mentor and noticing the red stains on Bruce’s cheek. “Don’t you have a dance with Delphine? And a party to attend?”

Bruce almost snorts but not quite. “I’m sure she’ll understand. And I host several parties every year that raise millions of dollars to keep this city running. Who gives a flying shit if I miss this one?”

Dick laughs, choked and a bit wet, and Jason makes an admonished noise from where he’d quietly joined them. “Why do you get to curse and I don’t? That’s total bullshit.”

Bruce deadpans, “And that’s a quarter in the swear jar. At this point, I might as well just put your allowance in there instead of giving it to the middleman.” Jason grumbles and lightly shoves at Bruce’s side. The man smiles at that and gives Dick’s shoulder an awkward squeeze. “You two can wait in the library while I hunt down Alfred for tea. I’ll be back.”

Dick manages a nod, head swimming with twenty different things he wants to say and not knowing how to begin. In the end, he doesn’t say anything at all and just watches as Bruce’s form retreats down the hallway. He looks back at Jason, who’s grinning from ear to ear.

Carefully, Dick lets himself smile back.

*****

It’s not even eleven yet, and Tim is already exhausted. As soon as they arrived, his parents were practically shoving him into the laps of old, rich ladies and men alike. The kind of people who would humor a small boy who gushes about his father, saying ‘how he wants to be just like him when he grows up.’ And when Jack Drake eventually comes up behind him, smiling cheerfully as he talks his way into these peoples’ money and minds, Tim looks away.

He’s used to feeling like a means to an end, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Still, he goes when his father prods him in his mother’s direction. She’s talking to a group of younger women who are wearing jewels as big as his fist. He quietly moves to her side, knowing the game by heart at this point.

On cue, right after Janet Drake makes a particularly witty comment that sends the other women into laughter, she lays a hand on Tim’s shoulder and pulls him to the front. It’s a matter of minutes before he has the ladies wrapped around his finger while his mother watches like a hawk right behind him. There’s no room for mistakes tonight.

Eventually, she nudges him back to his father. And Tim goes.

This is how these nights always play out, moving from group to group. Gathering possible investors and shyly introducing them to his parents. It’s not difficult, if anything it’s mind-numbing, repeating the same conversations over and over like they’re an everyday routine.

So Tim can forgive himself for zoning out for the first couple of hours. It’s not until he’s standing near the refreshments table, after sneaking away to grab some water, that he actually starts paying attention again.

To be fair, that could be because he’d just turned around and walked face-first into a wall of something hard.

Tim yelps, stumbling back, thankfully not into another person, and looks up at the man wearing a now soaked suit. The floor underneath Tim falls away as Bruce Wayne stares back.

Batman. Tim just ran into and spilled his drink all over Batman.

He can practically see the Bat in the seams of Wayne’s dripping, black tux. In the sharp cut of his jaw and brow. His hair is pushed back from his face, which is clean-shaven and a bit tired around the eyes. Tim clambers for an apology, refusing to let the words get stuck in his throat. But all he can think about is how he watched Batman take a bullet to the chest five nights ago during a gang shootout. He does his best not to stammer.

“Mr. Wayne! I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—” Wayne holds up a palm. Tim’s mouth goes dry, and he has to tuck his hands behind his back so the man won’t see how they’re shaking. The handle from his empty water glass is cold against his fingers. Bruce Wayne considers him, then shrugs.

“It’s fine. This is why I have a butler. And please don’t call me Mr. Wayne; it makes me sound old. Just Bruce will do.”

Tim blinks.

“You have a specific butler for when people spill stuff on you?”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitches. “No, just one butler that does general butler things. Actually, I’m looking for him at the moment, have you seen him?”

“I—uh, no?”

Bruce sighs, “Damn. I was hoping he could keep my CEO off of my back for the night. Or help me make tea. I’m not sure which one is more important.”

Tim scratches the back of his neck. He hadn’t mentally prepared to talk to Batman tonight. This wasn’t a great first impression. “What’s he look like?”

“Who? My butler or my CEO?” Bruce has to tilt his head down to make eye contact with him.

“Your butler, not your CEO. Though you probably shouldn’t avoid your CEO, that sounds like business mismanagement.” Tim says and then nearly claps a hand over his mouth. Questioning the host at their own party is probably terrible etiquette; his mother would be mortified.

The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitches again. “Not business mismanagement. Lucius just likes to criticize my life choices. You’re the Drakes’ son, aren’t you?”

“Timothy.” He instinctively holds out his hand for a shake. Bruce looks at him for a second before engulfing Tim’s hand with his own. The calluses on his palm are hard to miss, and Tim can’t help but wonder how Bruce explains them.

“Timothy Drake, huh?” Their hands drop, and both corners of Bruce’s mouth are pointed up now. Tim quickly backtracks.

“Yeah, but you can call me Tim. You know. If you want.” Bruce considers him again.

“Alright, Tim. What do you know about tea?”

*****

“Are you sure that’s the right amount?”

“That’s what the box says.”

“The box is wrong.”

“I’m starting to understand why your CEO criticizes your life choices.”

“You’re twelve; you’re not supposed to understand life choices yet.”

“I’m thirteen.”

“You sure?”

“ . . . Yes?”

Bruce squints down at him and looks back at the teapot on the stove. “To be honest, all children under the age of twenty-one look the same to me.”

Tim frowns from where he’s sitting on the kitchen island’s countertop. He ignores the pounding in his brain that keeps reminding him that he’s sitting in Batman’s kitchen because if he focuses on that, he might start hyperventilating. It’s a very nice kitchen, to be fair. It’s warm with yellow walls and a wooden floor. Not very Batman-like, though.

Tim starts to swing his legs back and forth. “I thought you’re an adult when you turn eighteen.”

Bruce doesn’t look away from the teapot. “Legally, yes. Ethically, no.”

“So . . . when do you ethically become an adult?”

“Thirty-five.”

Tim stares hard at the back of Bruce’s neck. He can’t tell if the man is making fun of him at this point or not. “How old are you?” Tim already knows the answer, but he waits patiently.

Bruce thinks for several seconds too long. “Thirty-three.”

“And you consider yourself to be an adult? That’s kind of hypocritical.”

“I never said I considered myself to be an adult. Lucius and Alfred would find it hilarious if I called myself an adult.”

“Alfred?” Tim asks innocently.

“My butler I told you about earlier. The one who was supposed to be helping me with this.”

“Oh . . . Why aren’t you looking for him right now, then?” Why ask me to help instead? Tim doesn’t know the answer to this question. He tries not to scoot to the edge of his seat.

Bruce shrugs and looks over a shoulder at him. “I asked if you knew how to make tea, and you said yes. Also, you’re probably the best conversationalist I’ve talked to all night. Is there any way to make this heat up faster?”

Tim struggles to hide his beaming smile from the compliment. “It’s already turned up as high as it can go.”

“Don’t know why you didn’t let me microwave it.”

“That’s not the right way to make tea.”

“There are only so many ways to boil water. It would have been faster.”

“You had a spoon stuck in there with it. It could have caught on fire.”

“Well, then I could call the fire department and get rid of all the drunk people in my house.”

“It’s a good thing you have a butler. I don’t think you can take care of yourself all alone.”

Bruce looks offended. “I am an adult, Tim. ” Tim stops kicking his feet and grins. Bruce closes his eyes. “And now I’m a hypocrite.”

“Really good thing you have a butler.”

The water starts to boil, and the tea kettle squeals. Tim slips down from the counter and straightens up the teacups waiting on the prepared tray. Bruce carefully pours the water into the teapot before adding the tea. Tim tries not to compare the movement to Batman combining chemicals.

Bruce glances at him. “Your parents, they’re not looking for you, are they?”

Tim stills. “They’re not. They’re . . . busy.”

Last he’d seen, before ducking out of the ballroom with Bruce, was his mother engrossed in a business conversation and his father drinking from a nearly overflowing champagne glass. Bruce stills and studies him for a second. In turn, Tim picks up a teacup and meticulously stares at the delicate flower painting on its side.

Bruce looks away. “Well, then. I suppose you wouldn’t mind joining my family and me for tea, would you?”

Tim nearly drops the cup. “Me? ”

“You. Grab the sugar off the counter, please.”

Tim does as he’s told automatically and sets it on the tray. Bruce picks it up. “Um, you sure? I don’t want to intrude or anything.” Or embarrass himself, Tim kind of feels like passing out right now.

“They’ll like you, don’t worry. Besides, my eldest is visiting, and I need someone to fill in the awkward silence.”

Tim’s stomach swoops. Dick Grayson. He’s going to talk to Dick Grayson. Nightwing. And Robin. Jason will be there too, won’t he? He leans heavily against the counter when Bruce turns and starts to walk out of the room.

Tim takes a slow breath and follows him.

He tries not to openly gawk as Bruce leads him through the halls, especially now that he’s already walked through them once. But it’s hard not to; Tim’s wanted to explore Wayne Manor since he figured out the Bat’s identity ages ago.

One of the paintings on the wall catches his eye. “Is that a Renoir?”

Bruce glances back at him, both brows raised. “It is. You’re a fan?”

“My parents have me read Art World Today. They like to keep me up to date for conversations and stuff,” Tim mutters as he stares up at the artwork. He pretends he doesn’t see the look that enters Bruce’s eyes.

“Your parents seem like they—”

“Brucie!” They both turn around to find an extremely drunk woman teetering down the hallway towards them. Bruce curses too low for Tim to hear.

“Can you take this?” He asks in a voice Tim hasn’t heard before, something cheerful and almost fake, before quickly handing the tray to Tim. Bruce barely manages to catch the woman when she stumbles heavily into his arms. “Delphine, you seem to be having much more fun than when I last saw you.”

She giggles into his shoulder, and Tim pointedly examines an Erte statue across the hall while Bruce tries to straighten her up. “I met the most charming man, Bruce. Jack Drake? We had a contest to see who could drink the most champagne.” She smiles wide and dazed. “I won. Évidemment. Oh! But then he told me all about his business and—”

Bruce must say something in return, but Tim can’t hear it over the rush of blood in his ears; the pounding in his brain as his grip on the platter turns white. Getting women drunk to turn them into investors.

It doesn’t even surprise him.

His eyes burn into the painting in front of them, because he can’t look at Bruce. Can’t see his face when the man realizes he has a Drake by his side. Tim’s head feels hot and dizzy; he trembles a little bit.

So maybe that’s why when Bruce touches his shoulder, Tim nearly jumps out of his skin. The teacups clatter, but nothing spills. The result of honing his reflexes on Gotham’s streets, Tim’s sure. He swallows and forces himself to meet Bruce’s gaze.

Whatever he’s expecting isn’t there. Bruce just looks troubled, with something sad at the corners of his eyes. Tim looks away first. The awkwardness is broken only by Delphine’s mutterings in French as she continues to cling to Bruce’s side.

Bruce clears his throat.

“I think . . .” Tim winces, and he stares down at his too-tight shoes, cheeks burning. Bruce pauses and almost seems to reconsider something. “I think you’ll have to meet the rest of my family alone. I’m so sorry, Tim, but—” the lady sways again, nearly falling face-first onto the carpet— “Delphine needs to lie down somewhere. You can find the boys in the library; just keep going down this hall until you get to my study, the last door on the right. It leads to where they are.”

He carefully leans forward, pulling from one pocket a small key. Placing it on the tray and giving Tim a cheerful grin that’s more Brucie than Bruce, but still kind in a way, he says, “Here, this should let you in. And if either one of them gets too annoying: feel free to pour tea on them.” He gives Tim a wink and tucks Delphine under his arm before whisking her down the hall and quickly out of sight.

Tim blinks down at the tray and then up at the painting across from him. He allows himself five full seconds to freak out.

Feeling slightly ill, he finally forces his feet to move through the hallway, his small steps echoing in the empty space. He tries not to notice the clinking of the teacups as the tray in his hands shakes. Meeting the Waynes was not supposed to happen tonight.

Last door on the right, last door on the right, last door on the right . . .

He hesitates when he gets there, cautiously takes the key Bruce gave him, and places it into the lock. The hinges swing without a sound, showing a polished study and a Persian rug. He takes a breath and enters. The door clicks shut slowly behind him.

The library entrance is at the back of the room and it’s far more intimidating than it has any right to be. As he walks towards it, something catches the corner of his eye.

A grandfather clock. Old, tall, and quietly ticking away as Tim pauses in front of it. He stares, something deep inside him saying that he should take a closer look. He’s barely moved forward when raised voices suddenly come from behind the library door, startling him. Tim steps back.

Shooting the clock a final glance, Tim focuses back on the task at hand and reluctantly turns away. Cautiously, he nears the closed entrance that muffles unintelligible yelling. He inhales shakily and raises his fist, knocking softly on the wood.

He almost drops the tray when the door is slammed open.

“Bruce! Tell Dick his argument against Hamlet is completely wrong and—Oh.”

A boy stands in the doorway.

Fifteen years old, expensive tux, black hair, and eyes with too much green to be a true blue. Eyes that scan Tim up and down like he’s figuring out every single secret Tim’s hidden away in the back of his mind and examining them one by one. And all Tim can think about is how he once saw Robin take down five crooks before leaping out of a sixty-fourth-floor window, how Robin could end him in the blink of an eye.

Jason Todd raises a brow.

“You lost, kid?” Tim opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, so he shakes his head instead. Jason looks down at the tray in his hands. “ . . . Did Bruce kidnap you and have you make tea or something like that?”

“Something like that,” Tim says, managing to not trip over his words.

Jason blinks, glances him over once again. A horrified, blank expression crosses his face before he half turns and says, “We left B alone for five minutes, and he already got a new kid!”

There’s a strangled yell of, “What?” then the sound of stumbling footsteps as another boy appears in the door. Tim’s knees go weak.

Eighteen with a messy blue bowtie that’s the same shade as his wide eyes. The same shade as the Nightwing suit, too. Tim remembers the first and last time he went to the circus, remembers the photograph he still has.

Dick Grayson stares at him in shock.

“Oh my God. He did.”

Jason looks up at the ceiling in exasperation. “Do you think he just wanders around and collects the first lonely dark-haired child he sees? Is it just a thing he does?”

Dick shrugs, his gaze still locked on Tim. “Once is a mistake. Twice is a pattern.” He points a finger at the youngest boy. “Three times is a habit.” He glances at Jason with a frown. “Think we should stage an intervention?”

“Maybe,” Jason mutters, eyes narrowing. Dick hums and notices the tray in Tim’s hands with delight.

“Hey, he brought tea!” Dick bends forward, gently taking the platter out of Tim’s nearly quivering hands. He smiles down at him. “What’s your name?”

Tim swallows past his dry throat and channels years of socialite skills into not seeming like a complete idiot. “Tim Drake. Mr. Way—Bruce told me to come here? He got caught up with some lady, though. Delphine, I think?”

The two older boys share a look. Dick rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s not surprising.” He nudges Jason out of the doorway and beckons Tim inside. “Come on; you can help me remind Jason that Romeo and Juliet is way better than some play about a depressed prince.”

“Romeo and Juliet is nowhere near Hamlet, and you know it,” Jason mutters, but shoots Tim a friendly grin as Dick sets the tea tray down on a coffee table.

“If you read the whole thing as a satire about teenage stupidity and dumb love, then it’s hilarious,” Dick fires back and glances over at where Tim has barely entered through the doorway. “Right, Timmy?”

Tim shuffles his feet, not used to this kind of attention. “Um, I’ve only read Macbeth, and that was for school so . . . sure? I don’t know; Shakespeare always seemed kind of overrated to me.”

Both boys freeze.

Jason makes some sort of offended sound. “Oh my God, don’t ever let Alfred hear you say that.”

Flushing, Tim hurriedly continues, “I just prefer novels over plays, you know? Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie, that kind of stuff.”

“Mysteries? Jesus, no wonder Bruce kidnapped you. He used to read Sherlock Holmes to me before bed when I was a kid.” Dick mutters with a shake of his head.

“Huh, I got Jane Austen,” Jason off-handedly adds as he moves to grab a teacup, not putting anything in the drink. Dick takes two spoonfuls of sugar in his. He looks up and sees that Tim still hasn’t moved away from the door. He smiles gently.

“Hey, we don’t bite.” Dick sets another cup down on the table before sitting back on the plush couch. Tim hesitates, his mind screaming out useless facts his mother had told him about etiquette and manners that he’s quickly learning won’t apply to the Waynes at all, and gingerly moves into the room.

He picks up the teacup and carefully takes a place in the chair next to the sofa. Dick beams at him like he’d just found the solution to world peace, and Jason shoots him another half-smirk-half-grin while he moves over to the empty fireplace.

“So, Tim,” Dick starts while Jason tosses several pieces of wood into the grate, “the Drakes, huh? Don’t you live down the road?”

He nods, relaxing his fingers’ grip on the cup’s handle. “Yeah, about fifteen minutes away, I think.”

Jason glances back at him from where he’d successfully lit a fire, gaze curious. The light flickers warmly over the floor and Tim lets himself sink into the chair just a bit. “Really? Don’t hear from you guys that much; most of our neighbors are always asking about the next party and whatnot.”

“Oh, well, my parents aren’t usually in the country for most of the year,” Tim says, taking a sip of his tea before wrinkling his nose. Too bitter.

Dick pauses from where he’s lifting the cup to his lips, and Jason stops adding logs to the growing flames. They share a glance over Tim’s head. “Really?” Dick asks, continuing with his sip of tea. “I’m guessing they’re pretty busy, then. With running a company and all.”

Jason stands and moves back towards them, taking a seat in the chair opposite of Tim. “Yeah, isn’t your dad some kind of archaeologist, too? He sponsors a lot of stuff at the Natural History Museum downtown.” Dick pauses, both brows raised at his younger brother, and Jason shrugs defensively. “What? I paid attention during a school trip.”

Tim distractedly adds several spoonfuls of sugar to his tea. “Yeah, he’s usually flying from digsite to digsite most of the year. And my mom spends her summertime in London or Paris, and winter in the Caribbean, so he’s always visiting her. Plus, they have to travel for business all the time, and every month they go—” He freezes upon looking up from where he’d been stirring his drink. Jason and Dick are staring at him, looking as if they’d just been forced to swallow a very bitter pill. Tim hurriedly adds, “It’s okay! I’m—I’m busy with school anyway, so it’s fine.”

Dick sets his cup down with a gentle clink that makes Tim wince. “It doesn’t really seem . . . awesome, Tim.”

It takes everything within him to maintain eye contact and not stare down at the rug underneath his feet. “It’s fine.”

Jason leans forward, elbows on his knees, his eyebrows furrowed together to make a little crease between them. “You’re not . . . alone, right? You seem pretty responsible, but it’s not just you—”

“We have a housekeeper,” Tim tells him, voice clipped. He tries not to think about how he doesn't even remember the last time he saw her. “And I’m at school most of the day.”

“Boarding?” Dick asks.

“Usually, it would be. But it’s only a few minutes away by bike, so why pay to stay there when I could just come home?” Tim keeps his tone even. His grip on the teacup is tightening.

“It just . . . sounds a little lonely, that’s all. I got bored all the time when I was your age, and that was with Bruce and Alfred around to keep me company,” Dick quickly adds, soothing Tim’s raising defenses. The last thing he needs is the Bats getting nosy about his home life. Or rather, absence of one.

Tim shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

The brothers share another look, too fast for him to know what it means, and Jason tilts his head in a way that strangely reminds Tim of when his father would strike a business deal. “Hey, I know we just met, but, uh. . . You could come over here sometimes, if you want.”

Tim’s eyes widen, and his brain almost shuts down as he tries to make sense of what Jason just said. After several confused seconds, he manages to choke out, “What?”

“You know, if you ever need anything,” Dick swiftly continues, gaze steady and far too kind. “Like help with homework, stuff with school, or uh . . .” He glances at his brother. “Advice for girl problems?”

“You need advice for girl problems,” Jason mutters back. Dick kicks at him but looks over at Tim meaningfully.

“I’m living in New York right now, but I know you’d be welcomed here anytime.”

Jason nods in agreement. “Seriously, feel free to drop by. Bruce has already kinda adopted you, and I need Alfred to change your opinion on Shakespeare, so come over sometime, yeah?”

Tim stares at them, throat strangely tight. He hesitates. “I—”

The library door swings open, and Bruce walks in. Tim straightens up immediately, and from his peripheral vision, he can see Dick and Jason do the same. They all stare at each other for a moment. Bruce speaks first. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

Jason shrugs. “Nothing we can’t continue later, B. How’s Delphine?”

“Sent her home with her friends just a few moments ago. She’ll be fine except for one hell of a hangover in the morning.”

Jason hmms and takes a sip of his tea. “You still have lipstick on your collar, by the way.”

Bruce glances down and curses, rubbing at the stain with his thumb. Dick snickers and Tim doesn’t even try to hide his shaky smile. With a sigh of defeat, Bruce glances over and meets Tim’s gaze with an amused expression. “Try not to embarrass me in front of our guest, if you can help it, Jay.”

“Sorry to break it to you, Dad, but you’re capable of doing that all by yourself,” Jason shoots back, amused.

Tim nearly misses the bitter look that crosses Dick’s face, and it’s gone before he can figure it out. His eyes flick to Bruce, who almost seems frozen in the firelight, a warm expression melting over his features as he stares at his youngest son. Jason takes another sip of his tea, his gaze resting on the fireplace and not focused on the two older men.

Tim glances between them and shifts in the strange atmosphere. The sound of the ticking clock is the only thing breaking the quiet.

He looks at his drink.

A different voice ends the silence. “Master Bruce, young Mr. Drake’s mother is asking for him. I believe he will be leaving for the night.” Tim glimpses at the open door. A tall, thin man stands there; his arms folded neatly behind his back. Tim doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone so British before in his life.

Alfred Pennyworth. Tim subconsciously straightens his suit, hoping the man won’t notice its wrinkles.

His eyes rest on Tim for a second, brows raising for half a second before his expression reverts into unreadable neutrality. Still, Alfred offers him a small smile that Tim quietly returns. Then another figure enters the doorway and Tim’s stomach freezes.

His mother stares down at him. Her lips curl upwards, all picture-perfect and white teeth. “Mr. Wayne, I’m terribly sorry for any distraction my son has caused tonight.” She holds out a polished hand. “Come along, Timothy, it’s late.” He makes himself look at her face.

Her blue eyes are ice cold. Furious.

His feet feel like lead when he stands, but his hands are still as Tim places his now-cool tea on the coffee table. He meets Jason’s gaze as he moves away from them. There’s something quiet and worried in his eyes, and Tim turns his back on both the older boy and the warmth of the firelight.

He isn’t expecting it when Dick moves with him, though, smoothly walking over and coming close enough to put a firm hand on his shoulder.

“He wasn’t a bother at all, Mrs. Drake,” Dick says, and apparently Tim isn’t the only one who’s learned how to play the smiling socialite. The man even shoots his mother a playful wink as he continues, “If anything, we should be apologizing for keeping him, just lost track of time.”

His mother narrows her eyes at Dick, glares down at Tim, and then settles back on Bruce. “It’s no matter; actually, I’ll have to thank you for making sure my son stayed out of trouble.” Tim slips out of Dick’s comforting grasp and moves silently to stand by her side. She reaches over and takes him by the arm, polished, red nails digging into his skin. Dick’s smile fades. “He tends to find it quite easily.”

Dick doesn’t even blink, only looks her up and down in a way that’s too cold to be mistaken for flattery. “Some might call that curiosity.”

“And polite company would call it meddlesome,” she clips back, words barbed. Dick stiffens, and his hands clenching, and Tim can see the tension in his jaw even from where he’s standing. He grinds his teeth and looks away from his mother.

He isn’t deaf and is well aware of what plenty of people really think of Wayne’s adopted sons. Two charity cases drudged up from the bottom of Gotham’s classes: street rats. He didn’t think his mother would sink to that level, though. Tim risks a glance at where Jason is still sitting.

The other boy is frozen in his chair, tea forgotten. His teal eyes glare daggers into Mrs. Drake, and Tim knows Jason must be biting his tongue to keep his insults to himself. Dick opens his mouth to reply, probably with something just as scathing, but Bruce steps in front of him with a tight smile.“Mrs. Drake, as you said, it’s getting late. Would you let me escort you to your car?”

Dick steps away, gaze bitterly burning into the back of his adopted father’s head, but he whips around to face Jason, and Tim can no longer see his expression. His mother exhales pointedly.

“No need, Mr. Wayne. You seem to have your hands plenty full here, and I’m perfectly capable of finding the way back myself, thank you.”

She tugs sharply on Tim’s arm, and he desperately looks at them, not sure what to say. Dick and Jason both stare back, brows furrowed, and he sees Bruce take a step forwards only to hesitate. He can feel Alfred watching him from the side. Tim swallows past his dry mouth, his mother pulls again at his sleeve, and he quickly gets out, “Thanks for the tea.”

“Oh, come along, Timothy,” she snaps.

And then Tim’s being marched down the hallway, trying to keep pace with Janet Drake’s long strides but not quite managing it. Moments later, he’s ushered into the car, and they’re driving away. But he can’t tear his eyes away from the Manor as it’s left behind, a spot of shining light in the surrounding darkness.

The taste of tea fills his mouth the entire ride home.

*****

“You could have let me say something,” Dick snaps as soon as the two Drakes are gone, and Alfred’s closed the door behind them. He sort of wishes the butler stayed.

Bruce exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It would have only made things worse; you shouldn’t have gotten involved in the conversation, to begin with.”

“You saw his face when she came into the room, Bruce,” Dick mutters back, fuming. Next to him, Jason watches them silently, and Dick forces himself to take a breath. “What kid looks at their own mother like that?”

“ . . . I don’t know either Janet or Jack Drake personally, but they have a reputation for being ruthless,” Bruce says, still staring at the door. He turns around and looks between his sons measuredly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that behavior carries into their family life as well.”

Dick seethes, ears still burning from Mrs. Drake’s comments. ‘Polite company.’ It could have meant nothing but combined with her curled lip and icy gaze; it didn’t.

He rests a hand on Jason’s shoulder, either to comfort the kid or himself, Dick isn’t sure, and Jason doesn’t lean back from it. He wonders if what she said got to his brother, too. Probably not. Jason has always been better at letting shit like this roll off his back. Still, he doesn’t move his hand away just in case.

“I told Tim he was welcome here anytime,” Dick says pointedly, Bruce stiffens. “And he better be.”

“Dick, you can’t just—”

“It was my idea, actually,” Jason interrupts, and both of them turn to stare at him. Jason glares back, unflinchingly. “And don’t pretend that you couldn’t care less, B. You were the one who invited him in here, not Dick. Besides,” Jason takes a smooth sip of his tea, “I think he’s lonely. Could use someone to talk to. If he comes over, I’ll handle it.”

Bruce looks at him for a long moment, several unnameable emotions warring across his face. He seems to settle on blankness.

“Very well,” his gaze slides to Dick, still unknowable. “I’m going to have to turn in for the night. Alfred’s been wanting to redo several stitches and is threatening to drug me again if I don’t let him. Tea will have to wait for another day.”

“Oh,” is Dick’s only response. The disappointment isn’t anything new as it settles in his stomach, but it still hurts. He glances at the door, trying to figure out the least awkward way to leave, then Bruce clears his throat hesitantly.

“However, Jason and I are planning a bust on one of Penguin’s shipping operations later this week. Feel free to join us, if you’d like.”

Whatever frustration Dick has left in him drains away as he and his brother gawk at the other man. Bruce waits for several seconds but is only met with silence as his adopted son blinks at the hanging invitation. Dick starts. “I . . . Okay, I can do that. Uh. Does Saturday work?”

Bruce nods. “Come by the Manor around nine, that’ll let you have some time with Alfred. He’s been wanting to catch up.”

“Right,” Dick says numbly, and as Bruce turns to leave, he and Jason share a glance. The younger boy raises his brows, and Dick can only shake his head in response, mind whirling.

“And Jason,” Bruce adds, both of his sons snapping to attention. Bruce opens the door, smoothing his collar in such a way that the lipstick on it somehow becomes less noticeable. Dick tries not to be impressed with that. “If you’re going to have Tim over here, give him something to eat. Lord knows he needs it.”

They stare as he leaves, the library door not quite swinging all the way shut behind him.

Jason speaks first, “That was . . . unexpected.”

Dick looks at him. “What? That he invited me, because yeah—”

“No,” The other boy interrupts, voice purposefully monotone. “Of course he was going to invite you, he’s been trying to figure out how to do that for months, now.” Dick’s eyes widen, and he glances back at the door. Jason doesn’t seem to notice. “I just didn’t expect him to invite me.”

Looking back at him, Dick frowns. “Why wouldn’t he? You’re Robin. ”

It says something about time healing all wounds because it doesn’t hurt to say that out loud anymore. But Jason stills, his gaze moving to Dick before resting on the flames within the fireplace. “Yeah, and Robin’s benched.”

Shit.

Just add that to the list of things he can feel guilty not knowing about.

Dick is frozen, looking over Jason’s form and frantically trying to figure out what happened. “You got hurt? Where? How bad?”

“I didn’t get hurt.”

Jason still won’t look at him. Slowly, Dick shuts his eyes. “Little Wing, what did you do? ”

That wasn’t the right thing to say. Jason spins around to face him, expression twisted into something painful and hurt and Dick did that. “Are you serious, right now?”

“Jay—”

“Look, I know you’re a fucking Golden Boy up on Bruce’s goddamn pedestal, but at the very least you could try to—”

“Jason.” Jason stiffens with his brother’s raised voice because Dick doesn’t yell. Not at him. Dick rubs a hand over his face. “Jay, just tell me what happened, okay? I won’t judge you for it, I promise.”

The younger boy’s glare hardens for a second before molding into something unbearably tired. “I didn’t . . . Look, I need you to get that I didn’t push the guy, okay?”

Fuck, this wasn’t going to be good. Dick breathes out, “Okay.”

Jason searches his face for a second, eyes falling back to the fire. “We were working a case, there was . . . Our perp was this asshole, Felipe Garzonas, and his father was some kind of ambassador, and he had diplomatic immunity because of fucking course he did. And he . . .” Jason takes a breath. “He raped a girl, Gloria, and was responsible for her death.”

Dick swallows. “So, he got away with murder?”

Jason shakes his head, continuing, “No, she . . . she killed herself. But he was behind it, threatened to keep hurting her and she . . . He got recalled, too, you know that? We busted him on drugs, and he was leaving the fucking country and wouldn’t have been able to touch her ever again. But she didn’t know, and he called her before we did and . . .”

For a long moment, Dick only stares, the pieces coming together to make a grim picture. “You were the one to find her, weren’t you?”

Jason shivers, jaw clenching. “She was already gone by the time we got to her apartment. Hung herself. She was only . . . a couple of years older than me. Younger than you.”

Dick winces and closes his eyes. “God, Jay that’s . . .”

“I’m just tired of seeing it, you know? Shit like this happened all the time back in Crime Alley, yeah, but now I finally have a chance to stop it, and I fucking couldn’t. I couldn’t save her.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Jason snorts bitterly, gaze not wavering from the fireplace. Dick sighs and sits back down on the sofa to rest his head in his hands. It’s a shitty lesson, learning that you can’t rescue everyone. They both wait in the library stillness for several minutes, watching the light from the flames flicker across the floor. Dick looks up.

“Okay, then what?”

Jason exhales. “I went back to his apartment and he was up on this fucking balcony drinking and I . . .” Dick waits quietly as the boy finds the right words. “I dropped down too quick, spooked him. And he stumbled, slipped over the railing, and it . . . Fuck, Dick, it happened so fast.”

Dick nods but frowns. “And Bruce benched you because . . .”

“He thinks I pushed him.”

Shit.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Dick runs a hand through his hair, the strands falling back into his face. Advice. That’s what he’s supposed to do. Older brothers give advice. Fuck. “Okay, look, Bruce is a—” His phone rings, the emergency tone for the Titans echoing throughout the library, and Dick jumps—“Son of a bitch,” he finishes instead, grabbing his cell.

Jason raises his brows, a weak grin etching across his face. “Don’t think Martha would appreciate that.”

A distracted chuckle leaves Dick’s throat as he stares at the message on the screen in annoyance. Deathstroke. Of all the people who hate the Titans, it couldn’t have been someone the team could handle without him?

He glances at his brother but Jason is already waving him away. “Yeah, I get it. It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

“Just go, asshole. We can deal with this another day.”

“I don’t ‘deal with you’, Little Wing. I like talking to you, come on, and we are gonna finish this conversation.” Probably. When he can figure out what to fucking say. Dick stands as the alarm on his phone goes off again. “Just not today because I need to go kick Deathstroke’s ass.”

Jason follows as his brother jogs into the study and both of them stop at the clock. Dick opens the case, moving the hands as Jason watches silently. Seconds later, the wall is sliding open and Dick is praying that Bruce has the Tower’s location already set up in the zeta-tube. The sound of feet hitting stone echoes as they run down, and Dick doesn’t even stop as they reach the cave, doesn’t look to see if anything’s changed.

The zeta doesn’t have the Tower’s coordinates pulled up and Dick spends too much time pressing buttons for his liking. As the damn thing finally starts, he gives Jason a half-hearted grin and ruffles his hair. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

Jason smiles tiredly as Dick steps into the tube. “Punch Wilson in the face for me.”

And Dick doesn’t have enough time to respond because the world dissolves into blue and then he’s in the Tower, Roy yelling at him to ‘fucking move his ass.’

In the end, he does manage to punch Slade in the face, which is awesome. And they also save New York for the third time this month which is doubly awesome. But when they’re finally out of costume, and Garth’s calling up their favorite pizza place and Donna is laughing into Roy’s shoulder at some joke Vic made, Dick’s stomach is still in knots. He’s still staring at Jason’s name in his phone with no idea of what to do.

And looking around their rec-room, at the bright grins of his teammates, he can’t dampen the mood with his own ridiculous feelings. It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid, because it’s just Jason. Still, he only pokes at his huge pizza slice that Raven’s dropped in front of him, the argument between Vic and Gar about meat and tofu fading into the background.

Hesitantly, he glances over at where Kory is sitting across the room. Too quickly she meets his gaze and they both look away. He’d thrown the tie she gave him somewhere on the floor of his bedroom while suiting up. Can’t be sentimental when assassins want to kill the mayor.

He’s not sure if he’s relieved or not when Wally drops down next to him, nudging Dick’s arm with his own and forcing a soda can into his hand. He doesn’t say anything either, only gives his friend a smart grin and lays back on the sofa, draping his legs over Dick’s thighs.

Dick rolls his eyes but pops the tab of his soda anyway.

The team trails off one by one, either to train or sleep. Kory doesn’t look at him when she leaves and Dick doesn’t call out either. Eventually, the only ones left are the founders, but then Garth has to take his nightly swim and Donna wants to finish editing her photos and Roy needs to fix a faulty sonic arrow and Wally . . . stays.

They’re quiet for a long time, which is weird for the speedster, but he knows when to let Dick think. Doesn’t stop him from eventually kicking the other’s leg and pointing at his untouched pizza, though. “You gonna eat that?”

Dick grumbles and hands it to him, and Wally laughs. And that’s . . . at least he knows he can do something right.

Wally takes a bite and the pizza is gone. “So. It was that bad?”

“How can you tell?”

“Because you’re doing that thing—” Wally does a scrunched serious face that makes him look slightly constipated—“that you do when you’re having an internal crisis.”

Dick’s scrunched serious face becomes scrunchier. “I’m not . . . crisis-ing. I’m fine.”

“Wow. Are you really trying to bullshit me, right now?”

Dick pinches his thigh and Wally yelps, kicking in retaliation. They grapple, and Dick pushes the other boy off the couch only for Wally to grab his arm at the last second. He lands on the floor with an oomph and a speedster crushing him. But one of them was trained by Batman and that one isn’t Wally, and Dick’s got him pinned in seconds.

“You suck,” Wally moans into the rug dramatically.

Dick grins. “Your hand-to-hand has gotten better.”

“Fuck you.”

Dick’s smile widens and he lets up, Wally kicking at him again for good measure. They sit across from each other, legs tangled together, Dick against the sofa and Wally with his head tipped back onto the coffee table. Dick chews his lip for a moment.

“It wasn’t bad. Just . . . a lot of stuff happened.”

Wally glances at him, but doesn’t move his head. The angle kinda makes him look stupid. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Dick sorts through the night for a moment. “Bruce didn’t even invite me.”

“Wait, seriously?” Wally actually lifts his head up, brows raised towards the ceiling.

Dick nods. “Figures. It was Alfred, probably, or my name got thrown in or . . . I don’t know, doesn’t matter because it was still awkward as fuck. Almost left, but then he kind of apologized? And asked me to stay for tea? It was weird.”

“The guy who dresses up as a bat to fight clowns is weird? Who would’ve guessed,” the speedster deadpans.

A laugh bubbles out of his chest and Wally knocks their feet together. “Yeah, but then he disappeared for a bit and instead of coming back with tea he sent a kid? Like? One second I’m arguing with Jason about something dumb and then there’s this tiny child with a tea tray in the doorway? He looked confused.”

Wally grins. “Can’t blame him.”

Dick shakes his head. “His name’s Tim Drake. His parents own some big medical company and his mom is kind of a bitch.”

“What’d she do?” Wally asks, blinking in surprise. Dick never talks like that.

“Rude as shit when she came to pick him up and . . . God, the look on that kid’s face when he saw her . . . There’s something wrong going on in that house. I don’t like it. But Jay told him he could come to the Manor if he ever needs anything.”

“You think it’s that bad?”

“She grabbed him, too,” Dick mutters, turning away to glare at the floor. “Jason said he’d handle it and I trust him. And I think B’s worried, he caved on letting the kid come over pretty quick. Then he invited me on a bust on Saturday.”

Wally blinks. “Like . . . to bond?”

Dick shrugs hopelessly because he honestly has no idea how Bruce’s brain works anymore. “I guess? Apparently, he’s been wanting to ask for a few weeks, according to Jay and—” Dick pauses, eyes widening—“Dude, Jason got benched.”

“Benched as in hurt?” Wally asks and sits up straighter. Dick shakes his head, thoughts whirling.

“Benched as in Bruce thought he pushed a perp off a balcony.”

Wally’s mouth drops. “Holy shit. Did he actually—”

“Jason said the guy had been drinking, was startled when he dropped down, and slipped over.”

“You believe him?”

Dick hesitates too long at that. He remembers the look on Jason’s face, the crack in his voice as he talked. He also remembers the sound of bone breaking under Robin’s fist. He tugs at a loose string on the edge of his shirt.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Wally shrugs. “I don’t know him as well as you, but . . . I don’t think Jason would go that far. Kid’s too good for that.”

Dick smiles, but it quickly fades away. “He’s got issues, though. Not that I blame him, we all do—” Wally snorts—“but I don’t know how to help him. I don’t know what to say.”

“He’s just your brother. It’s not like you have to write a speech or something.”

“ . . . That’s actually not a bad ide—”

“That was a joke. Please don’t do that. You talk like Bruce when you lecture, and it’ll just freak him out.”

“Shit,” Dick mutters, slumping back into the sofa behind him. The fabric is kind of itchy, and he shifts, thinking. “What if I mess up?”

“Then you apologize and try again.”

“How do you know that’ll work?”

“It’s what Barry did whenever he messed up with me,” Wally says quietly and something inside of Dick wilts. The speedster looks away, fiddling with the ring on his hand. Barry’s ring. The ring with a costume that wasn’t supposed to be Wally’s. Not ever.

“ . . . He’d be proud of you.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Join the club.”

“No thanks, there’s a major dick in there.”

“You want me to pin you again?”

“No,” Wally answers, but he’s smiling, so Dick takes it.

“Seriously, he’d be proud.”

Wally closes his eyes, looking too old for someone who’s only eighteen. His freckles have been fading away, adulthood coming on faster than either of them would like to admit. Dick doesn’t know how he hadn’t noticed that before. “And I seriously don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Then we’ll not know what we’re doing together. And we’ll make a club. Roy can join.”

“Ew.” Dick laughs, really laughs, at that, and Wally’s expression lightens. He bumps their legs again. “You should talk to Jason soon, though. He’ll probably get anxious if you don’t.”

Dick nods. “Yeah.”

They fall silent again, and Dick lets himself drift for several seconds, listening to the distant city outside. Wally hums in thought, the tune vaguely familiar but Dick can’t quite place it. Maybe something from when they were kids. He stares for a moment.

“Hey.” Wally glances at him, green eyes quiet. “Thanks.”

He gets a grin in return, one that’s too teasing to be truly genuine. “And if we’re talking about emotions . . .”

“No.”

“Dude, you were staring at her all night.”

“Was not!”

“Were too!”

“Was—No, we’re not doing this.”

Wally sticks his tongue out at him. “You have feelings, she has feelings, you’re making it complicated.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Would Kory?”

Dick opens his mouth, then shuts it with a click. Wally points a finger at him in triumph and Dick glowers with resignation. He still tries. “She’s—I’m—we’re both just so—”

“Different isn’t always a bad thing, bro. Haven’t you heard of opposites attracting? You’re just scared of getting hurt, which is ridiculous because she’s head over heels for you.”

Dick sighs. “Can we go back to talking about my Bruce issues?”

“No. Just have a conversation with her.”

“What if I—”

“Mess up? Didn’t we just finish that discussion?” Wally asks, voice flat. “I’m not above locking you two in a closet, don’t push me. You’re both pining and it’s gross.” Dick opens his mouth again. Wally sighs. “What if I tell you it’s upsetting the team dynamic.” Dick’s mouth closes, and the other man groans, head falling into his hands. “Oh my god.”

“Is it? Because that’s really important—”

“It’s not; it’s just fucking awkward, Jesus Christ.”

Dick exhales, steels himself. “Fine. I’ll talk to Kory. And Bruce. And Jason. Happy?”

“Yeah, actually. Jerk.” Wally sticks his tongue out at him, and Dick returns the action.

“Now tell me about your love life so I can make fun of you.”

Wally perks up, starts talking about some hot girl in his Advanced Chemistry lecture, and Dick settles back against the couch. It isn’t too itchy if he doesn’t think about it. Besides, Wally’s leg is warm against his, and, for now, that’s enough.

*****

Tim is picking at his cereal when his parents enter the dining room. Jack still in slippers with the morning paper tucked under his arm, and Janet wearing a silk robe. Last night certainly hadn’t helped with the tension between them, with his mother’s angry mutters and his father’s chilled gaze filling the car ride home. Tim had rushed up to his room, not bothering with a ‘goodnight.’ He doubts they’d even noticed.

Still, it’s a new day. He tries to smile at them but he knows it comes out wrong. His parents pause in the doorway for a second, staring at him like they’re not sure what to say.

Jack breaks the quiet, “Morning, Tim.”

“Good morning,” he answers back hesitantly. The words are strange in his mouth. Unfamiliar.

His mother sits across from him as his father takes the head of the long table. Neither looks particularly comfortable, but Tim isn’t either, so he won’t judge.

Most of his breakfasts take place by the kitchen counter or on his way to school. Rarely in the dining room, with its empty chairs and arching windows. It’s always been too cold for Tim’s liking and he can count on one hand the number of times he’s had a meal in here.

So he shifts in his seat, Janet catching it out of the corner of her eye. “Posture.”

His father opens his newspaper, sips his dark coffee. Tim can’t decide whether or not he likes the overpowering smell of it. “Dear, it’s first thing in the morning. Let the boy relax for God’s sake.”

“He was plenty relaxed last night,” she snaps and Tim stills, his spoon halfway to his mouth. She isn’t looking at him as she adds strawberries to her plate, but her movements are sharp. “I don’t know what you were thinking, Tim. Bothering Bruce Wayne of all people and disappearing to Lord knows where halfway through the night to talk to those children of his. Left us having to brush off questions about your whereabouts, and you certainly lost us several investors—”

“He asked for my help.”

Both of his parents freeze. Tim, too, after he realizes his interruption, his eyes quickly moving down to stare at his bowl. Janet slowly places the spoon in her grip back into its dish. The harsh clink of metal against china echoes in the silence, Tim’s teeth gritting at the sound. Her hands fold neatly on top of the table.

“What was that, Timothy?” Her voice is frigid. Tim hesitates, eyes darting to his father to gauge his reaction. He’s met with blankness.

Tim takes a breath and continues, “Bru—Mr. Wayne was looking for his butler to make tea, but then I told him I could do it. And then he thought that I’d get along with his sons so I just . . .” He gestures helplessly and his mother sighs, rubbing at her temple.

“We’ll try again Friday. I have a presentation with the board, but your father is going to the annual GCPD charity luncheon at Wayne Enterprises. You’ll go with him and pay attention to the other businessmen this time, don’t be completely useless and run off somewhere.” She stands, her chair scraping against the floor.

Both Tim and his father open their mouths to protest, but are met with a harsh look, the kind that Janet Drake gives people during meetings when somebody dares to challenge her. Tim slumps into his seat, but Jack does not. “He’d be missing school, might not send the best message.”

“If he goes with you he’ll be learning more important things anyway. And besides,” she stares down at her son pointedly, “he’ll make sure to stay out of trouble. Won’t you, Tim?”

His head is heavy when he nods, but Tim manages it. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You see? It’s fine, Jack. Besides, don’t you have more important things to worry about anyway with that damn exhibition coming up?” she snaps at her husband. Jack’s lip curls, but he doesn’t respond as she swirls out of the room, silk robe flowing behind her. She leaves her untouched plate of strawberries behind.

Tim hesitates. His father turns back to the newspaper. Several more minutes pass by.

“What’s the exhibition for?”

Jack glances up at him for a second before returning to his article. “Just uncovered a few things for the museum downtown. Nothing exciting for your mother to host a celebration party for, so she’s bitter over it.”

“Oh,” Tim says, awkwardly poking at his bowl. There’s more to it than that but he knows when to hold his tongue.

He counts the seconds as they tick by, waiting for an appropriate amount of time to pass before escaping the room. His father flips to the next page of the paper. Tim leaves without a sound.

When he bikes to school, he goes as fast as he can, legs and lungs burning. He relishes the feeling. At least, out here, he can finally breathe.

*****

Friday comes both too soon and too slow.

His parents will be gone this afternoon and while the house is still quiet with them there (apart from the ever-louder arguments that Tim can hear echoing through the halls), it’s nevertheless nice knowing that he isn’t alone anymore.

But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss sneaking out at night. Based on what he’d last heard when he was out on the streets, Penguin is going to bring in a huge shipment tomorrow, and Tim’s dying to get a few decent shots of it. If he gets an especially good one, he might even mail it to Gordon. Anonymously, of course.

He knows they use his photos as evidence sometimes. Had heard the Commissioner mention it to Batman, once on a slower patrol. That the resolution of his camera picks up details that security footage can’t make out.

Tim hadn’t stopped grinning the rest of the night, and Gordon had gotten seven extra photos that weekend.

The elevator pings open, and Jack Drake’s shoes squeak on the polished marble floor. Tim’s never been in Wayne Tower before, and he stares as they walk by gleaming offices and busy people. It’s a beautiful place, with tasteful decor and huge windows lining the halls. Everyone around them moves like clockwork and Tim would be lying if he said that he wasn’t impressed. He’d always thought that running a business would be boring, his parents never seem to enjoy it. But . . . Tim wouldn’t mind working here.

He almost runs into his father when the man stops in front of a pair of glass doors. Looking through them, Tim can see a long room with balconies and official-looking men and women standing around.

A few are in uniforms, members of the GCPD. Tim pretends not to notice, pretends that he doesn’t know exactly who each of them is. His father looks down at him.

“Don’t embarrass yourself or me. And don’t bother the Waynes, understand?”

Tim nods, and his father exhales, pushing the doors open. Several businessmen come up to Mr. Drake at once, and Tim knows he’s not supposed to get left behind, but they’re all moving and chattering and suddenly he’s alone in a room full of people. He glances around frantically, but he only sees the same dull suits and stiff dresses no matter where he turns.

Hesitantly, he moves to the lunch table. Pretends that he has everything under control. And it’s almost funny that he’s more comfortable on the dark streets of Gotham instead of this crowded place. He pours himself a cup of water and carefully makes sure nobody is behind him when he turns around. Especially Bruce Wayne.

His drink spills anyway.

The man who just ran into him blinks down in surprise, like he wasn’t expecting someone so short to be there. “Excuse me, Mr. . . . ?”

“Uh, Tim,” Tim answers, trying to straighten his wet suit. The man curses under his breath and reaches up to his chest, handing Tim a handkerchief. He looks up at the man again. Brown eyes behind smart glasses and greying at the temples. Well-cut suit, looks far more comfortable here than Tim does, and Tim knows he’s seen this guy before somewhere and oh . . . Oh.

“I’m Lucius Fox. Are you lost, son?”

“I—uh, no? No, I’m fine, thank you. My dad’s just . . .” Tim looks around desperately, but the universe doesn’t seem to be on his side today.

Lucius studies him for a long moment and something clicks behind his gaze. “You’re Drake’s son, aren’t you?”

Tim blinks. “Yeah, yeah, how did you . . . ?”

“You look like your mother. And she is . . . “ Fox furrows his brow and hesitates, “Hard to forget.”

“That sounds about right,” Tim mutters, carefully folding the handkerchief back into a neat square. It’s silk and a crisp white and Lucius places it back in its pocket despite the fact that it’s still wet.

“Mr. Wayne mentioned you this morning when I told him your father was invited to the luncheon.”

Tim blinks again. “He did?”

“Said you and Jason got along. And that you make better tea than our new Keurig.”

Tim’s brain melts.

“When he mentioned you to me he said that all you do is judge his life choices,” he says without thinking, then freezes horrified. Fox stares at him. Tim starts, “Sorry! I didn’t mean—”

Lucius laughs, true and deep enough to make several people nearby glance at them. Tim doesn’t move, unsure whether to keep apologizing or join in. He goes for a nervous chuckle instead. After a few more moments, Fox settles and smiles at him. “I do judge his life choices, believe me, he deserves it.” He straightens up, looking around for Tim’s father. “Apologies, but I have to check up on a few things. Not sure where your father went, but Jason and Ms. Gordon are back there if you’d like to talk to them.”

Tim’s eyes follow the direction Lucius subtly points at. “Ms. Gordon?”

“The Commissioner’s daughter, Barbara.” Yeah, Tim knows who she is. “I think you two will get along, trust me.” He shakes Tim’s hand, grip strong but not unkind. As if they were equals. Tim likes him. “It was nice to meet you, Tim.”

“You too, thanks,” he manages, watching as Lucius blends into the crowd. Then he turns and tries not to walk too fast to where the man had steered him. At least now he has somewhere to go.

It isn’t hard to spot them in the tucked-away corner, Barbara’s hair is bright in the sunlight, and Tim remembers how it looked when she flew through the air. A shock of red against the dark sky. Batgirl. The Batgirl.

He almost forgets until he sees the wheelchair.

The papers had blown up with the news, every other story focusing on the Gordons or the Joker or Batman. Looking back on it, it’s amazing that no one made the connection between her and her vigilante identity. Amazing no one still has.

Neither of them seems to notice as he quietly approaches, engrossed in their conversation. Barbara’s hands are folded very tightly on her lap and Jason’s shoulders are tense. Tim stills, tries to blend in with the background like he does on the streets. Even from this short distance, he can barely make out what they’re saying.

“—looked at the hospital’s records. Her name wasn’t on file, and they listed Catherine and your father as your guardians, no one else. I’m sorry, Jason.”

Jason slumps. “That doesn’t make any sense, the certificate’s damaged, yeah, but my mom didn’t have an ‘S’ in her name anywhere.”

“B said you were narrowing down a list of women? Based on your date of birth and your father’s associates?”

“Yeah, I’ve got three names. Gonna try and locate them, and then reach out, I guess.”

Barbara reaches out and touches his arm. “Hey, take it from someone who knows; it’s okay not to have . . . I just don’t want you to think you’re worth anything less than you are. There’s nothing wrong with you, and you don’t have to prove yourself to anyone. Especially not to her.”

Jason stares at her, swallows. “I know that, I do, and I already have a mom. Catherine was my mom. This lady, whoever she is, I just . . . I just have some questions I’d like her to answer, you know?”

Barbara hesitates and then nods. From this angle, Tim can’t see the expression on her face. “Okay, but be careful. I don’t want you to get hurt by whatever you find.”

A grin spreads across his face. “Aw, Barbie, you do care.”

“Shut it, brat.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to—” Jason looks up, eyes landing on Tim and then widening. He hides it quickly, but Barbara sees and she spins around, already an expert with her chair. Jason walks over, and Tim stiffens, wonders if they know he’s heard everything; but the older boy only throws an arm around his shoulder. “Tim! Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Tim tries not to stumble as Jason leads him back over to Barbara, who watches them with arched brows. Tim scrambles to come up with anything. “Sorry, you guys looked like you were talking about something, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Both of them relax a touch. Tim does too.

Jason lets the weight of his arm drop. “It wasn’t anything important, don’t worry about it.” He gestures to Barbara, moving to her side. “Barbie, Tim Drake. Tim, Barbara Gordon. All you gotta know about her is that she’s smarter than everybody else in this room combined.”

Barbara scoffs. “Stop trying to be charming, it’s weird.”

“Not charming anyone, just telling the truth,” Jason responds primly. She swats at him, and he grins widely in return. Her clever gaze moves to Tim.

Tim decides that Barbara Gordon is very pretty and very, very scary. There’s a high chance that even while wearing her expensive silk dress and sitting in a wheelchair, she could beat him up and not let a hair get out of place. But she also reminds him of Lucius, with the way her eyes sparkle behind her glasses. They shake hands.

Strong grip, but not unkind. Equals. Tim decides he likes her, too.

“So,” she starts, a smirk at the corners of her mouth. “You skipping, or did school let out on a half-day like the nerd over here?”

“Hey!” Jason protests, scowling as Tim’s face breaks into a grin.

Barbara scoffs. “Please, like you would ever skip school. Remember when you tried to sneak out when you were sick so you wouldn’t miss a test?”

Jason’s ears turn pink and he rolls his eyes. This only seems to bemuse Barbara more. “That was only one time. Besides, now I know better than to try and get past Alfred.” She cackles, so he lightly pinches her shoulder.

Tim glances between them for a moment before finally answering, “Skipping.”

Barbara looks delighted. Jason sighs.

There’s the sound of speakers turning on followed by the muffled tapping of a microphone. Everyone turns to stare at the front of the room where Commissioner Gordon seems ready to begin a speech, though he doesn’t appear too excited about it. Bruce is standing next to him, smiling broadly like he’s having the time of his life. He must be bored out of his mind.

Tim hears Jason groan behind him. He also hears the stifled oomph when Barbara elbows him.

Both of them come up to his side, Jason grinning in a way that Tim is pretty sure means trouble. Jason nudges him. “Come on.”

Tim blinks once, glances between him and the Commissioner. “What?”

“Come on,” the older boy says again, pointedly tilting his head to one of the balconies, just out of sight. Tim smiles. Barbara shakes her head.

“I hate this habit,” she mutters at Jason. “Cutting your life expectancy in half, I swear.”

Jason shrugs. “It’s Gotham, plenty of things can cut my life expectancy in half. And relax, Barb, it’s not like I’m going anywhere anytime soon. Just cover us, yeah?”

She grumbles and waves them away with a calloused hand. “You owe me, kid.”

“I’ll buy you a chilidog,” Jason tells her, steering Tim to the balcony and away from Commissioner Gordon’s resigned droning. They slip through the doors and into the sunlight, the cool air refreshing compared to the room’s heat.

Tim breathes it in and side-eyes Jason curiously. “What habit?”

The older boy shrugs, leaning against the wall in a way so that no one could see him from inside. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and gives Tim a look that clearly says that he better keep his mouth shut about this.

Tim only raises his brow and rests against the balcony railing. Jason sparks a lighter, the flame standing brightly out against the dull blues and greys surrounding them. He takes a slow drag and relaxes further into the concrete beneath his shoulders. Closing his eyes, he exhales, and the wind blows the smoke away before it has a chance to curl through the air.

He cracks his eyelids just a touch to meet Tim’s gaze. “Sorry, but I’m not sharing, kid. These things will kill you, you know.”

Tim huffs a laugh and looks out over the view of the city.

Gotham’s almost pretty like this, windows shining in the sun with a clear sky above. It’s weird. He prefers it at night when only neon signs and streetlights keep the city from falling into darkness. The lighting is more interesting anyway; and his best pictures are taken when the sun goes down. To be fair, that also may be because his best pictures are of Batman. And Robin.

Jason breathes out another lungful of smoke. The wind blows it away again.

“You never answered.”

“Huh?” Tim asks eloquently, looking back at the boy.

Jason tilts his head. “When I asked if you wanted to come over to the Manor sometime, you never answered.”

“Oh, I . . .” Tim tries, but the words won’t come. He isn’t sure what to make of this; nobody’s ever wanted to hang out with him before. He pulls at the ends of his sleeves. Jason only watches him, still quiet.

The cigarette end burns. Inhale. Exhale. Smoke. Wind. Tim looks away, out over the gleaming city, and gathers the confused pieces of his mind into one word.

“Why?”

Jason cocks his head and frowns. “Why what?”

“Why . . .” Tim shifts uncomfortably under the other boy’s unmoving stare. “Why do you want to be around me?”

“Because I like you,” Jason says, as if it’s that uncomplicated. Tim grimaces because there’s always something more than that. People always want more.

“No, you don’t; you hardly even know me. What do you actually want?” He snaps back, eyes turning cold. Jason looks taken aback, and for a second, Tim almost regrets what he said, but then the boy straightens up, and Tim suddenly realizes that Jason probably knows a lot more about him than he originally thought. And that this conversation is not going to be a pleasant one.

Jason glances back at the closed doors in calm consideration. “When was the last time your parents were home before this week, Tim?”

Tim’s jaw clenches, his hands tightening into fists. “I told you before, I’m fine.”

Jason nods like this is all the confirmation he needed, and Tim wants to backtrack and answer that. But the truth is that his parents were last home three months ago and that fact would only make things worse right now. The back of his tongue is sour.

“Why do you care?” He mutters, and Jason actually hesitates at that. They watch each other for a few tense moments, then Jason sighs and leans back against the concrete. Tim has the sudden urge to tell him that he’s wrinkling his suit. He has a distinct feeling Jason wouldn’t appreciate it.

The other boy taps the end of his cigarette, Tim watching the ash fall through the air. Jason takes a drag and examines him with narrowed eyes. “I care, because I know what it’s like not to have anybody give a damn about you.”

And it’s as if everything’s been punched out of Tim’s lungs. He can only stare as Jason exhales more smoke.

He snaps.

“My parents love me. At least that’s more than what you could say for yours.”

They both freeze as soon as the words leave Tim’s mouth, the city’s sounds filling the silence between them. Stiffly, Jason drops his cigarette, crushing it beneath a polished shoe. Tim suddenly has to fight the urge to step backward. Not that it would help, he's already pressed against the railing with nowhere to run.

Jason meets his eyes levelly. He doesn’t need the mask to be terrifying. “I wasn’t lying when I said I liked you, Tim. But I’m not above punching you, either. Your choice.”

Tim glares down at the flattened cigarette, wishes he could rewind the past few minutes.

“ . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” He unflinchingly looks back at the other’s gaze. “But my family life is . . . okay. I don’t need your help.”

Jason lifts his head and rests back against the wall, evaluating him. In turn, Tim’s shoulders relax with the knowledge that his face isn’t about to be broken. In the distance, a police siren wails. The older boy jerks his chin at the balcony doors.

“Alright. You don’t need my help,” Jason says, voice significantly quieter than it was. He glances at Tim hesitantly. “But do you want it?”

The sincerity of the question is enough to make Tim's chest hurt. Enough to make him suddenly want to cry. He swallows, and the words ‘I’m fine’ are stuck in his throat, and he has to look back out at Gotham. Look at the glass skyscrapers reflecting the blue sky and imagine the darkness and neon he can hide away in at night. Where he doesn’t have to worry about things like his parents or Batman or his nosy, righteous, far-too-caring neighbors who keep reaching out and just want to help, and Tim doesn’t know what to do.

“Hey, kid,” Jason starts softly, and he must have moved at some point because he’s setting a hand on Tim’s shoulder. Tim hadn’t even heard him. “I’m not saying that I’m gonna report this shit or anything if you don’t want that. I know how that can fuck up somebody’s life. I’m just . . . If you want a place to stay or someone to talk to, you can drop by, okay?”

Tim turns away from the shining skyscrapers and looks up at Jason’s too-gentle expression. He’s made up his mind before he can even think it through. Maybe he didn’t need to think about it at all.

“Okay.”

Jason grins, and it’s too bright for the city around them. “Alright, that’s . . . alright. Though, just to let you know, B and I will be gone for the next few days. Visiting a friend in the Middle East, shouldn’t take too long.”

Tim’s memory flashes back to what he heard between Jason and Barbara a few minutes ago. He keeps his face carefully blank.

Jason continues, “But when we get back, I’ve got to show you all the books the library has, you wouldn’t believe—”

The balcony doors open, and they whip around to see Jack Drake glaring down at both of them. Tim’s mouth goes dry and he stiffens, smoothing out his suit even though there aren’t any wrinkles on it. Jason doesn’t bother with his own rumpled jacket and only gives Mr. Drake a cool look.

Tim glances between them, attempting to ignore the tension in the air. He gestures to his father, weakly. “Jason, this is my dad, Jack Drake. I don’t think you’ve met.”

“No,” Mr. Drake says, just a tad bit too sharp, “we haven’t.”

They watch each other for another beat, then Jason rolls his shoulders, smoothly reaching his hand forward with too much grace to be natural. “Jason Todd, nice to finally meet you.” Jack hesitantly shakes it, eyeing Jason as if the boy was something particularly nasty lying on the side of the road. Jason grins dangerously, and Tim wonders if Bruce taught his Robins how to act or if Dick and Jason learned it from this. From the ruthless people who wear sparkling jewels and fake smiles.

Mr. Drake takes a step back. He’s intimidated, Tim realizes. He’s never seen his dad intimidated by somebody before. He rests a hand on Tim’s shoulder, his grip close to painful, and Tim does his best not to let that show on his face. But Jason must see it because his eyes get impossibly colder.

“It’s time for us to go, Tim. Your mother finished her meeting early, and she wants to go over several things.”

He doesn’t know where the words come from, but Tim is moving away, not quite out of his father’s grip but it’s close, and asks, “Now?”

It probably means something when Jack’s fingers dig even tighter into Tim’s skin. He tries to ignore it, focusing on the way his father’s mouth becomes a very pale, thin line. Even from behind him Tim can still feel Jason’s stare.

“Now.”

His father lets go suddenly, and Tim nearly stumbles back from the sudden release, the man stalking back into the room and leaving both boys to stare after him. Tim automatically rubs his shoulder, wincing, but drops his hand when he realizes that Jason is watching him.

He swallows and glances at the open door. “Look, I have to . . .”

Jason waves a hand in understanding, but Tim can still see the disappointment in his eyes. Weirdly, it almost makes him feel good; knowing that someone can be upset that he’s leaving. That someone cares. He wonders if his parents ever feel like that and immediately his stomach lurches in disgust.

“It’s fine, I’ll, uh . . .” Jason considers him cautiously, hopefully. “I’ll see you soon, yeah? Show you the library?”

Despite everything, Tim grins slightly. “Yeah.”

Something bright enters the older boy’s eyes when he smiles in return, and Tim’s mind flashes back to Dick telling him how he got lonely growing up in the Manor with just Bruce and Alfred to talk to.

Maybe Jason needs someone just as much as Tim does.

A kinder sensation settles in his stomach: the knowledge that someone wants to hang out. Wants to be friends. Tim does his best to not notice the giddiness that sweeps through him. He looks back through the door and sees his father waiting for him, jaw set. He points his thumb over his shoulder, manages not to walk into the glass window behind him. “Um, bye?”

Jason snorts and rolls his eyes. It reminds Tim of Dick doing the exact same thing to Jason himself. “Later, kid.”

Tim turns and takes approximately two steps forward before looking back. Jason has already lit a new cigarette, the flame of his lighter going out before the thing is tucked into his wrinkled suit jacket. Tim hesitates.

“Jason?” The teenager glances at him, brows raised. “Thanks.”

Jason grins and exhales. Tim’s back is turned and he’s walking into the warmth of the room by the time the wind blows the smoke away.

*****

He shouldn’t have agreed to it.

That’s the first thing Dick thinks when he rolls back into the cave, parking his bike, and striding up to the computer. He glares at the files of the assholes who almost got the best of them tonight. At the incriminating photos given to them by Gordon that showed Penguin’s drop-off territory in the middle of a shipment, a big enough order that it would have been enough to put the crime lord behind bars for longer than usual. Useful photos, too, better quality than the usual security cameras. Gordon only said they were mailed in without a return address, a detail which Bruce had been agonizing over up to the second they went out.

Not that it matters now. He glares at the pictures and resists the urge to sweep them off the desk and onto the floor. The sound of the Batmobile ruins the quiet and Dick curses, reaching up to peel off his mask.

He lets it fall onto the keyboard. He’ll have to replace it: one of the lenses is cracked from when a crook got a lucky shot in.

Tonight hadn’t been a disaster, but it’d been too close.

Dick doesn’t look up when the slam of a car door echoes off the cave walls, Batman’s harsh footsteps followed by Robin’s lighter ones the only thing breaking the silence. He glares into the light of the Batcomputer. The inside of his mouth tastes like iron and he wonders if there’s still some blood between his teeth.

Bruce halts right behind him, and Dick’s shoulders manage to become even tenser. He can feel a cut high on his cheekbone drip blood down his face. Shit, that one will probably need stitches.

“What the hell were you thinking?” It’s the Bat’s voice that asks. Somehow that infuriates Dick even more and he turns to see that Bruce hasn’t even bothered to fucking take his cowl off. He has no idea what’s going on in Batman’s head, can only look at the angry line of Bruce’s mouth.

Some part of him knows that some part of Bruce wants Dick to blow up, to prove that the older man is in the right.

Fuck that.

Dick takes a breath. “You were busy so I went after the perp with the kid.”

“You left our backs completely open, we were surrounded in seconds.”

“A civilian was in danger, the guy had a knife, B!”

“You didn’t even call out, Nightwing.” And, yeah, Dick’s chest gets boiling-hot with the way Bruce says his name. Like Dick could have done better than that. Because Dick’s always supposed to do better. “You went against protocol.”

“I was sort of focused on not letting a kid get gutted. Sorry, for letting that be my priority at the time.” He can feel Bruce’s glare through the eyes of the cowl. Dick continues sarcastically, “He’s fine by the way, ran off the site as soon as the asshole lost his grip on him. Didn’t even lose his camera. And we took down the operation, why can’t you just take this as a win?”

Bruce stills. “Camera? Why did he have a camera?”

“Jesus, I don’t know, Bruce! Probably to take pictures of us or something; civilians tend to do that when we’re fighting in front of them,” Dick snaps.

“What did he look like?”

Dick throws his hands into the air. “Small, grey hoodie, didn’t see his face because he was already gone and then I was focused on getting back to cover you.”

“You should have at least attempted to—”

“So now you’re angry because I was trying to watch your back instead of leaving you open? Make up your fucking mind—”

“I’m angry,” Bruce hisses back, “that you didn’t wait for my orders.”

Dick practically snarls, “If I had waited for your orders there wouldn’t have been a kid left to save.” He steps closer, but Bruce doesn’t move back, so he jabs a finger into the center of the symbol on Batman’s chest. “And I don’t follow your orders anymore. I thought we made that pretty damn clear when you fired me, right, B?”

Bruce goes very still, and for a second, Dick thinks he might have actually rendered him speechless, but then—

“You left.”

And there’s so much to unpack with the way Bruce says that. Too much. And Dick ignores it in favor of curling his lip. “Yeah, after you benched me, permanently.” Bruce looks like he wants to say something else so Dick continues quickly, “Either way, I’m not your partner anymore, and I’m sure as hell not your sidekick. So stop treating me like one.”

“As soon as you start acting like an adult, I will.”

“Could you actually be any more condescending? Is it that hard for you to just respect the people you work with?” Dick says frigidly, moving past his adopted father with controlled ease. Bruce turns after him.

“I’m going to get my stitches redone. By the time I’m back, I want you gone.”

Dick’s heart stumbles and stops, and he whirls around, gaze wide. “What—”

“We don't work together—we're not partners, just as you said." Bruce pushes back the cowl and looks at him with steady, sharp eyes. "Come back when you’re capable of not acting like the child I took in. Then we’ll talk about respect,” Batman finishes. He breezes by Dick and up the stairs, as if he hadn’t just turned his son’s insides to ice and fire.

Dick stares at nothing, his thoughts buzzing around his head, drowning out the sounds of the chittering bats above.

He doesn’t know why the words hit harder than he expected. It’s nothing they haven’t said before, but it just hurts this time. Maybe it’s because he and Bruce never operate together anymore. Maybe it’s because no matter how much Dick pretends to not care about what Bruce thinks of him, he always will.

Still, nothing they haven’t said before. They’ll probably just avoid each other for the next few months, more than they already were. So much for progress.

I want you gone.

He feels a light tap on his arm. “Dick?” He blinks and looks at where Jason is standing next to him.

Fuck, he’d forgotten the kid was even there. Dick’s stomach withers with shame.

Jason blinks up at him, hesitation and concern in his teal eyes. “You okay?”

No.

“I’m always okay, Little Wing,” he manages. Jason winces and looks over at the stairs Bruce had walked up, shifting on his feet.

“Um, you don’t have to do that with me. That whole . . .” He gestures at Dick helplessly. “That ‘I’m always fine’ thing you do. You know that, right?”

Dick’s chest becomes way too tight. His voice catches when he says, “ . . . Yeah.”

Jason’s face relaxes and he grins. “Cool, uh . . . I actually wanted to talk to you about something. I found this stuff on my mom, my biological mom, and I wanted your opinion on what I should—”

“Jason,” Dick interrupts, eyes squeezing tightly shut. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this but he’s tired and bloody and he really needs to either curl up in bed or punch something. “Look, I . . . I care, I do, but I need to . . .” He motions at the zeta tube. The damn thing probably still doesn’t have the Tower’s coordinates up either because Bruce is an asshole.

The younger boy stills, catching Dick’s meaning and probably remembering Bruce’s words.

I want you gone.

Nothing they haven’t said before. It’s fine. It’ll be fine.

Jerkily, Jason nods and takes an awkward step back, looking at anything other than his adopted brother. Dick somehow manages to feel even worse. “Right, I—Yeah, sorry, I’ll just . . . Another time?”

Dick nods, moves to the zeta and starts to type in the numbers. He glances over his shoulder and remembers his motorcycle. The blood in his mouth makes up his mind about driving back to New York. “Hey, Jay?”

Jason looks up hopefully. “Yeah?”

“Watch my bike for me?” Dick points at it as the zeta-tube begins to glow, and Jason’s expression falls.

“Oh, yeah I can do that.” He suddenly perks up. “Can I ride—”

“Don’t even think about it.”

Jason huffs and flips him off, and Dick smiles as he returns the gesture. “I’ll call you, I just . . . gotta clear my head for a few days, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, see you later, Dick.” They both grin.

“Later, Little Wing.”

There’s blue light and he’s back in the Tower.

I want you gone.

The cut on his cheek stings. With Jason no longer around, now he really, really wants to punch something. He walks through the halls, noting how they’re actually quiet for once. Seems like everybody is out somewhere.

Not that he can blame them, that’s what teenagers are supposed to do on a Saturday night.

Even though he should head to the med bay, Dick goes to the kitchen instead. Maybe there’s some pizza left from the other night. But considering that Wally exists, probably not. He half expects the kitchen to be empty, too, but Roy’s in there fiddling with the toaster. The redhead looks up when Dick enters and his eyebrows rise to his hairline.

“Wow, you look like shit.”

Dick throws him a half-hearted glare as he moves towards the pantry. “Could say the same about you.” Roy stills.

Not like he didn’t say anything other than the truth. During the past couple of weeks, the bags under Roy’s eyes have seemed to be darkening and he’s taken to wearing long-sleeves instead of his usual tank-tops. It’s an issue everyone’s been politely ignoring, even Donna, and Dick knows he’s going to have to step in soon.

He doesn’t know what kind of shit Roy’s going through, but he isn’t going to let it drag his friend under and drown him. The problem, though, is getting Roy to even talk about it.

And with the way Roy levels his gaze, Dick knows that’s not going to happen tonight.

“Well, aren’t you peppy.” Roy lays his tools on the table, and Dick stares forlornly at the disemboweled toaster. He’d just bought that one. The other boy follows his gaze and rolls his eyes. “Relax, I’ll put it back together.”

Dick grabs a protein bar and settles across from his friend. “That’s what you said about the blender.”

“You’re only upset about that because you got burned by the lasers.”

“Why the fuck does a blender need lasers? Who even likes the lasers?”

Roy smirks. “Kory likes the lasers.” Dick kicks his shin and doesn’t even feel bad when Roy yelps. “Damn, you’re testy. What? Did Bruce—”

“Spar with me,” Dick interrupts, and Roy shuts up and stares at him for so long that Dick shifts in his seat.

But this is something that they both tend to do when they can’t find the right words, and Roy nods. Dick relaxes, stands, and he doesn’t have to look behind him to know that Roy is following him to the training room. He doesn’t bother taking off his suit and Roy keeps his shirt on.

They make their way to the mats, stopping near the center. Turning, Dick examines the other boy, Roy watching him right back.

It's easy to forget, sometimes, how much the archer sees. How much he notices. Roy lowers himself into a basic stance, tilting his head in question. “Basic hand-to-hand? First one pinned for three seconds loses?”

Dick nods.

“Okay.”

They circle each other, and even though Dick usually waits for his opponent to strike first, he finds himself lunging forward. Roy avoids him easily, but this isn’t about skill; it’s about moving until they can’t think anymore.

Out of all the Titans, Roy’s the one who fights the dirtiest. Sparring with him feels like brawling on the street, all bloody grins and bruised knuckles. Dick kinda likes that about him; no bullshitting or honor in the ways he moves; Dinah’s doing, no doubt. He’s direct and effective and never fucking misses, which Dick is sorely reminded of when Roy lands a punch.

He went into this expecting he was going to lose. He’s half-assing this fight, they both know it, and he thinks Roy finally pins him out of exasperation more than anything else.

Dick grunts into the mat, not even trying to wriggle away from where Roy’s got his elbow buried between Dick’s shoulder blades. Above him, he hears Roy huff, “What the fuck was that, Grayson?”

He kicks at where the ball of Roy’s foot is resting on the floor, taking satisfaction in how Roy rolls off of him with a curse. Dick flops onto his back. “What the fuck was what, Harper?”

Roy sits up, crossing his legs, and shoves Dick’s side. “Why’d you let me beat your scrawny ass?”

“Fuck you, my ass is not scrawny.”

“I can't believe I bother with you,” Roy says to the ceiling.

“You have a scrawny ass . . . “ Dick mutters back, and Roy’s gaze drops back down to him, mouth quirked at the corner. His eyes narrow in on Dick’s cheek. Distantly, Dick realizes that his cut must have split open during their fight, and that blood is running down the side of his face and into his hair.

It’s gross, but he doesn’t care enough to get up and clean it. Roy considers him.

“So. What did Batman—”

I want you gone.

“Fuck, Batman,” Dick snaps, the venom coming from everywhere and nowhere, surging through his body.

Roy blinks.

“Guess the mission didn’t go as planned.”

“He’s such an asshole. He won’t fucking listen to me because he always has to be in the right, can’t even be bothered to compromise. I think he wants me to stop trying and just let our whole fucked up family go our separate ways.”

“He say something like that?”

Dick glares at the lights far above. “Said he wanted me gone. To come back when I could act like an adult, when he really just wants me to stop questioning him and to follow his orders like I’m some mindless soldier. And just . . . Just fuck that! And fuck him, too, for saying it in front of Jason when the kid does not need our drama on top of what he’s—”

“Jay was there?” Roy asks, sitting up straighter, and Dick glowers at him for interrupting his dramatic tirade.

“Jason’s Robin, Roy. Of course, he was there, why wouldn’t he be?”

Roy’s brow furrows. “Yeah, but he’s benched.”

“It was his first operation since—” Dick pauses, frowns, and cranes his neck to look over at the other boy. “How’d you know that?”

“Know what?” The redhead asks, going still as Dick’s eyes pin him to place.

“I didn’t tell you Jay was benched, did Wally?”

Something like realization crosses Roy’s face, and he stares with an expression Dick can’t place.

“ . . . Jason told me.”

Dick sits up too fast, and the world spins for a few seconds. He ignores it. “What? When?”

Roy watches him for a beat, then sighs with the resignation of someone who wishes they’d kept their mouth shut. “Remember when we broke into Bruce’s liquor cabinet and shared our fucking feelings a few weeks ago? And you were late as shit showing up and left me alone until Alfred took pity on me? Well, Jason was there and we . . .” Roy hesitates, searching for the right words, “We had some kind of heart-to-heart session.”

“You,” Dick says, pointing at Roy in disbelief, “talked about your emotions willingly and without the aid of alcohol?”

“Shut the fuck up, I’m not always an unfeeling asshole, you know,” Roy replies. He’s grinning, though, and Dick gestures for him to go on. The smile fades from his face. “Did, uh, Jason tell you about Garzonas?”

Dick stiffens. “You knew about the Garzonas thing? This whole time?”

“Hey, don’t start with me, Jason wanted to tell you himself and I wasn’t gonna get in the middle of that,” Roy says, bristling.

“Yeah, but I just learned about it, and you’ve known—”

“Well, maybe if you hung out with the kid more you could’ve found out sooner,” Roy snaps, and Dick reals back as if he’d been slapped. He turns away to look over at a far wall, guilt churning around in his stomach. Roy takes a glance at his face and sighs. “I know it’s hard for you, and Bruce is an asshole, but . . . he needs someone to talk to, Dick. That someone could be you.”

“Seems like he’s already found that someone,” Dick mutters sullenly.

He knows it’s stupid and petty, and that he should just be grateful that Jason found anybody to talk to about this stuff, but he can’t help the jealousy swirling inside him. Or the shame.

“No, he doesn’t need me,” Roy says too quickly. Dick frowns and looks at him. Roy is staring at Donna’s weight set across the room, pointedly avoiding Dick’s gaze. The tips of his ears are pinker than they were a few seconds ago. Probably just embarrassed that Jason looks up to him or something.

“Why not? I thought you got along, and he clearly likes you or he wouldn’t have talked to you in the first place—”

“Well, it’s not like I can just walk up to the Manor while Bruce is there. Should I remind you that he thinks I’m a bad influence?” Roy mutters.

“Nah,” Dick tells him. “He’s just not over that time you messed with his microwave and gave it robot arms.”

Roy looks wistful. “Fuck, that was awesome. Absolutely worth the lecture.” He shakes his head and gets back on topic. “But now he can hardly stand me. Maybe you could get Donna into the Manor to kidnap the kid so he can help when we have missions or something? She could totally get by Bruce, he’s always liked her the most.”

“That’s because he thinks Donna is responsible.”

“God, I wish he knew how many times she’s helped me hijack Ollie’s cars. Responsible, my ass.”

Dick snorts and then gets quiet. Hesitantly, he asks, “Jay say anything else?”

Roy glances at him, not uncomfortable but uneasy. “Besides the standard Bruce and self-esteem issues that all you Robins have, not really. You showed up and he kinda . . . disappeared. Had to think, I guess.”

“Really?” Dick asks, pursing his lips.

Roy looks away. “Really.” His ears are even pinker, and Dick is pretty sure he’s leaving something out, but he won’t push.

“Well, thanks for talking to him, I . . .” Dick swallows and turns away from Roy. “I haven’t really been there for him as much as I should have.”

Roy glances at him, and something in Dick’s face makes his shoulders droop. “What happened?”

Dick looks down and notices that some of the blood from his cut had dried on the mat. He scratches at it. “He wanted to tell me something about his mom, but Bruce had just told me to leave and I kind of . . .”

“You blew him off, didn’t you?” Roy says bluntly. Dick’s back hunches and he nods miserably. The other boy blows out a long breath, cheeks puffing up from the action. “Not much you can do about it until we get back, I guess.”

“Get back?”

Roy blinks in realization. “Shit, you weren’t here for that, were you? Donna has some space mission she wants us to go on, something about gods or whatever. She didn’t go into the details, wanted to talk to you about it. We’ll be off-world for a week and a half? Maybe two? It’d be a chance to get your mind off of this Bruce bullshit and figure out what you’re gonna do about Jaybird.”

Dick raises a brow. “Jaybird?”

Roy freezes. “Uh.”

“Jesus, you nicknamed him, Roy?”

“I didn’t—”

“For a guy who says he doesn’t care, you’re pretty shit at acting that way,” Dick teases. The pink is back, and Roy rubs at his ears self-consciously. Dick watches him, clearly amused.

Roy scowls. “Whatever.”

“You’re a good person,” Dick chirps annoyingly. Roy shoves him and Dick falls back onto the mat, snickering.

“If you want me to clean your cuts and stitch you back together, you better shut it, Dickface.”

Dick jumps up, still grinning. “Didn’t peg you as a softy, Speedy.”

“Are you asking me to shoot you later?”

He laughs, nudging Roy’s shoulder as they walk to the med bay. Roy doesn’t laugh back, but his eyes are lighter than they’ve been in a while and the corners of his mouth are twitching despite his best efforts.

And even though his cheek still hurts and his mouth still tastes like blood and Bruce’s words are still echoing in his head, Dick smiles.

*****

Tim scrambles through his unlocked window, camera clutched close to his pounding chest. He falls to the floor and just lies there for a moment, panting. The fan in his room goes around and around lazily and he tries to focus on it. Tries to calm the jack-rabbit pulse in his throat.

Tonight had not gone as planned. At all.

As in, he almost got himself killed.

Staring up at his ceiling, still attempting to calm his racing heart, he attempts to organize his brain.

His parents had left early in the morning, he’d even woken up before they’d gone. His mother had kissed him on the cheek and his father had ruffled his hair. It was the most affection Tim had gotten from them in months. But his mother had apparently gotten an amazing deal across during her meeting, so that was probably the cause. Still, it was nice.

He’d lazed around the house, even considered going to the Waynes a few times, but couldn’t bring himself to. Besides, Jason might have already left for the Middle East by then so what was the point?

At nightfall, he’d caught the late bus, hiked until he made it to the docks where Penguin’s shipping operation was supposed to happen. He waited for hours and had thought about calling it quits more than once, but something convinced him to stay.

He honestly still can’t decide if it was worth it or not.

The Bats had come out of nowhere, all three of them, and Tim was so relieved that they apparently made up, that he’d started taking shots of the beginning fight without thinking twice. Didn’t even look around before he started, either.

Stupid.

Incredibly, ridiculously stupid.

The guy had been so quiet and Tim hadn’t even noticed he was there until the back of his hoodie was grabbed by a meaty hand. In his defense, how was he supposed to know that Penguin’s goons had somehow become semi-good at their jobs? And it’s not like Tim didn’t fight back. He’d scratched and kicked and struggled until there was a knife at his throat and the crook started hissing threats at him to give up his camera.

That’s when Nightwing showed up.

One second Tim was sure he was about to be ripped apart, then the man that’d been holding him was getting slammed into the ground by a blur of blue and gold.

And Tim had turned away and ran.

Because he doesn’t even want to know what might have happened if Dick had seen him.

Or . . . maybe Dick had seen him. Tim sits up as if he’d been electrocuted, all attempts of trying to calm himself forgotten.

But, no. No, there’s no way Dick would have let him go if he’d glimpsed at Tim’s face. He’d have chased Tim down instead of letting him make it all the way back home. He forces his muscles to relax. It’s fine.

Shakily, he looks down at the camera still held tight in his grip. The pictures had turned out great, and he still wants to send a few to Gordon, but now there’s a chance that the Bats could trace those photos back to the skinny kid Nightwing had saved.

It’s not worth the risk.

He still kinda wants to, though.

Tim flops back onto the ground, exhausted. With all the Waynes out of town, there won’t be much activity at night anymore. All he’ll have to fill his time is school.

Man, the next couple of weeks are going to suck.

At least he has Bruce and Jason coming back to look forward to. Biting his lip, Tim stares at nothing, debating silently.

He’ll go, he decides. He’ll let Jason show him the library. He’ll let them help.

He’ll show up after they return home, ride his bike down to the Manor. Alfred will remember him and let him inside. Maybe he could help make tea again? He wants to do something useful, not just stand around until Jason appears and starts talking about books.

He could bring his camera with him and show them the pictures he takes. Not of the Bats, obviously. But the ones from when he stays out late enough that dawn comes and the city begins to wake up, the streets filled with mist from the rivers and windows glinting with morning sunlight. He thinks Bruce would like those.

Yeah. Yeah, he’ll go.

And for the first time in a long time, Tim falls asleep without loneliness clawing at his chest.

*****

Everything hurts.

His ribs feel like they’re on fire, and there’s blood in his lungs that he keeps choking on with every breath. Several of his fingers are bent in the wrong direction and he stares at them in sick fascination. Well, he tries to stare. The left side of his face is really swollen.

Distantly, he can hear Sheila screaming and hitting the door. She’s crying and looking at him with huge, teary eyes.

Bruce said he has her eyes.

She yells for help again and he kinda wants her to shut up. She’s making the pounding in his head almost unbearable. Besides, the door is too close to the bomb. He tries to tell her they should move, but his tongue is thick and bloody in his mouth and it won’t work right.

He struggles to stand in front of her instead. He’s dying anyway. Might as well die for someone.

Sheila seems to understand what he’s doing and she shakes her head, takes his face in her cool hands. He wants to hate her. He really wants to hate her. He only shuts his eyes instead.

After a precious second, he realizes that she’s saying something and his eyelids flutter open because his hearing is kind of messed up after getting hit so many times to the head. He stares at her lips and tries to get the words to form.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Oh. He supposes she should be sorry. She left him. She pulled a gun on him. Only smoked a cigarette while the Joker took his time with the crowbar. Maybe he got the smoking thing from her? Her eyes and a preference for cigarettes.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs it into his hair, and he doesn’t know why she’d want to do that because he’s still soaked in blood. Shit, he probably messed up her white shirt, didn’t he?

“I’m sorry.”

He tries to tell her it’s okay, but his throat feels like he’s been swallowing glass and gravel and the words won’t come.

I’m sorry.

He can’t tell if she’s still saying it or if it’s him now.

The numbers on the countdown are getting smaller and smaller. It suddenly hits him that Bruce won’t make it, not this time.

I’m sorry.

He’d promised to buy Barbara a chilidog. Told Tim he was gonna show him the library. Swore to help Alfred with the garden next Sunday.

I’m sorry.

What was the last thing he’d said to Rena? He thinks they ended on good terms, but the memory is fuzzy. He’s fairly sure she smiled at him after class. Oh. He isn't going to be able to finish his part of their group project, is he? Hopefully she'll still get a good grade.

I’m sorry.

His last interaction with Roy hadn’t ended nearly as well. Wish he could redo that. Dick is going to call him soon and his phone will only ring and ring and ring.

“I’m so sorry, Jason.”

Sheila is still talking into his hair. At some point, she’d wrapped her arms around him, but his good eye can still see the countdown. After another second, he relaxes and lets his eyes close. He understands her in a way.

He’s sorry for a lot of things, too.

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mischiefandspirits · 3 years

Text

Colony of Gotham (1/7)

Special thanks to @starlightandsunshine for helping me with this <3

The Colony of Gotham is an urban legend that is whispered about in the dangerous city. It's said the Colony is a family of demons and spirits that stalk the night, hunting for the souls of the guilty.

When Bruce became Batman, he'd never intended to be mistaken for a demon. He was happy to lean into it, though, and as he gained his partners -- as his family grew -- they all followed suit.

Next Part

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bruce Wayne was born a vampire, one from the long-standing Kane family of vampires through his mother. This nature granted him a few abilities. He was more durable than a human and could heal faster. He was stronger and faster than a human and had better sight and hearing, though not to anywhere near the degree that some metas boasted. He could take on the form of an animal and could influence bats, corvids, canines, and felines to a certain extent. Finally, he would stop aging once he reached his thirties, a trait of those who were born or turned young instead of those like Alfred who were turned at an older age and therefore would always be that age.

However, when he set off on his path to becoming Batman, he swore to himself that he would not rely on any of this to fight the criminals that plagued Gotham. He would not be like those heroes past who relied on their powers, then were left defenseless when those abilities faltered or were ripped away. After all, only a vampire’s healing and longevity remained during the day and some spells and devices could similarly strip his nature away.

Batman stuck to his wits, tech, and martial arts training.

Even still, the criminals of Gotham could tell something was off about the Bat. Rumors flew about a demon haunting Gotham’s night, which Bruce leaned into. He hadn’t chosen a bat just because of the family significance. He wanted to strike fear. As such, he stuck to the shadows and allowed his fangs to bare. He used makeup to make himself appear paler and contortionist tricks to make his movements uncanny. He allowed Batman to become an urban legend that sent shivers down the spines of Gotham’s infamous.

When Barbara Gordon became Batgirl, she quickly realized his tricks were just that and leaned into them as well. She became a ghost following in the Bat’s footsteps. She disappeared into a mist made from special smoke pellets and spun across the ground and air in a weightless way that came from years of ballet and gymnastics training. She wore shadows like Batman’s, but violet and gold peeked through the darkness to make her stand apart.

Bruce initially didn’t want her in the field, but she eventually proved herself both competent and stubborn. In a bid to help protect her, he outfitted her with proper gear and let her in on the secret of his nature. She considered it, then a week later she asked him to turn her so she could always watch his back.

Then Dick Grayson was taken in by the billionaire and became the Bloody Robin. They called him a demon child, the son of the Bat who flew on bird’s wings. His cheerful laughs and giggles echoed and hissed eerily thanks to a voice filter. His clothes were bright colors, but were covered by the wing-like shadows that wrapped over his shoulders. Fake blood dripped from his hair and eyes and coated the tips of his gloves and cape. He chirped like a bird as he flipped and flew through the air. His mask made his eyes glow white and his body almost appeared boneless when he moved around on the ground thanks to the contortionist who’d babysat him at the circus.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The three heard the tales when teams of heroes began to form, but they didn’t reach out. Gotham’s Colony was a myth, an urban legend. Those outside of Gotham had never heard of them and those within only spoke in whispers.

That was how the Colony preferred it.

Besides, the rest of the world wasn’t as dark as Gotham.

Their tricks and games worked fine in the shadow-filled gothic architecture that made up Gotham, the near-perpetual overcast days, and the deep darkness of Gotham’s nights, but cities like Jump, Metropolis, or Central were far brighter. They could do without, they’d proven that plenty of times against the bigger villains that were either too crazy or brave to fear the Bat, but why should they? The tricks and games had become a part of them over the years and discarding a piece of themselves just so they could work outside of Gotham with strangers felt wrong.

So the Colony stuck to their own.

On the job, at least.

Dick met Wally West at a two-week-long Jr. Forensics Summer Camp when they were eleven and thirteen respectively. Bruce had sent him to brush up on his skills while Wally’s mentor, Barry Allen, thought it would be good training. Neither boy knew about each other's secret lives, but became close friends all the same and kept in contact when they returned home. Dick didn’t reveal it to Wally when he discovered the other boy was Kid Flash, but kept a close eye on Central City just in case.

A similar situation happened two years later when the Colony discovered Green Arrow’s latest protégé, a girl named Artemis Crock, lived in Gotham and had been helped into Gotham Academy by the other billionaire. Dick decided to keep an eye on her, but his pseudo-stalking quickly turned into a genuine friendship.

He may have taken a bit too much joy in introducing Wally and Artemis to one another. Wally got back at him a few years later by introducing him to the model Kory Anders, the secret identity of his celebrity crush Starfire. Dick had to admit to having a crush on Kory as well to explain his nerves.

It turned out to be a net gain in the end, though, since he came out of it with her phone number.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As time passed, Dick started to get too old to be the demon child. He decided to create a new story for himself. One that would let him step out from under the shadow of the bat, using a name from an alien myth in Bruce’s files that he’d loved reading growing up. He and Bruce argued, and Dick spent some time sleeping on Barbara’s couch, but with nowhere to run they were forced to come to a compromise. There was still tension, but it was smoothed over with time and a bite.

Nightwing was a nocturnal bird that had taken human shape after being taken in by Batgirl’s elegance. It chased after and raced the ghost, nothing but shadows and a blue streak flying through the air. Those who got close enough to see his face would say that his skin was like porcelain while black wings covered his eyes completely and his lips were painted with darkness.

Nightwing wasn’t the only change to the Colony, though, because as Dick was finishing up his designs for the story, a little boy was stealing the tires off the Batmobile.

Dick was furious when the kid climbed out of the car into the cave, thinking Bruce had brought the kid in as a new Robin without even consulting him, but anger’s quickly replaced by confusion.

Because Batman wasn’t with the kid.

Jason Todd had gotten grabbed by the Bat after having already nicked three tires off the batmobile. Batman caught him before he could run then replaced the tires. He’d made a mistake in leaving the boy in the car when he went to call for someone to pick him up, however. Jason, who some might generously call impulsive, proceeded to use the opportunity presented to him to hotwire the vehicle and take it for a joyride that ended when he accidentally had the autopilot bring him to the cave.

Dick was immediately taken with the small spitfire’s story, as well as his stubbornness and intellect. Meanwhile, Jason was amused by the fact that Gotham’s demon was, in his eyes, nothing more than a spectacular conman and wanted in. They teamed up to force Bruce to adopt the younger boy through underhanded -- and perhaps slightly illegal -- tactics.

As Dick started using his new story more and Robin less, Jason got his own turn under Batman’s cape.

People started to say Robin was more vicious. He’d climb walls, the claws on his feet and hands easily cutting into brick and metal. He’d give a fang-filled smirk as he hung from the ceiling like he’d forgotten he was a bird instead of a bat, only to drop down on unsuspecting shoulders. If he wasn’t clawing at opponents, he was beating them with his fists.

As one of his first acts as Robin, Jason saved a young boy who had been kidnapped for ransom. The kid had acted out of it during the rescue, but Jason put it down to trauma. He’d had no reason to realize the young detective-to-be had noticed the edge of Jason’s fake fangs through the shadows and fake blood. No one could have predicted the rabbit hole young Tim Drake had just fallen down nor that it would lead him to massive discoveries in the near future.

When Jason discovered Catherine Todd wasn’t his birth mother, he considered going alone to look for the mystery woman who’d given birth to him. He and Bruce had just had a fight about his temper that had left him benched and he wanted to prove himself, but something Dick had told him months before echoed in his mind.

“No matter how much we argue, we’re always going to be there for each other. Us birds and bats, we’re a family. We have to stick together.”

In the end, he asked Dick and Barbara for help. It was something he was thankful for when his mother sold him out to the Joker. At least he could hold out against the torment with the knowledge his true family would soon come for him.

When Batgirl and Nightwing arrived, Joker fled. Barbara got Jason out while Dick, after seeing the state of his brother, tracked down the clown. Bruce got to him just in time to stop him from beating Joker to death, but when he saw Jason’s condition he couldn’t bring himself to scold his elder son for his loss of control.

Jason was barely hanging on and Bruce, knowing there was no other choice, turned him.

The boy lived, but his injuries were too severe and he fell into a coma.

Three weeks later, Bruce and Dick came into Bruce’s study to find Tim Drake waiting for them. Both were a little more focused on “My parents are never home” than “so I’m in a perfect position to cover for Jason as Robin while he’s sleeping,” to Tim’s confusion, but he ended up in the suit all the same.

The whispers that had come after Joker’s latest incarceration had him crowing about clipping bird wings tapered off as Robin sightings flared up throughout the city. People saw him flying next to the Bat and they heard him tap-tap-tapping his claws. He tapped them against the walls as he hunted through warehouses and against the floors as he crouched in front of technology that seemed to unlock under his gaze thanks to the computer that’d been built into his gloves, the interface of which could only be seen through the lenses in the Colony’s masks and cowls.

Tim didn’t really know how to feel about being adopted by Bruce, aside from the guilt he knew was mixed in there somewhere. It felt wrong to be slipping into the family like that while Jason was right there and Dick had to talk him down when the anxiety attack eventually hit.

Tim was Tim. He wasn’t Jason and they didn’t want him to be Jason.

Dick understood though. He explained how Dick and Jason had both had similar feelings regarding Barbara and Dick respectively, though Dick could admit he’d gotten off easier all things considered. He told Tim that the Colony was a family, and adoption or not, Tim was a part of that now. Jason wasn’t going anywhere and neither was Tim.

When Jason woke, Dick had a similar conversation with him after Jay saw a news broadcast about Tim while waiting for the others to arrive. It soothed him some, and Tim soothed him more when he assured Jason he wasn’t taking Robin from him.

“There can’t be two Robins.”

“Why can’t there?”

As Jason went through physical training to get back in shape, the two worked together to develop a strategy for acting as Robin together. One part of this was Trillic.

Tim, with help from Dick and Jason, invented a secret language made up of chirps, whistles, and clicks. It started as a way for the Robins to communicate with each other without giving away there was more than one, but over time the rest of the Colony picked it up and the vocabulary expanded until it became the family’s own personal language that they’d use whenever they didn’t feel like using words.

A few days after Jason was released from the hospital, Dick found Jason down in the cave and grew worried his little brother was pushing himself too soon after his accident. Then he saw the young woman on the screen. She looked a year or two older than Jason with long red hair, olive skin, and bright green eyes.

They’d met in Ethiopia, Jason told him, while saving a woman from some men. Jason had wanted to try to track her down now that he was awake. He’d succeeded, but it turned out she was an Amazonian hero.

Combined with the fact her name was Artemis, Dick couldn’t help but laugh and make a joke about Jason following in his footsteps. Jason smacked him and told him she was really more of an anti-hero so it wasn’t the same as Dick making friends with Kid Flash and Tigress, but Dick ignored him.

Jason did end up contacting her, and even got her to take a visit to Gotham. Dick took the opportunity to introduce her to Wally and his own Artemis, who Wally began to refer to as Stripes to not get confused. When questioned, he claimed it was because of some outfit of hers that stuck in his mind. Dick and Jason, knowing it was actually based on her identity as Tigress, nodded along and picked up using the name, to her annoyance.

Surprisingly, the two women didn’t get along despite their similar attitudes. This led to them taking great offense whenever people couldn’t tell which Artemis was being talked about, something only Jason, Dick, and Alfred never managed to do.

While the teens were laughing over this, whispers were going around about how the Bloody Robin seemed to be everywhere. If you fled from a room you knew he was in, you’d find him standing right in front of you in the new room. There was no escape. And he trilled more than ever, though his voice almost seemed to echo back at him as if he was having a conversation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not long after the Justice League had formed, Barbara had hacked into their security system and planted a little bug she named Mockingbird. It was designed to alert her whenever someone mentioned the Colony’s civilian or vigilante identities and copy any footage during the time. More often than not all it gave her was Wally and Bow-Artemis (as most of the family thought of her, to contrast with Axe-Artemis) discussing Dick. Every so often though, there’d be someone pining after Dick or Bruce, which could be good for a laugh depending on who it was.

On a day not long after the Robins had been set loose together, Mockingbird gave her something that was sort of new, yet at the same time not.

The video started with Wally discussing some prank he and Dick had pulled on Bruce and slowly devolved into him just bragging about how awesome Dick was. Suddenly he froze, staring off into the air.

Artemis took one look at him and asked, “Did you finally realize you’ve got a crush on your best friend?”

He immediately went to reassure his girlfriend, but she said got it and even shared his feelings.

Barbara settled in to watch the show.

Unfortunately, it took longer than she’d anticipated for Dick to catch on that the two actually wanted to date him and not just spend more time with him. He was usually pretty good at picking up on people’s feelings, yet Artemis ended up having to pull him into her lap during a movie night and kiss him flat on the lips before it sunk in.

When Barbara approached him about it, he pouted over her spying. Then he admitted that he’d known for years they all had feelings for each other, he just hadn’t wanted to risk getting in the middle of the two’s relationship since they seemed so happy together. When he’d realized how they’d started flirting with him, he’d been worried they were just after a quick thing and he couldn’t do that to himself. So he’d put on his media mask of naive ditz Dickie who wouldn’t recognize flirting if it hit him in the face.

Thankfully the two had reassured him and after talking it through, the three settled happily into their throuple.

To congratulate his brother, Jason gave him a solid week before making jokes about Dick following in Bruce’s footsteps by dating someone with a feline-themed suit.

The next hurdle was deciding how to deal with the media. Dick was Richard “Dickie” Grayson, eldest son of Bruce Wayne. The media loved to go on about him. Pretty much every second of his relationship with Kory had been recorded by the press. Neither of them had minded. He was still a performer at heart, always would be, and she was a warrior princess who had been in the spotlight all her life.

But Dick knew Wally and Artemis weren’t Kory so he talked to them about how they wanted to handle things.

In the end, they agreed only friends and family would know about Artemis, but Wally and Dick would go public. They all had practice keeping much bigger secrets so it wasn’t hard on Artemis to hide their relationship. Meanwhile, Wally didn’t mind playing around for the cameras. Plus, he knew how people treated Dick when they thought he was single and a small possessive part of him didn’t want them trying anything, even if he knew Dick would never cheat.

Things didn’t actually turn out too bad. Of course, there were always the conservatives that came around when Dick got a boyfriend, but they never stuck around long. Bruce had made his support of Dick’s sexuality very clear from the beginning and no one wanted to risk really ticking someone as rich and connected as him off by attacking his son like that.

The real problem came when their agreement to tell their families accidentally didn’t reach everyone.

Dick had been alone at the manor when it happened.

Bruce had gone on a weekend business trip, bringing Tim with him. Alfred was on a trip to England. Jason had taken the opportunity to spend the weekend hopefully not blowing things up with Artemis Grace, who had ended up getting a small flat in Gotham to act as her home base so she could visit with Jason and Dick during the rare occasions she wasn’t running across the world causing trouble with the Outlaws. Dick had been planning to spend the weekend with his partners at Stripe’s apartment, but they’d both been caught up by something (Dick assumed a mission had unexpectedly run long) so he had the night to himself.

He was watching a movie in the theater room when he felt a shift in the air. He immediately dropped to the floor, barely avoiding the sai that had been coming for his throat. Then he was over the back of the couch and engaging the assassin. He quickly realized she was with the League of Assassins as he recognized moves Bruce had picked up from them. She was good, too, but she had clearly come to the fight unprepared to face a Gotham myth. He didn’t take too many hits before pinning her and binding her hands and feet with the obijime from her dress. He then disarmed her of all her hidden weapons just in case.

When he questioned her, she declared that she was Artemis’s sister and had come to avenge her honor after Wally had betrayed her for Dick. She was not going to sit back and let the fool cheat on or dump her sister for the likes of a man she had believed was nothing more than an airheaded socialite.

Then, with narrowed eyes, she added that she had clearly been mistaken as not many airheaded socialites had been trained by assassins. Nor did they use moves only known by those trained by Ra’s al Ghul.

Dick ignored that and explained the trio’s situation as he untied her, having recognized her as Cheshire aka Jade Nguyen aka his girlfriend’s -- apparently protective -- assassin sister.

He took pride in the fact that he was dating someone who was only related to criminals instead of actually dating a criminal, unlike a certain father of his.

She thankfully believed him, though she did warn that should he be lying or should he hurt Artemis, she wouldn’t underestimate him a second time. She made a few more thinly veiled digs at his assassin-based fighting style as he showed her out that he cleanly sidestepped with comments about self-defense training. They both knew she didn’t believe a word of it, but she left it alone as she slipped away into the night.

So long as her sister remained unharmed, she had no desire to get involved in whatever was going on between the Wayne’s and al Ghul’s.

Before she left Gotham, though, she met Artemis and Wally on their way in and informed her sister that she approved of her new boyfriend. Both to be sure Dick was telling the truth and to mess with the speedster. The two predictably freaked out and she used their panic to slip away.

Dick answered Artemis’s call with, “Oh hey, Stripes! Your sister came by earlier to give me the shovel talk over tea. It was pretty gory, but I think the one Jason gave Wally was still probably worse so I’m not going to complain. Are we still on for tomorrow?” to their relief.

Artemis had not wanted to try to explain her assassin sister to her civilian boyfriend.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I decided to use Stephanie's Batgirl suit for Babs because most of Babs' suits are either bright or look just like Batman's. Steph will get other suits of hers when she appears.

The Robin suit looks just like Dick's from The Batman (2004), just bloodier.

Nightwing's suit looks like the typical V one, just with the eyes of the mask being blacked out. Also, black lipstick because yes.

Vampires’ animal forms:

Bruce: Gray bat

Alfred: Common raven

Selina: Oriental shorthair cat

Barbara: Little red flying fox

Dick: Black-billed magpie

Jason: Malayan flying fox

#batman #batfam #colony of gotham #fanfiction

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damianwaynerocks · 4 years

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Ghosts in Gotham

Danny Phantom / DC Comics fanfic

Dedicated to: @dannyphantom-justiceleauge

Summary: The Batfamily has been through their fair share of the supernatural. That’s why they originally weren’t worried whenever ghosts started showing up in Gotham City. Until one day, something happens; Batman is captured and taken into the Ghost Zone. With no way to go in there themselves, the no way to fight the ghosts inside, the bats decide to call the person who can; Danny Phantom. Together, Danny takes Tim Drake, Stephanie Brown and Damian Wayne into the Ghost Zone before the Batman is lost forever.

Words: 2032

ch 2 Masterlist

Chapter 1:

Every city had its hero.

Gotham City? Batman. Metropolis? Superman. Central City? The Flash.

Amity Park? Danny Phantom.

Amity Park had mixed feelings about Phantom. Some said he was a helper, a true hero, keeping the town safe. Others said he was a criminal, doing nothing but wreaking havoc on the town. Either way, Phantom was known for one specific thing; fighting ghosts.

Which is what he was doing at the moment.

"I am!! The Box Ghost!!" a short, stocky ghost shouted. His eyes glowed blue and an aura of the same color surrounded the boxes crowding the back of a movie theater. "Beware!" he raised his arms and hurled three boxes at a figure who easily dodged.

"Come on, Box Ghost," a teenage boy with white hair and green eyes floating above the ground groaned. "I don't have time for this! I have to order the new Cheese Viking game before it sells out!"

"Beware!" The Box Ghost shouted again, throwing more boxes at the boy.

Danny Phantom rolled his eyes as his body became intangible, the boxes easily passing through it. He raised his arm, and a blast of bright green energy shot from his palm, hitting the Box Ghost square in the chest. The Box Ghost, with a grunt, was blown back into the brick wall of the movie theater.

Not wasting any time, Danny grabbed the thermos that he had strapped to his back and pointed it at the other ghost. In a flash of light, the Box Ghost was sucked into the thermos.

"Finally," Danny muttered as he took off into the sky.

Danny Phantom, his real name being Danny Fenton, was a sixteen-year-old halfa, or a ghost-human hybrid. He could switch between ghost and human form at will. He'd gotten his powers from an accident with the Ghost Portal, a portal in his home that was a bridge between the human world and the Ghost Zone, where every ghost resides.

Ghosts repeatedly escaped the Ghost Zone through this portal for one of three reasons; to wreak havoc on the human world, to kill Danny or both. Usually, it was the latter.

Danny returned to his house, passing through the walls of the building with intangibility and landing in the lab. He switched back to his human form in a flash of light, changing his hair color from white to black and his eyes from green to blue.

His family was made up of ghost hunters- aside from his sister -so they had an entire lab dedicated to ghost technology.

"Back you go, Boxy," Danny said as he released the Box Ghost into the portal. "Finally," he sighed, "Time to get Cheese Viking."

"No!" he shouted five minutes later at his computer. The new Cheese Viking, Danny's favorite game, had sold out.

"Danny!" a large man in an orange jumpsuit burst into the boy's room. "Are you okay!? Are you hurt!?"

"No, Dad, I'm fine," Danny replied to his father, Jack Fenton. "Except for that stupid Box Ghost making me too late to get Cheese Viking!"

He hadn't told his parents about his life as Phantom until he was fifteen. Well, it wasn't Danny who told them. His sister found him in his room passed out with a gaping hole in his side, and she had to tell their parents so they could help him.

Jack paused. "But.. you got him?" he asked cheerily. Danny smiled.

"Yeah. I got him." Jack slapped him on the back.

"Thatta boy!" he said with a grin. "Come on, Jazz got a letter from Wayne Enterprises and your mom wants the whole family to watch her open it!"

Jazz, Danny's sister, had just graduated high school and had applied for an internship at Wayne Enterprises, one of the largest businesses in the world. An internship there would kick-start her career in marketing. That was the reason she claimed, but Danny was sure that part of the reason was that Bruce Wayne, the billionaire who owned Wayne Enterprises, was cute.

"Finally!" Jazz, a girl with long red hair and a blue headband huffed. "I haven't been able to look for three hours! What were you out doing?"

"Uh, my job?" Danny smirked as he hopped over the back of the couch to sit on it. Jazz rolled her eyes.

"Open it, dear!" Their mom, Maddie Fenton, urged. Jazz grinned widely, opening the letter. Her smile grew, and she jumped up and down.

"I got it!" she squealed. "I got it!! I got the internship!!"

"That's great, Jazz!" the other three Fentons exclaimed at once. Jazz seemed to get even more excited as she continued reading the letter.

"And," she continued excitedly, "All the interns are expected to attend the next Wayne Gala with their families! All expenses paid!"

"Yes!" Jack cried. "We're going to New Jersey, baby!" As the entire family celebrated, Danny couldn't help but be suspicious. Jazz had applied late and while she was smart, she wouldn't have been anything special next to the other applicants.

Something was up. _

"So what, you think she only got accepted because of you?" A girl with short black hair raised an eyebrow as they walked through the halls of their high school. "Why, exactly?"

"Because, Sam," Danny responded to his girlfriend. "It's weird. I was looking at the Infi-map, and there's a portal to the Ghost Zone in Gotham that wasn't there a month ago. And get this? It's five miles away from Wayne Manor.”

"You think Bruce Wayne wants you out of the way for some plan?

"It wouldn't be the first time somebody did."

"But how would he even know who you are?" Sam Manson asked, "I mean, there's no way he knows that you're Phantom."

"Um, because he's Batman?" An African American boy walking beside them scoffed as though it was obvious. "Batman knows everything."

Danny and Sam laughed. "Tucker, seriously?" Danny shook his head in disbelief. "That conspiracy? Batman and Bruce Wayne have been seen at the same time in the same place multiple times.”

"Okay, well, you can clone yourself! Who's to say Batman can't? Or maybe it's a hologram! Or maybe it's one of his thousand children in the suit!" Tucker Foley counted on his fingers as he rattled off the various theories. His eyes widened, and he grabbed Danny's shoulders. "Dude, you have to get proof."

"There's no way I'd be able to get close enough to Bruce Wayne to prove anything."

"Then trick him!" Tucker said, his eyes bright. "Most of Bruce's adopted kids are boys with black hair and blue eyes! Just say you're an orphan and I bet he'll be like 'Of course you can stay, I am always down for more children."

"Okay, first of all," Danny began, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder and prying his friends arms off of him. “His son Damian? That kid scares me, he gives off Dash vibes. Did you see how he made that interviewer cry?"

A few months prior, a video had surfaced that showed Damian Wayne insulting a girl who was trying to give him an interview. The two-minute video ended with the girl crying.

"And second of all-" Danny was cut off as he was shoved to the ground. He looked up to see Dash Baxter, a muscular boy with blonde hair.

"Watch where you're going, Fen-freak," Dash sneered, "Before I shove your puny face into a locker!"

Danny gritted his teeth as he sat up. Dash had been picking on him from the beginning of high school. Two years later, he hadn't stopped.

On any other occasion, Danny would have said something in response, but Dash had already continued down the hall.

"Why can't you just zap him or something?" Tucker grumbled. "He's the worst!"

"Yeah, I know," Danny stood up, wiping dust off of his shirt. "But I can't. It isn't right."

"Your moral code is dumb," his friend snapped back.

"If you're going to Gotham," said Sam with a pointed look at Tucker. "Who's gonna be here to help with the ghosts?"

"I've got it covered," Danny replied swiftly, looking up. "Dani's coming down. It'll be fine. I have to keep Jazz safe, and figure out what Brucie Wayne is up to."

"I am sure Father would have a better plan than to invite some under-qualified intern to the Manor."

A seventeen-year-old boy with spiky black hair rolled his eyes. "Damian, she isn't under-qualified. She meets all of the qualifications for the internship."

The first boy, an Arab thirteen-year-old with the same spiky hair and bright green eyes, scoffed. "There is no way a person from some backwater town would have received the internship if we hadn't needed her brother."

Tim Drake and Damian Wayne, the youngest children of Bruce Wayne. Damian currently held the Robin mantle, while Tim used Red Robin. The brothers were in a large cave decked out with a plethora of high-tech equipment.

"Okay, but you think every place outside of Gotham is a backwater town." Tim pointed out as he swiveled his chair to face a massive computer.

"Amity Park is a backwater town. The citizens there are animals," Damian retorted, crossing his arms. "You just cannot see that because you are also a backwater type."

Tim laughed as he realized what the younger boy was basing his opinion on. "Damian, please tell me you haven't generalized an entire city just because of one tourist from Amity Park ran into you and spilled soda on your shirt."

"It was my favorite shirt! And that cretin did not even apologize!" Damian spat. "The nerve!"

"Okay, well, put aside your dumb grudge and think about the objective," Tim responded. "I think, if you look within that thing you call a soul, you can see that letting one intern that you think is under-qualified is worth getting Bruce back."

"Tt. I suppose," Damian admitted begrudgingly. "If this Danny Phantom character truly has the potential to save Father."

"He's the only one who can." Tim reminded him. "We can't get into the Ghost Zone without a ghost, and I don't think any of the ones we've seen so far would be willing to help," He paused. "Plus, don't the Fentons make ghost hunting gear? Who knows, maybe they have a ghost sword."

After a sudden wave of ghost attacks in Gotham, Bruce had poured in countless hours of research to find out as much as he could about ghosts. He had discovered that they came from another dimension and that there was one person who was an expert at fighting them; Danny Phantom of Amity Park. It didn't take very long for him to uncover Phantom's true identity.

"Tim! Dames!" a voice shouted. "My boys!" Tim and Damian looked towards the stairs and saw a taller man with black hair and blue eyes jump the railing of said stairs, landing in the Bat Cave.This was their oldest brother, Dick Grayson, also known as Nightwing. He grinned brightly. "How's it going?"

"Making sure that we have every possible outcome of this mission prepared for." Tim replied as he continued typing on the Bat Computer. Damian nodded.

“Yes, and so I have decided that I shall accompany them on this journey."

"Damian, no." his older brothers said at the same time. Damian scowled.

"Why not? I am plenty capable of-

"Because people would get suspicious if Batman suddenly didn't have a Robin," Dick answered, strolling towards the younger boy. "That's why Jason, Tim, and Stephanie are going. They won't be missed," He gave Tim a nervous look. "No offense."

"None taken," Tim replied, waving his hand. "Sorry Damian, you'd just get in the way."

"But I have died before!" Damian huffed, his hands clenching into fists. "That combined with my skills- which are far greater than yours, Drake, I might add -makes me much more qualified than you."

"Little D, dude, I just told you," Dick ruffled his younger brother's hair. "It'll be suspicious if you're gone. And besides, I need you. We're a great team."

"But my father is in there-"

"Master Damian-" their butler, Alfred Pennyworth, interrupted the trio's squabbling. "You won't be going anywhere until your homework is done."

"Homework? Finding my father is much more important than an essay on why the Roman empire fe-"

"Master Damian." Alfred repeated in a low tone. "Now."

Damian scowled as he trudged up the stairs. It didn't matter how tough the person was. When Alfred told you to do something, you do it. "I will be going with you, Drake!" he called behind his shoulder. "I promise you that!"

Dick and Tim exchanged a glance and rolled their eyes.

"Children."

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bitch-i-migth-be · 4 years

Text

Crash Course | Chapter 06: That one weird uncle-godfather-almost-parent-figure-thingy that refuses to go away because you're a walking disaster and they love you to pieces (sometimes literally)

Fandoms: Danny Phantom, Batman,

Relationships: Danny Fenton & Jazz Fenton, Danny Fenton & Jazz Fenton & Vlad Masters,

Characters: Danny Fenton, Jazz Fenton, Random ghosties mentions *boo*, Vlad Fucking Masters Everyone, OC.

Words: 5′195

Tags: Sibling bonding, Shenanigans, Swearing, Quasi Family dinners, cuddling, ghost core shenanigans, OC, Ghost King Danny, Vlad being vlad

Chapter Summary: Vlad.exe has started ‘the scheming’. These kids are tired. And another agent of Chaos is here.

A/N: I can’t believe I can get away with using that title.

Why is no one stopping me?

As the writer, I reserve the right to withhold information for now. Remember what I said about taking liberties?? Yeah, still doing that. Roll with me, pls-

Good news! This and another chapter more before Gotham! Fucking finally.

-.-.-.-

THIS IS ON AO3, IF ANYONE WOULD PREFER TO READ THERE. LOVE COMmENTs so if u have anything to say IwillBeReallyHappyYesThankU

CHAPTERS: 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7

-.-.-.-

Vlad considered himself a man of simple pleasures.

If something caught his attention and would make him happy then he went and got it.

Not caring about what other people might think about his choices. If his happiness was on the line what other people had to say was irrelevant. Unless said people were influential enough to affect his future, in which case he had to tread carefully. But he never gave up on what he had put his sights on.

This way of thinking had accompanied him since he was a young lad and It didn’t seem like it was going to change anytime soon. If his experience with Jack and Maddie hadn’t made the trick he didn’t know what possibly could.

At the time, meeting Jack Fenton at the University of Wisconsin had opened the door to new possibilities. The man got so pumped up that he seemed to exude cheer all over the place, it was a sharp contrast to the dull family Vlad had left behind in his search for higher education, for something better than the leftovers they hoped would make him happy.

What Jack brought to the table was new. A field of study no one had ever researched before, not like this, not with proper scientific evidence.

So he had let himself get dragged along. Just to see what it was like. A shot in the dark, so to speak.

It was enough to intrigue him.

To the point that Vlad, who until that point was gunning for a major in business, had upgraded to a double major to include engineering, with a personal-extra-side of whatever the hell he needed to know to make sense of the things Jack kept spouting around like a complete madman.

With the proper knowledge, and even more intrigued, Vlad had come to realize that while Jack seemed like a goofball at first sight, there was some backbone to his theories. That had just sealed the deal.

And then Maddie came along. crashing into them with all the brilliance of a shooting star.

Madeline, who had been the cherry on top. Beautiful, passionate, and headstrong. Well on her way to becoming an amazing engineer with the meanest right hook Vlad had ever seen.

He had become infatuated. It was almost laughable how hard he had hit the ground running with that one.

It went downhill from there with him none the wiser.

They had shared hopes and dreams with Vlad in a way not even his blood family had. Become his best and only friends. And he was sure that with time and careful planning Madeline could become more.

Could anyone blame him for thinking this could be what a true family was like? For thinking that this was it.

They had been his everything, and as such he would have done anything within his power to lay the world before them.

Which made their betrayal hurt deeper.

He had failed to see, as submerged as he was in his little happy bubble and the research, the growing distance between them and him, the sneaking around, the way they had started to look at each other. The distraction that had lead to mistakes

Irreversible mistakes.

Ones they hadn’t stuck around for.

He had been a complete mess after that.

He had carried on. Once out of the hospital he has persevered and achieved everything that got on his way, and if he used a little bit of ghostly help that was no one’s business but his. And maybe he would have been happy with that, but there was always that little thorn that seemed to be stuck to his core. He had tried to play the fool. It hadn’t worked. And it wasn’t even his style, to begin with.

So when the opportunity presented itself to try and fix some of what he had lost in the past, he took it.

He had planned to barge in guns blazing. And he did. But he hadn’t been expecting the pair of scrawny teens he had been presented with. Much less for one of them to have been subjected to the same affliction that haunted his days. Just that the brat had it worse because it had been his parents who had half-killed him and not his best friends.

Vlad would find out later about what exactly happened in the Fenton’s basement and laugh bitterly while sipping cognac because that made it even more ironic.

He had thought about it long and hard. And decided to accept the child as his apprentice and honorary son. The kid was in urgent need of some proper training. A pair of meals for him and his sister wouldn’t hurt either — as blind as he had been back then, he was coherent enough to still recognize the mistake that was letting either of his ‘friends’ in the kitchen. — He was deliberately choosing to disregard their parent’s crime in order to help them.

He was amicable like that. Kind, even.

If only the ungrateful little badger cooperated.

jasmine, who had eventually realized what exactly was going on — The man had seen it coming from miles away, the girl was smart and her disaster of a brother kept stumbling around town as if he didn’t have a care in the world. It was distressing to witness. — and not just the surface passive-aggressive way they sniped at each other in public, would help him realize that he had been going all wrong about approaching Daniel.

He had been treating him like he used to treat the boy’s parents

The older Fentons had never treated him seriously, so he always had to find dramatic ways to make them go along with what he wanted. Come to think of it, he had done that with a lot of people…

So, he had unconsciously regressed to his college years. Never a good stage to revive. It had obviously led straight to disaster, and he might or might not have neglected his business in the meantime. Thankfully, Jasmine had taken it upon herself to snap him out of it. Trying to run for mayor in a town in the middle of nowhere. Him. A goddamned Billionaire. What was he even thinking?

Obsessions were a dangerous thing. He would need to be more careful in the future.

To summarize, Jasmine had been, as much as it pained him to accept it, most helpful in their little chats on how to deal with teenagers.

Now, he realized, the desire to keep striving for his beloved Madeline’s hand was putting a dent in his interactions with the little badger, and even his sister would show reluctance if he went a little too far. And if he wanted to educate this childr- child, educate this child properly, that was not going to help him to accomplish his goals.

He was a businessman. He knew when risks were acceptable. Knew what investments would not be profitable.

There was a reason he had managed to convince the University of Wisconsin to finance their research when there wasn’t any concrete proof of ghosts, a reason he had managed to become a millionaire. Other than sleight of hand. That is.

In the end, the final choice was pretty obvious.

Having his obsession slowly shift targets after meeting the kids had been quite the experience.

Especially because he, self-made billionaire, the man on top of everything, who had fingers in all of the biggest pies out there, The Vlad Masters Himself, had not seen it coming.

-.-.-.-

Vlad would love to say he exhorted the best place to eat out of the boy. But really. Once Vlad said he was paying Daniel was more than happy to shoot for the tastiest and expensive things the siblings normally couldn’t afford. Jasmine was not openly contributing to her brother’s effort to suck him dry of money, but she was not stopping him either.

He didn’t have any proof those two could communicate telepathically but by this point, he felt he didn’t need any. They probably had some sort of silent signals. The sneaky little shits.

The man didn’t mind. Not really. He got the brats all for himself, after all. It was a win-win situation.

“So,” he started with a hum “What happened with the box ghost?” Vlad inquired

The boy glared at him. Vlad smirked. Jasmine was making a great job at feigning deafness while looking completely done with them.

“I dealt with him accordingly.”Danny glowered, stabbing his burger with a fork. The billionaire wasn’t sure if that was meant to make a point or the teen went feral on automatic these days even with his food. “The fuck, Vlad. I thought we were in peace mode.”

“Excuse you, child. I didn’t have anything to do with that. It was just making a simple question.” Which was mostly true, Vlad wouldn’t lower himself to the point of using such an annoying ghost as a lackey. He just liked to poke fun at little badger “And even if I had, that was before I called a truce. It would have been completely valid.”

Daniel just grumbled, conceding the point, and continued mangling the food on his plate. The little heathen.

Having lost the attention of the boy, he took a sip of his drink and turned to look at the other sibling.

“You convinced them to do your research in ghosts, hm?”

“Not like it was hard.” she was eating at a more sedate pace than her brother, but still a little faster than would be considered appropriate in polite company. “Thanks to a pair of someones.” she sniffed at them. Danny smiled at her but kept his mouth closed and otherwise occupied with food. Vlad just hummed in quiet approval.

“Good job.” then he frowned. “But also, why?”

“Why what?”

“Not the best place you could have chosen to do that, is it now?”

“Maybe not the most agreeable, no.” She conceded, reaching over to take a napkin. “But it is the best place for my purposes.”

“Why though?” He insisted, hoping for a proper explanation.

“Why not?” she retorted, the picture of innocence taking another bite. Vlad sighed and rolled his eyes, he kept forgetting she could be as bad as her brother sometimes.

“Does it matter, old man? We are going anyway.” Daniel finally joined the conversation again, waving one of his french fries in an extremely judgy manner in Vlad’s direction “I didn’t pull all those strings in the zone for you to come complaining and think we are backing down just because you don’t like it.“

“Oh ho, strings, you say?” Vlad mocked, “Would that have anything to do with the reason why Skulker came to me seeking refuge with his tail between his legs?”

Daniel almost choked on his next bite. Enough that Jasmine started looking worried, most likely about whether or not she would have to use the Heimlich on him. She relaxed when her brother finally sucked some air into his lungs just to immediately start laughing.

“It does have some relation, yes” Jasmine took over for her brother, seeing as he was too busy making an impression of the lion king’s hyenas. It was a good thing they were in the more private part of the restaurant. “We, um, had to get creative.”

Vlad just raised both his eyebrows at her, and with a background of her brother’s cackles, she finally acceded to give in some ground.

“I have a theory, and frankly, it would be faster if I do this in Arkham. For a bunch of reasons I don’t feel comfortable discussing at the moment.” Jasmine offered, “Plus, seeing as Danny is insisting on tagging along and at the moment he can’t really afford to leave Amity for longer than necessary-” Hearing that made Daniel come back from his endless snickering.

“Hey! don’t try to pin this on me. This was all you-!”

After that, a free for all started between the siblings and Vlad stopped listening, feeling honest to the ancients offended. Couldn’t afford to leave longer? Please, Vlad could fix that in a jiffy, they just needed to ask- but nooo, the brats always had to go to the extremes for everything.

Although Vlad had to admit that Jasmine most likely had good reasons — If Daniel had said it, he wouldn’t even contemplate the validity of such a loose statement — for saying it would be faster doing it in Gotham- ugh, he had to stop himself from sneering just at the mention of the place.

He had decided to open a branch office for one of his companies in the damned city and it had been nothing more than a headache in the last years. He had opted to send people over from the other branches to take care of everything rather than hiring people from Gotham to fill the spots available.

After a pair of months of operations, it had become obvious that the place wasn’t working as smoothly as any of his other offices all over the world.

It seemed like his employees didn’t have the spine to deal with the city’s threats properly. And hiring more Gothamites, who were guaranteed to have a spine on behalf of being raised in the place, would just make the mess bigger without him there to supervise.

Which he hadn’t had the time to do.

Come to think of it, the only reason he hadn’t taken it into his own hands was because-

His train of thought stopped right in its tracks, eyes snapping open as he took a long look at the kids in front of him.

They seemed to have stopped discussing at some point, but the teenaged halfa was currently trying to steal some food from the plate of the young lady at his side. His sister, on retaliation, was moving her fork in an exaggerated stab motion to discourage her thieving little brother.

“Oh,” he uttered under his breath, as good as speechless and unable to take his eyes off them.

I didn’t take matters of Gotham into my own hands because of them.

The thought, and the implications that came along with it, struck him so suddenly that they left him startled enough to start laughing without care for present company.

Oh, this was too good!

Daniel was watching him warily. As if Vlad showing any kind of amusement was a sign of danger. Which, considering, was fair enough.

Jasmine just took the opportunity the distraction lent her to keep eating peacefully before her brother got any other funny ideas about food-thievery.

Vlad put his elbow on the table, interlacing his fingers so he could rest his chin on the joined hands, smirking and allowing himself to let out some random chuckles from time to time. Seeing the boy get all ruffled up was fun. Especially when he hadn’t done anything yet.

‘Yet’ being the keyword.

Oh, this was going to work perfectly after all.

-.-.-.-

After eating their fill and doing some more quasi civilized talking they finally got some dessert and the siblings took the opportunity to order some take-out to have for breakfast. It was never a bad thing to secure food beforehand, and Vlad had seemed agreeable enough.

Way too agreeable if you asked Danny. But food was food, and there wouldn’t be no looking at horses’ mouths in this household, no sir.

Vlad said his goodbyes claiming to have urgent business to attend to, and vanished into the night like the dramatic pseudo-vampire-ghost he had always aspired to be.

Why the man had bothered to come all the way to Amity Park if he had work to do was beyond Danny, but good riddance. His random giggles were starting to creep him out.

Once he was sure the fruit loop was not coming back and they were truly alone on the sidewalk, the teen turned around to his sister and found her stifling a yawn on her hand. A quick look at his phone confirmed that it was already pretty late, and having a full stomach always made Jazz get all lethargic on him. He would too, but that was why he consumed coffee religiously, unlike his sister who preferred the occasional vitamin drink.

So he resigned himself to playing pack mule yet again and let her lean on him so they could start their trek back home. A trek that would be slow as fuck, because Jazz kept insisting on using him as a pillow while they walked rather than focusing on using her feet properly.

She was lucky he loved her and had ghost cheat codes to support her weight, otherwise the night would have ended very differently.

Danny huffed and let her snug closer to him.

Now they just needed to sneak into the house without alerting their parents.

Yey.

-.-.-.-

Jazz had to give it to Danny, he was the best cuddle partner she could have asked for in a brother.

Though she could admit that her brother’s temperature could fluctuate wildly sometimes while sleeping because of his ghost-core-thingy or other random ghost power, whichever it was at the time had made it a little awkward for them to share sleeping quarters when one of them needed the comfort.

Luckily, they had found ways to deal with the temperature clashes. In summer it was easier to deal with them because in that season her brother’s often chilly nature was a complete godsend. Winter was trickier but there was nothing a pair of isolation blankets couldn’t manage, and when Danny’s powers decided to be contrary and transform him into a living heater, Jazz was more than happy to take advantage of it.

They had a few space blankets too, Jazz was pretty sure Vlad had gotten those just for Danny, but her brother had been rather tight-lipped about them, even if he clearly loved them.

So here they were, sprawled on the bed with Jazz’s arms firmly around her brother’s waist and half her face buried against his upper chest, rejoicing in the coolness emanating from the spot.

She had been awake for a little while but couldn’t make herself let go of her little bro. After they had sneaked in — after Danny had half-dragged her in — they had ended up crashing in her room. This for two important reasons, first because Danny’s room was still a mess after their parents threw all the equipment they could their way, and second because she had refused to let go of her newly acquired pillow. So her bedroom it was.

Ugh, she would get hungry eventually and would have to go downstairs for their breakfast effectively separating her from the cuddles. Jazz released a little grumble and buried herself deeper into the embrace.

The only up-side was that she would only have to heat their food and not make it from scratch. As long as she managed to avoid their parents and make it back upstairs she could rejoin her brother without interruptions and-

“Good morning, Princess Jasmine! ”

Wha-?

Jazz lifted herself and turned her head towards the voice so fast she immediately regretted it. There went her neck. she winced and raised a hand to carefully massage her nape. It would never work the same way again. At least she could see the source of the unfamiliar voice now and it left her perplexed.

There was a ghost on the window sill.

Why was there a ghost on their windowsill?

As a general rule, most ghosts tended to stay the fuck away from the Fenton house once they got out of the zone, so this development was very strange. Then again, Jazz had never seen this ghost before.

It was a female ghost, that was clear, and her hair-

Jazz had to blink a few times, completely awestruck at the number of colors her brain was trying to process at the same time.

She really had rainbow hair. What the-?

The apparent twenty-somethings female ghost had her hair done on a perfect half-up ponytail and displaying all the colors in the visible spectrum, she was clad in a cute summer dress that seemed to be patched up with- were those postage stamps? and a pair of lace-up sandals. She sat with one leg crossed over the other, a giddy smile stamped on her face. She was glowing. literally.

Meanwhile, Jazz had not bothered to change clothes before going to sleep or even tied her hair up into a bun, and now it looked like she had gotten trapped in one of her parent’s ghost traps. She managed to stifle the urgent need of running to the nearest mirror to tame down her hair as much as she could. She was feeling tacky all of a sudden.

Ugh. She felt like a hobo just looking at her. she had patches on her dress and she was still pulling it off. Maybe that was the ghost’s thing? making other girls felt like vagabonds with just her presence. Jazz blinked a pair of times, brain finally processing the other girl’s words, and becoming even more baffled by the living — animated? embodiment? — rainbow’s presence.

Had she just called her ‘princess’?

“Um, hi?” Jazz finally greeted her, she sent a look to her still slumbering brother and debated on whether or not she should wake him. On one hand, he had been running himself ragged the last weeks getting everything in order so she was reluctant to do it. On the other hand, there was a ghost on the window. A rather cute one, but still.

Choices. choices.

The redhead turned her whole attention towards the ghost again. Well, she looks calm enough, and has not set anything on fire or attempted any kidnapping yet, so-

“Sorry, I’m still rebooting. Do I know you?” Jazz went on, trying to get some sort of grip on the situation.

“Not really, but I have heard plenty about you.” the ghost beamed, just to falter suddenly and offer a chagrined smile “I must have seemed very rude.”

“My name is Iris.” She finally presented herself and jabbered on while pointing at the little cloth string bag resting on her hip. “I’m the Infinity Realms’ Official Messenger. And I have a few packages for both of you, my lady.”

“The Zone’s messenger?” Jazz parroted back. She had never heard about a messenger in the zone, but it was a rather big place and there were things even Danny hadn’t heard about, so it was a possibility. “And just Jazz is fine, thank you.”

The skittle girl just smiled. “Yes, I made the rounds earlier and there were some packages for the crown prince,” she said, confirming the reason for her presence in the room.

Ok. She could deal with ghosts addressing her brother with titles. And messengers? messengers were fine in her book. She could deal. She got this. Still-

“Danny was in the zone yesterday, though? Why would they wait until now and not just take advantage of his visit?”

“There are some fragile things in here, and your brother seemed to be getting- uh, quite busy yesterday,” she replied, clearly amused. “The senders didn’t want to risk it. So here I am!”

With that declaration, she opened her little bag and started to unload a staggering amount of packages and even some mail into neat little piles. Great, more things to pack. How some of them could get into such a tiny bag was a mystery, but that was probably just ghost zone physics. Or magic. Maybe both.

“Oh, thank you.” Jazz just conceded. It was better to just go along. Iris hummed in acknowledgment, still organizing everything and explaining to Jazz where each pile had come from and some extra information that the messenger had found interesting on her rounds.

She was quite lively for a ghost.

“Pandora in particular was rather twitchy yesterday about not catching your brother for a chat. Did you know she is having a gathering next month?” Iris gushed at her in low whispers, with all the air of a gossipy neighbor that couldn’t separate himself from their windows. “It’s a shame you will not be accompanying them for the festivities.”

“But Isn’t that just for amazons..?” Jazz asked from her seat on the foot of the bed, where she had moved to have a better view of the things the other ghosts had sent to Danny and her.

“Yes.”

“…I think I missed something.”

“Haven’t you heard?”Iris giggled. Getting a pen and notepad out of her bag and starting to write something down, she presumably used that to keep inventory. “You are both part of Pandora’s honorary amazons.”

The redhead’s eyes widened. “She can do that-?”

“I mean she is the Queen of the Amazons on this side of the pond, so-” the messenger replied, tapping her pen against her chin and looking up in thought.

“Wait, does that mean Tucker and Sam are honorary amazons too?” Jazz startled at the sudden sound of her brother’s voice coming from behind her. He was practically on top of her now, still looking half asleep but definitely awake now. She hadn’t even felt him move.

“Good morning, Lord Phantom!” Iris beamed at him from her spot on the ground among the still growing piles. “For what its worth, I think so, yes.”

Danny couldn’t help himself. He started cackling.

“Seriously, Danny?” She pursed her lips at him in disapproval.

“You don’t understand. They are going to flip, Jazz. Pandora can count me in.” He gushed, finally getting a hold of himself.

“She already did. Weren’t you listening to me, My Crown Prince?” Danny sighed.

“I did bubblegums. Sounds amazing.” her brother had already given her a nickname, or many for what she knew, so he probably had met the messenger before this. “So you were talking about some go-away gifts” Jazz sighed and rolled her eyes.

“They are called farewell gifts, Danny” jazz corrected.

“Whatever. It’s almost the same.” he waved his hand dismissively and looked down at what Iris had just laid down. “You got way too many things there. You are almost done or..? “

“Yep! I was actually just making time until you woke up.” She admitted sheepishly, lifting the last package that had come out of the bag and had been all by its lonesome amid the others and passing it along to the halfa. “Your Order is ready, Majesty!”

Jazz watched her brother extend a hand to take the package but his face reflected puzzlement at her words rather than excitement at finally receiving something he ordered.

“Direct from the FarFrozen and the Acropolis, Sir Casper!”

With those words, Danny seemed to snap wide awake, “already?” He didn’t waste any time in seating properly and opening the package. Jazz took the opportunity to peer into it.

“Jewelry?”

Danny jus hummed back in response and started examining the little jewelry box inside

“you ordered jewelry?” Jazz asked again, a little confused because even if his brother didn’t mind using the occasional accessory it was not like him to own them. Her brother —as well as herself — was more of a borrowing person “Ghostzone’s jewelry?”

“Yep.”

“why?”

“why not?” Jazz debated tackling him to the ground and tickling him until he talked, but considering they had company the redhead didn’t know very well yet and thus was not completely comfortable around, forcing Danny to spill the tea would have to wait.

The little shit probably knew it too and was openly smirking at her.

“hey, colorfalls?” Danny called to Iris

“Yes, winter pools?”

“Am I imagining things or this is way more than what I asked for?”

“The crafters outdid themselves, didn’t they? The Pan Queen said it happened because you ‘didn’t specify for shit so you better suck it up, brat.’ The Yeti-man said something too, but it was long and boring, so I forgot~” She ended sheepishly.

“Well, that’s helpful.”

“wouldn’t they have explained it in the letters?” Jazz offered, bringing his attention to the pair of envelopes under the probably-handcrafted box.

Danny grabbed them and grumbled. “Probably. But, ugh, reading.”

Jazz tried to snatch the letters from his hand. Danny dodged her lunge and moved the letters out of her reach.

“Thought you didn’t want to read them.” Jazz sassed.

“That I don’t want to do it, doesn’t mean I won’t do it. There is a difference, carrot cakes.”

“Well, get on with it then, cakesicle.”

They could have continued sniping at each other, as they were fully prepared to do so until Iris talked again.

“I better get going and leave you to it. Places to be, gossip to spread. You understand.” She declared with a playful smile and hopped up from the ground and attached her cloth bag to her hip again. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Jasmine.”

She made her way to the window waving her goodbyes as she went, the siblings waved back a little entranced by the sway of her hair.

Danny looked thoughtful, he seemed unsure for a moment and ended up waiting until the last moment to call after her.

“Hey,” The girl turned around to raise an eyebrow at him in question. Danny smiled at her and pointed a finger towards her little cloth bag.

"Do you think I could get one of those?”

-.-.-.-

“Jazz”

“Yeah?”

“How long was she here for before I woke up?”

“She-” Jazz stopped herself and really thought about it. “I, I don’t actually now? I think she was already sitting on the window sill when I woke up”

Her brother had gone suddenly quiet, watching intently through the window Iris had just left.

“She has a- quite bubbly personality. Good to know there is someone like her around.” She offered, trying to break the tense silence that had enveloped them.

“I once saw her knock-out Walker from a single blow,” Danny replied, finally turning to look at his sister. Jazz’s eyes widened.

“She what?”

“He threatened the network.” Danny deadpanned. “One does not simply threaten the network, Jazz” he stressed, seemingly trying to make the importance of a network she didn’t know anything about very clear to Jazz.

“…That sounds really ominous.”

“She moves around human merchandise in the zone.” Danny explained, “She has- umm, I think you could say she has a thing for humans.”

“…”

“I’m not telling you this to make you wary of her.” Her brother said after the lack of a proper answer, carefully keeping eye contact with her. “Walker was being an ass, he deserved it. Jolly Beans is very helpful around the zone. Has even helped me with a pair of things. A real pal, she is. But-” Danny sighed and ran one of his hands through his hair in exasperation.

“Just- Just don’t mess with her gossip mags ”

-.-.-.-

“Hey, Danny?” She probed, going through one of the ‘care packages’ that had been sent to them, “Do you think the ghosts know humans don’t wear these types of clothing anymore? They are cute, but-”

“I’m going to tell them.”

“Don’t you dare.”

-.-.-.-

ENDNOTES:

Say hello to Iris, everyone :)

She is one of my agents of chaos. She got the Job 5 minutes ago when she bitch slapped me with her bag and the pOssIbiLItieS.

(Not to be confused with intrepid reporter, Iris West, that might or might not appear here. )

-.-.-.-

Me, writing about sciency stuff, major and double majors like I know what I’m talking about: seems legit.

-.-.-.-

It’s fucking sad when the reasons you used to love someone end up becoming the same reasons you end up hating them.

-.-.-.-

I don’t remember if Vlad used Boxy as a lackey? If he did, let’s pretend he didn’t.

-.-.-.-

Vlad to Danny and Jazz through all this fucking fanfic:

-.-.-.-

The moment when your weird-murderous-uncle is actually more responsive to your ‘How-To-Parent’ talks than your actual parents.

Press F to pay respects.

-.-.-.-

I just want to let you know that one of the reasons Danny curses like a sailor is because he has a great respect for Pandora and that woman puts sailors to SHAME.

-.-.-.-

Did the show care about historical accuracy? no. Do I? That’s also a no.

-.-.-.-

The ghost jewelry will come back later to bite all of us. Be patient.

-.-.-.-

Danny is the Elsa to Jazz’s Anna.

-.-.-.-

UPdate on the JJ Ship!

I just imagined Bruce looking at this tiny (but feral) red-head psychologist interning in Arkham and seeing how good she is for Jason and just pulling a Mulan’s Grandma when Jason asks her to have dinner with them, like:

“WoulD YouU like TO sTAy FOREVEr?!?”

And Dick with, like, a banner and streamers behind him, fully supporting the notion.

And-aND! then on the eventual-some-years-in-the-future-engagement party:

Jazz: “Jay? Seems your family invited someone to help us celebrate the engagement.” Jason: “Really? Who?” Jazz *Opening the door that leads to the Mansion’s garden that is currently full to the freakin’ brim and deadpanning*: “Gotham.”

{(And all the fucking league. Let’s be real people-)}

Can u Imagine the wedding? The absolute chaos?? If you think the ghosts aren’t crashing the party or even demanding to hold a ceremony in the zone u are a FOOL.

bECAUSE If DanNo is theIr HighKING, Guess who is their MoTHErFUCkING PRINCESS.

It’s what she deserves.

My god, Jazz would look so pretty in a wedding dress.

I’m crying.

Danny would definitely sob.

Send tissues.

-.-.-.-

Great.

Now I want to write about the wedding and they haven’t even met in here yet.

*wishful sighing*

The struggles of a shipper-

-.-.-.-

These goddamned endnotes are getting bigger and bigger.

-.-.-.-

I’m still thinking over Danny’s SO. Guess who. Yes. You are right. It’s the Demon Spawn. You KNOW who I mean. I didn’t make them be a year apart in age just for the giggles. Like, I was aiming for Bros Wreaking Havoc when I started this but then The Shipper Feels struck me dead plus-if-Jazz-is-getting-a-wedding-out-of-this-then-why-the-fuck-not and here we are. What do u think?? Because it’s most likely happening. Though, this one is going to burn slowly, because these boys.

And, wtf. Why didn’t anyone tell me Bruce and Selina almost got married?? I don’t know what happened to prevent it but I cAlL foUl.

Who wants a wedding. I want a wedding.

-.-.-.-

Me: Writes like 40 pages of this fic Also me: They are random scenes in different chapters and I’m still struggling to wrangle everyone into some sense of order and coherency.

The first twenty-something chapters already have titles and brief summaries so that’s something?? I can’t see the light at the end of this tunnel.

If you have ideas about things you would like to read about? Between the Bats and the DP Characters? Interactions and blabla? You can write them in the comments and I will see if I can fit some in :D

I have more or less decided where this is going, but I still need to enrich the chaps, SO, this might take a while. The good thing is that they will probably be way better now that I have Some Plot and I’m not just running blind all over the google doc.

-.-.-.-

Really, tho, if you have some headcanons about the characters? Bless. I need help with Steph and slightly less with Cass.

I have some plans for Cass. Steph is the one worrying me.

-.-.-.-

Chapter 9 will be their arrival to Gotham! I. am. happy.

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cetaceans-pls · 4 years

Text

A Bagel To The Brain (A Batfam Story)

Bruce Wayne gets knocked the hell out by the Fear Toxin, and it’s an even worse nightmare than usual, which is really saying something. The menagerie of Robins do what they can, as Alfred plans for brunch and future brutality.

Or, it’s fever dream Russian Roulette meets the Bachelor, and Bruce does not want to be the last man standing.

Batfam fic with the four prodigal sons, written just in time to be a little too late for @setsailslash ‘s birthday, which is pretty on point for life in 2020 tbh. Please partake and enjoy, and stay safe and well ;9

On AO3 here!

Commission info here!

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You have to give it to the villains of Gotham; maybe old dogs can’t learn new tricks in other cities, but the drab grey skies and the perpetual hint of eau de urine on concrete inspires so, so much creativity in the local criminals. If Bruce hadn’t decided to dedicate himself to a lifetime of pursuing justice, he might even admire the absolute audacity of Scarecrow going wild with his latest fear toxin in an industrial kitchen that supplies thousands of bakeries and homes city-wide with bagels and bread, crippling Gotham right in her belly.

That realisation comes much, much later.

Bruce biting into his pre-brunch breakfast sandwich of cured salmon and microgreens on fresh bread has a much quicker turnaround time.

It’s almost noon. Billionaire, Batman, actual adult man Bruce Wayne bites into a bagel and passes out straight into a bowl of soup.

He’s stood in front of a mansion that pales in comparison to the Manor, and he’s in a tuxedo that is far, far too shiny to be in good taste. There’s a camera crew facing him, a red carpet between them like an untouchable border, and there’s something….fuzzy about everything. Bruce hasn’t had a legitimate, honest-to-God hangover since his twenties, but this does remind him of the time he mixed marijuana with a touch too much home-brewed pineapple rum out in Absolutely Nowhere, Belize.

He’s sweating, which is odd. His face and neck is all damp, but given the amount of physical fitness that is required to put a dent in Gotham’s crime rate while dressed as a bat, standing around in a bad suit shouldn’t have him this sweaty all over.

He doesn’t even have a pocket square to dab his face with. Trying to, to remember why he’s here and dressed like this yields no memory, and given the presence of cameras Bruce snaps into his flighty socialite personality, smiling vapidly about two feet above the centre of the huddled cameramen.

Was he kidnapped? Drugged on the way here? Where is here, anyways? He shifts slightly, this way and that, and very calmly does not groan when he finds none of the stuff he usually keeps on him: no batarangs made of starch that have a vicious edge but dissolve in the wash, no tiny smokebombs masquerading as cufflinks, no ring that doubles as an emergency signal. He’s dressed in three layers of questionable polyester, and he might as well be naked.

Hyper-aware even when (especially when) drifting through his thoughts, Bruce turns with fantastic slowness to observe a limousine driving up to the other end of the red carpet. He doesn’t feel like he’s in danger, even if his heart rate’s strangely uneven and his face feels warm and wet and he can’t remember a single blessed thing about the past, oh, 24 hours or so, so he keeps on a look of handsome idiocy and figures that so long as he isn’t about to face armed attackers, he’s probably still in control of the situation.

The car draws to a halt, and Alfred is there, somehow, suddenly, to pull open the door.

The relief that shoots through Bruce is the taste of morphine right after 5 broken bones. No matter what else is wrong, if Alfred is here, it’s going to be okay. He’s more than happy to just ignore all the strangeness that’s going on and head straight for the man, but he finds that he’s…. frozen in place, somehow.

Oh, god. It’s drugs, it must be drugs, it’s definitely drugs, and he’s not even wearing the cleverly rigged Rolex with its 4 polyvalent antivenoms embedded into the watch face.

It’s fine. Bruce doesn’t need proximity, doesn’t even need words to communicate with Alfred. All he needs is for the man to turn and look at him, just the barest glance and the distress in Bruce’s mask of a face is going to be broadcasted to him at an alarming volume, and it’s going to be fine.

Alfred doesn’t turn, and the feeling of wrongness informs Bruce, quite smugly, that Alfred will not turn to him, oh, he won’t turn for Bruce.

“Master Bruce! If this is the result of ignoring my warnings for the past week straight about how humans do need to sleep to survive, I will be most cross.”

Alfred knows, of course, that even when passing out in exhaustion Bruce would be far too conscientious to slam face-first into soup, would instead be slumped against the chair, safe and away from china, snoring like a truck in dire disrepair.

Alfred saves him from his meal, and slaps him hard, twice, across both cheeks.

There’s no response, and Alfred takes a deep, calming breath before he murmurs “What absolute bollocks,” extremely aggressively under his breath. Bruce is deadweight, and he’s a lot of deadweight at that, and no amount of top-notch healthcare can ease out the grinding in Alfred’s knees and a sticky shoulder when he keeps regularly needing to haul heroes up and down the house.

What an impossible, unbearable burden.

The door opens; a handsome man steps out of a limousine, and it’s Dick. It’s clearly Dick, from the glossy flop of his hair to the unbearable sweetness in the curve of his smile, wearing an equally tacky dark blue suit. He doesn’t say anything to Alfred, just smiles blandly, and isn’t that yet another alarm on top of the wailing cacophony nearly drowning out any semblance of reasonable thought in Bruce’s head. Something’s wrong, clearly. Is everyone drugged? Is this a time-slip, and he’s blacked out through 6 months of tremendous personal turmoil? Is this a parallel universe, where they don’t know each other and somehow also happen to be featuring in a reality show?

His first instinct is to bundle Dick and Alfred into the car and just drive off. For all that Bruce knows he can take pride in his ability to strategise and plan and reason, people often miss that in an emergency his first thought is always protect! Defend! Take care!

Supreme intellect doesn’t come to him at the cost of human instinct; the most important thing he’s ever learned is to acknowledge his panic and his fears so that they can’t blindside him in an emergency. This is bad, this is awful, look the truth of things in the eyes, move on to plan contingencies that are buttressed by already knowing what the worst possible outcome is. People who think he’s single-minded don’t know the half of it.

Twenty odd years of bitter vicious training, and all that he’s gotten good at is letting rationality come in quicker; Bruce has no doubt that it would take more than an act of God to make him stop feeling desperate to put himself between the people he cares about and any and all dangers. He can’t quite make out the make and model of the car from here, and he’s pretty sure they’re not in Gotham, because he would know if they were, but commandeering a vehicle seems like the best idea available to him at the moment.

Feet leaden and body heavy, it takes an almost supernatural amount of effort to pull himself away from where he’d found himself. Head down, one step at a time. He’s had his back broken, this is nothing compared to that first round of aching, screaming physiotherapy. This is for Alfred and Dick, and if a spinal injury couldn’t keep him down then, strange happenstances cannot stop him now.

What may prove a bigger challenge though is this woman abruptly in his face, holding a microphone in front of her glitzy dress, not someone he knows but clearly from the family of conventionally-attractive-functionally-dull television hosts that pepper the world. She talks at him, and Bruce struggles to make out her words just as much as he struggles to make out her face.

“Sorry, darling,” he drawls, making an effort to rake his eyes up and down her body as he registers sequins in the dress but not the damned colour. “Mind repeating yourself?”

The vague amorphous cloud of classically-pretty gives off a sense of mild irritation and professionalism fuelled by a sizable income, and that, at least, is a familiar response to the charms of Bruce’s alter-alter-ego. “I said, Bruce, how do you feel about meeting your first bachelor?”

Several thoughts collide all at once, slamming into each other with such force that thinking briefly comes to a complete halt. Lucky him, he’s trained so many contingencies into his body and mind that a go-to soundbite for talking about donors at the Foundation works his jaw while his brain scrambles.

“Oh, you know, it’s such an honour to be here, and to get to do all this, really, I love…. Bachelors.” Insert an overemphasised wink here.

What does she mean, ‘bachelor’? Is this some sort of charity auction? Why would anyone try to flog Dick to Bruce? Obviously there’s no bid that’s too high for his eldest son, no line Bruce wouldn’t cross if he thought Dick would let him get away with it, and his inability to be anything but a father doting to the point of idiocy is not news anywhere in the world by now. Why would a charity auction be televised, and why would he be the centre of attention anyways?

He runs through what he knows of the intercept between the concept of bachelors and television programmes, and all he can think of is that strange, strange show where a lot of one gender compete in mentally and emotionally gruelling ways to win the show and the one member of the opposite gender everyone’s allowed to throw themselves at.

(His kids had declared that he needed to know more about the world around him outside of crime-fighting and saving the world on occasion, and as a result once every other Saturday night Bruce is treated to increasingly terrible reality tv.)

Is that the premise of this? Some charity popularity contest? It sounds like something he might sign up for, if he’s done anything particularly troublesome and Lucius needed appeasing, but it’s still so dumb.

Of course he’s going to pick Dick. Twelve suitors, ten weeks, eight challenges, whatever permutation and combination of people and places and problems, obviously he’s going to choose Dick, even if Dick still hasn’t looked at him, still hasn’t acknowledged that Bruce is there, trying to get to him, barely held back by a woman with a microphone.

It’s absurd, and it’s a struggle to not let that thought show on his face. He keeps saying bland, vague things while teetering on the edge of public indecency by way of leering, and just waits for Dick to come up to him.

Bruce is willing to admit that there are many aspects to time travel and parallel universes that are currently beyond his ability to fully grasp, but there’s no world-time-universe-plane where he doesn’t care about Dick, so all he needs is to be patient and lie in wait until an opportunity presents itself to him.

He thinks it’s come, when another limousine pulls up. He’s going to accidentally stumble into the woman, maybe rip a strap so that the flash of her bra gets everyone’s attention (these are dire times and he is at present an unforgivably desperate man), and then gallantly call off the shooting so that he can bundle up his son and butler into this car and just leave.

Bruce shifts his weight, angles himself towards where Alfred has a stately hand on the handle, and plans around how to extricate the newest candidate and commandeer their car.

Everything is ready-steady-almost go, but then the door opens, and oh, it’s just going to be a bad day all around, huh.

“Bruce? Bruce, can you hear me? Goddamnit, you passed out the last time I came by for brunch too. Is it because I brought doughnut holes both times? Rico’s is cursed, it’s cursed and so is brunch. How is he, Alfred?”

Alfred looks a little ruffled, which speaks volumes to how serious the situation is. “We have a great many stairs between the kitchen and the Cave, but I managed to bring him down without too much fuss. He’s hooked up to fluids, and the first course of the broad-spectrum antitoxins have been administered, as well as a scratch test on his arm. I am, of course, running tests on the last few items of food and drink that sir has consumed, as well as on his blood and spit, but the results are not yet available.”

Dick breathes a sigh of relief; Alfred’s ability to take care of them is masterful but his skill of looking after Bruce is absolutely unparalleled. There is a reason why for Alfred’s 60th the whole family had come together in t-shirts Steph had gotten made, black with gold embroidery, saying ‘Villains Work Hard, But Alfred Works Harder.’ There’s a reason why Bruce not only wore the shirt, but has also kept it, wearing it around the house whenever he knows Alfred’s especially annoyed with him.

Alfred’s amazing, and Alfred works miracles, but trouble’s always hankering for Bruce and poison is so, so difficult to deal with. Alfred and Dick both know this, and they know that if Bruce doesn’t show any signs of improvement in the next half hour, the second course of antitoxins will start, and those are stronger and harsher, the third course is worse still, and it becomes a race to the bottom, trying to figure out how to save a man by coming a little closer to killing him each time.

They stare at each other, then at Bruce when the man groans and frowns in his unconsciousness.

“He kept calling my name,” Alfred says softly, hand tight and resolute on Bruce’s shoulder in unflinching support. “And now, master Dick, he appears to be calling for you.”

Dick goes round to the other side of the cot, and gently squeezes Bruce’s limp hand. “I’m here,” he tells Bruce, willing him to feel it. “But it’s the third Sunday of the month, Alfred. You know that means that-“

A half-hearted alarm starts up, with all the urgency of pleasant elevator music.

“Ah, I see we have a breach at the eastern gable of the greenhouse,” Alfred says to absolutely nobody, because absolutely everybody knows who likes to come in through the greenhouse, and why the security system for that part of the house is more like a doorbell than an actual warning.

“God,” Dick mutters under his breath, while Alfred makes a face that strongly indicates that God had better be ready to answer for some of the decisions He has made recently.

It’s Jason, it’s Jason, it’s Jason. Handsome and tall and deadly, unfolding out of the car in a crisp white shirt and tuxedo pants, jacket in the crook of an arm. He looks healthy and whole and hale, streak of white in his hair artfully pushed behind his ear, looking for all the world like a marvellous man.

Jason doesn’t turn to look at Bruce either, and that’s fine, it really is, it’s par for the course of what he deserves from him, but Jason doesn’t react to seeing Dick with any affection, just a perfunctory handshake before he’s moved back to keep some space between them. Jason didn’t even say hello to Alfred, and that’s the clearest indication so far that whatever is going on here, it’s not a mass-drugging issue. For one thing, the dose that would be needed to scramble Jason’s brain would be enough to kill every single other person here, without a doubt, and for another, Jason could be bleeding out from 90% of his body while a king cobra is at his neck dosing him up with enough venom to take out a herd of elephants, and he would still greet Alfred. Jason crosses lines that Bruce despairs of and disagrees with, but Jason also struggles with undercover missions because of a sweet, sweet inability to pretend not to care when he does.

It might be a parallel universe, then, because time travel no longer makes sense, but it’s statistically unlikely for the chips to align and have Bruce in what amounts to a dating show with his sons. Stress can cause premature greying, maybe, but the electric green tint to Jason’s eyes is all Lazarus pit. At this point, Bruce is beginning to suspect that he’s hallucinating everything. Not because anything feels particularly unreal, other than how everyone except his family appears less whole, but because after running through all possible explanations, that’s the simplest one.

He can’t remember his last lucid moment, can’t remember anything much outside of right now, but if the premise is that he’s off his head, he can work with that. A “Superman,” pitched under his breath, urgent and demanding, yields no results. He can draw the parameters now, and try to plan around what is least likely to damage his psyche. Thanks to all the previous accrued damages to his psyche, Bruce has a clear idea of what he can and can’t take, which is good.

His brain’s making all his sons gather here, he suspects, and that’s very, very bad. The woman is still talking to him, talking at him, and Bruce needs more data to work with. The most important thing that currently needs consideration is this:

In this hallucination, this fever nightmare, does his family care about him? Not general pleasantries like a smile and a nod and a wave, but deep deep down in that place where it’s all screaming instinct and all it screams is family or foe.

So he just smiles benignly at the host, turns so that he’s facing Dick, Jason, and Alfred, and raises his hands to cup his mouth. There’s an entire language of signals they use in the field to determine the state of things, words rotating in and out and swapped and disfigured and built up, but Bruce thinks there’s one key word that he could never ignore from any of them, and that he hopes they wouldn’t ignore from him.

Bruce takes a deep breath, and as best he can, shouts “Help!” at the group of some of the world’s best men. He can’t remember the last time he’d shouted for help and meant help me, and he’s almost curious how his off-centre brain will make everyone respond to that.

It says a lot about the sort of life he leads, to find so much comfort in confirming an ongoing hallucination.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Dick doesn’t question the timing; Jason rolling into the Cave just as Bruce started to convulse and scream “Help!” is pretty par for the course. “Hey Jaybird,” he greets back, not looking up from where he’s doing his damnedest to try to keep Bruce still. They have padded restraints, because trawling through Gotham nights means they show up at the Cave with all sorts sometimes, but tying Bruce down like a rabid dog isn’t anyone’s idea of a fun time, so here Dick is, sprawled over his father who is still so dumb strong this far under.

Quick as anything Jason’s on the other side of the bed, heavy hand on Bruce’s sternum, the other on his shoulder. “I told you brunch is cursed. What the hell is going on?”

Alfred apparates to his side, wearing nitrile gloves and holding a tray of what looks like breakfast kept under a plastic lid. “Sir passed out while enjoying a light breakfast sandwich. I have managed to isolate some strange compounds in the bread, but the toxin is not one we have encountered before. I believe my next move will be to-”

It happens in Dick’s head half a second before it happens in real life, and him shouting “Jay, no!” serves as nothing more than background music to Jason smacking the lid off the tray and grabbing the innocuous bagel. Alfred’s reactions are a little faster (and isn’t that embarrassing, god), and he has his hand on Jason’s wrist, an effort at restraint.

Too fucking bad that Jason Todd’s not really known for his restraint. With an almighty heave Jason’s got man and bun pulled up close, and he’s biting into the bagel before Dick can vault over the bed.

Alfred and Dick freeze in place, as one-man toxicology-lab-disaster Jason takes his time to chew and swallow, not betraying much barring a case of the sweats and his pupils blowing out. “A’ight, before anyone starts yelling at me, can we just big time confirm that the Joker’s not here and holding a crowbar?”

He isn’t, of course, though Jason’s unblinking wide-eyed stare somewhere behind Alfred convinces DIck to take a second look. Alfred merely rolls his eyes, putting the tray aside and pulling Jason to sit on a nearby stool. “If he were, Master Jason, I would be more than happy to deal with him myself. It has been one of those days, I’m afraid, and my temper is wearing awfully thin. How are you?”

It takes a while for Jason to blink and breathe his way through whatever he’s seeing, before he drags his gaze back to Alfred. “Feel like shit, if that helps. It’s got a different kick to it, but it sure tastes like fuckin’ Scarecrow gas in the mouth.” He works his jaw around, and rolls his shoulders. “Pretty sure there’s some sort of numbing agent to it, or something. Fuck, it’s giving me cotton mouth and it feels like all my feet are falling asleep.”

Alfred’s muttering “Lord give me strength,” under his breath in a way that promises absolute chaos in the very near future, checking over Jason’s vitals before heading over to the mainframe to, presumably, save the day. Dick’s still got a hold on his father, and in a moment of attempted levity, pokes fun at Jason. “What, how many feet do you think you got?”

Jason’s now looking down at himself, frowning a little. “Sure looks like at least five, to be honest.”

They all turn to him, but look about as disinterested as a human being could possibly be. It’s not a nice feeling, but it gives him an idea about the dimensions of him losing his mind. They either don’t know him, here, or he’s done something extra-particularly unforgiveable and they have just finally given up. The former is more likely than the latter; his sons are good people, far too good for him, and Alfred’s greatest skill in an arsenal of great skills is his ability to forgive Bruce over and over and over again.

Bruce doesn’t know how he got here, but he knows he needs to try and snap out of it and wake up as quickly as he can. Who knows where he actually is, he could be bleeding out in some alleyway even as he wrenches his gaze back to blurry-woman. Hallucinogens all get you in different ways, and with some of them, once you caught the truth of it you could will yourself awake. This….doesn’t feel like that, so his aim is to go through this with as much of his sanity preserved as possible. Batman as a concept is more impervious to mental torture than he is physical, and he’s pretty impervious to both as far as the common man is concerned.

In practice, it’s mostly the ability to brutally compartmentalise the hell out of his life experiences. It’s control, iron-fisted and unwavering, and it’s why toxins and magic and everything that can take his control from him are really high on the list of what Bruce finds absolutely intolerable.

He doesn’t know when his mind will turn on him, he just knows it will, and the premonition of future misery has his back tight and teeth grinding.

A limousine appears, right on cue mid-breakdown, and Bruce knows who’s going to come out of it. He wonders if Tim’s going to come out some older version of himself, to match Jason and Dick, but figures that it’s going to be maximum trauma if it’s Tim exactly as Bruce last saw him that gets hurt, somehow a victim of Bruce’s brain.

It would have been nice if in this dreamland Tim was up to his usual tricks, asleep standing up somewhere after spending three days staring into an investigative abyss, hopped up on coffee supplemented with more sugar than the FDA would consider humane. It would have been nice if all his sons, just this once, avoided him the way they sometimes did in real life. Being alone is a lot less tortuous than waiting for the other shoe to drop on his children.

Bruce groans, and decides to just fuck it. He politely pushes the woman who is still, somehow, chattering, and lies down right on the red carpet, hands covering his eyes.

He’ll be okay in a minute; he just doesn’t want to see Alfred let Tim out and have yet another family member not know he’s real. He’ll get up again, he really will, he’s just tired.

He just needs a break.

“Why the sweet Jesusing fuck is his heart rate dropping all of a sudden?” Jason swears as he dives for the AED tucked in a cabinet, snapping the case open even as Bruce abruptly goes limp in the bed, breathing getting eerily slow.

“The hell do you think I would know?” Dick shouts back, who is taking matters into his own hands and is soundly slapping the devil out of Bruce’s cheeks. “C’mon, c’mon, Bruce, wake the hell up!” When it doesn’t work, he jumps atop the bed, straddling Bruce around the hips, and gets ready to do CPR. He’s well-trained; push comes to shove and Dick can CPR the life back into someone for up to 3 hours.

One of those weird paranoid Batman training schemes that always seem unspeakably dumb until they inevitably pay off, urgh.

He’s going “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Stayin’ Alive!”’ slightly hysterically under his breath while Jason waits for the defibrillator to gather enough charge when Tim sprints in, still sleep-tousled and pyjamaed, holding a vial of something that fluoresces yellow and bubbles like a demon.

“Hey! Hey! Tim! Ah!” Dick calls out, still on beat, a man on a mission.

“Hi Dick,” Tim calls back, before he jabs the EpiPen of Doom right into Bruce’s thigh. The concoction floods in, gelatinous and menacing as anything. Christ, Dick saw the needle on that beast; it’s not all bad that Bruce is unconscious.

He doesn’t let up on his CPR, though, and Jason’s staring at the heartbeat monitor and ECG display like they hold the keys to the universe, paddles charged up and ready to go. Within moments Bruce seems to stabilize, heart and breathing picking back up. The problem with being the most athletic 40-something year old in the world is that Bruce’s resting heart rate hovers around the 30 to 40 bpm mark, and when that plummets it really just doesn’t have far to go.

Jason evidently is thinking something similar when he finally puts the AED awar, sighing like he’s personally offended. “It’s not a cute look to go ‘round having a heart so lazy, damn.”

Tim’s breathing heavily, still holding the empty syringe pressed into Bruce’s leg. “Brunch is extremely cursed,” he says, reluctant to move. “The one time I oversleep for the monthly meet-up, and this is what happens.” He looks up, blinks, and absently waves at Jason. “Hi, Jason. Alfred said I should knock you out for eating poisoned food.”

Jason rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “He’s the only one with any goddamned common sense in this household. How’d you figure out what was ailing the big guy, anyways?”

Tim grins. “Because you ate poisoned food. Alfie said you started hallucinating but also like you were kinda going numb? That’s a pretty specific combo, and not a lot of stuff can do that in tandem with Scarecrow’s stuff. This one’s,” he jiggles the empty canister, and Dick feels the need to emphasise that the needle is still stuck in Bruce, “a counter to hemlock, and there’re like 5 more vials that I was going to go through.”

Dick and Jason look at each other, and they both groan. “Let me guess,” Dick says, struggling to keep down a smile, “Fresh off of B’s Introductory Poisons 101, huh? God, when was the last time I heard someone say ‘hemlock’ like that’s a normal thing to say?”

“Hey, Socrates got murdered by a hemlock sip, it’s one of the cooler poisons,” Jason says with absolutely zero conviction. “Lemme guess, Replacement, bet you got a perfect score on the last pop quiz. ‘Draw and label the molecular structure of the Botulinum Toxin for 5 extra points’ haunts my dreams way the fuck more than being murdered.” He dramatically shivers. “The truest torture is a Chem exam nobody wants.”

Tim blinks at them, like this is news to him. “I did Intro P years ago, and yes, maybe I did get full marks for it. I just like going over the slides every once in a while for self-study!”

Dick laughs while he ruffles TIm’s hair. “You’re such a good kid,” he says with whole-grain affection. “Thanks for saving the day, Tim.”

“Yeah, you huge nerd,” Jason says, fond and deeply offensive.

Somebody touches his cheek, a gentle tap-tap. Bruce doesn’t want to open his eyes and acknowledge what’s going on in this unreal reality, but he feels flooded with adrenaline all of a sudden, and the malaise that insisted on a nap’s completely evaporated.

With tremendous reluctance, he opens his eyes, and sees Tim looking down at him with his usual look of unstifled curiosity. “Are you all right?” Tim asks him politely, and it’s a fake Tim, Bruce knows, because there’s no hint of dark circles under the eyes, and his eyes don’t do that thing where they can’t stay and focus in one place too long because there’s too much to see.

They’re steady, and they’re looking at him with a complete absence of recognition, and Bruce was 100% right. It is significantly worse to be unknown to the Tim who went out on patrol with him yesterday than to some made-up older version of him.

“I’m fine,” he says, because it’d be rude not to answer. “I’m just going to stay here until everything blows over.”

Tim crouches down next to him, tucked up tight with his chin on his knees. You’ll crease your pants, Bruce thinks and doesn’t say. Tim’s permanently in mild disarray, and it’s grown to become a comfort to Bruce. A fully primped and pressed Tim, neat and alert and free of coffee stains, is a Tim in a time of crisis.

Crises don’t tend to end well for Batman and his ilk.

They just stare at each other, and it reminds him of when Tim had arrived on the doorstep to the Manor, vibrating and immoveable with the truth of things. Tim, small and scrawny and determined to bear the weight of being Batman’s Robin.

Bruce, being much too weak to say no and keep saying no to what amounts to having a child soldier self-enlist (again).

It’s not as clear-cut as people expect, the line between Batman and Bruce Wayne, except when it is. Tensions rise high when the mantle of fatherhood is a heavier, deader weight than the Bat’s cape, sons die in a shack somewhere beaten to a dead, dead pulp, and some mornings Bruce wakes up and he mostly just hates both sides of him.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” TIm asks again.

“I don’t think so, no,” Bruce says, and waits for things to escalate.

(In the distance, there is the sound of a car pulling up. This universe holds its breath.)

Tim is hard at the work in the lab, Alfred assisting him, and Dick feels a little bad that he never got into toxicology and pharmacology and microbiology and the like. Bludhaven’s plenty scummy, but it’s the sort of scum you can wipe out with elbow grease, and chemical and biological warfare’s a bit beyond the average operational budget of the local bad guys. He still gets a little Krebby any time he thinks about that one summer where Bruce thought it was a great idea to get Dick to learn about enzymes and gene splicing and all sorts of stuff that necessitate a young hyperactive boy to sit very still and think very long about very small things he can’t see with his own damn eyes.

Jason’s better at focusing, but while he’s got less of a biological imperative to move and keep moving, he’s a lot worse at paying attention when he doesn’t want to; that’s why neither of them are in the lab, and are instead idly playing poker on Bruce’s chest.

It’s a little disrespectful, probably, to do this on your unconscious father, but Dick’s feeling pretty jittery and not entirely willing to lose physical contact with Bruce. Whatever Jason’s feelings on the matter, he’d obliged Dick’s casual invitation to a round, and now here they are with a pack of cards Jason usually has in his leather jacket, doughnut balls acting as currency.

Lord, this is how you get ants. Bruce’s shirt is covered in powdered sugar as they aggressively try to out-cheat each other.

Underneath their cards and balls and hands, Bruce’s breathing stutters, and he seems to let out a long, resigned sigh.

Dick’s got a read on things, because if there is a God they have a goddamned awful sense of humour, especially as it pertains to Bruce and everything Bruce cares about.

As if summoned, the door to the medbay slams open, and it’s Dami there dressed like a normal boy right up until you spot the sword in hand.

The shrieked “Father!” with the inauspicious crack, though, that’s all young-boy-screaming-at-the-sight-of-their-father-(figure)-on-his-deathbed all over, and is a staple in Wayne Manor. If Alfred’s got a traumatic childhood memory of something similar, then they’d have a full house.

Dick sighs too, and holds up a doughnut hole. “Hungry?”

The world blurs, the way too-small font gets when your eyes start to waver from fatigue. Bruce is sitting now on a chair masquerading as a throne, all velvet red upholstery and gold gilding. It’s hideous, and it’s ominous as all hell. They must be rolling into the endgame now, and Bruce feels no closer to parsing out the future than he did before.

His sons are arranged all in a row in front of him, with Alfred leading Damian over. God, Damian isn’t even scowling, and there’s no sign of that awkward half-step he gets when he’s trying to smuggle an oversized sword down a tuxedo pant.

It’s not real, Bruce tells himself, tries to make himself believe. It’s not real, remember all the reasons this is not real, because things are going to go down really soon, feels like, and he’ll be no good to anybody if despair gets him right between the eyes.

The faceless woman is back at it, still sparkling and indistinct, the concept of a microphone in her hand as she talks about the handsome bachelors and what a night it’s been. Bruce is testing his range of mobility as the woman stands in front of the cameras, and finds that the oppressive weight that dragged his feet feels lighter now. He can make it from where he’s sat to the line-up of children in seconds, and that’s important to note. Given the way he’s barely biting back paralysing fear in the face of the premonition of danger coming upon the kids, Bruce is grimly certain that whatever’s happened to him is Scarecrow-adjacent. If he’s still struggling through this hallucination that comes complete with a goddamn backstory to build up the anticipation, it’s probably a new concoction that Alfred is struggling to break.

The only way out is through; if he overcomes the peak, he’ll be out free on the other side. He’s never going to stop being afraid for his children, obviously, but he can overcome the fear that he won’t be enough to stop them from suffering.

He can, and right now, he must.

So Bruce keeps as calm as he can, centres himself and shifts a little in his seat to plant his feet more firmly in the ugly carpet, and bides his time. There are three entry points into this courtyard, there are four boys, five cameramen, six thousand ways for things to go wrong.

He’s already up to Contingent Plan Number 1322, so if Bruce Wayne’s brain thinks he can trip up Bruce Wayne when the stakes are this high, then he is a fucking idiot.

Bruce almost wants to smile; things are looking up.

Damian’s a funny one. He’s seen more brutality than any of them had when they were his age; some extremely dense front-loading of trauma, and a Bat lifestyle doesn’t promise that things get better as you get older. Half the time Damian acts like he’s older than every one of them barring Alfred, and that’s only because Damian intrinsically respects that Alfred can cook where everyone else left to their own devices would have a diet focused on proteins (for the muscles!) and whatever vice slash emotional crutch they can get their hands on.

So Damian is hard and brittle and sometimes he’s also a little awful, but right now he’s just mostly a scared kid trying not to show it. Funny how goddamn infectious Scarecrow’s hot bullshit can get, thinks Dick, as he restrains Damian from slashing Bruce’s belly open in the world’s most ill-advised attempt at a stomach pumping.

“D, Tim and Alfred are working on a cure, all right, so how’s about we cool it with the whole ritual disemboweling thing?”

“Unhand me Richard!” Damian shrieks, and the break down the middle can’t be good for the throat. “I will not leave Father’s wellbeing to Drake! He is a damned idiot who didn’t even tell me there was an emergency, I was sat at the dining table like a fool while all this while…”

Everyone’s guilty of that particular crime, of course, forgetting about Damian in the heat of the moment. Jason’s also guilty of not being very helpful right now, as he just watches on with a look of vague indulgence, eating up doughnut holes he hasn’t earned. Dick tries not to sigh, and forcibly reminds himself that looking after crazy younger siblings is the classic curse of the eldest (and best-looking) child. He hugs Damian tighter, and holds him steady. “Sorry, Dami, it’s been all systems go from when Bruce passed out. Tim’s already nullified the paralytic that was shutting down his lungs, and now they just need to figure out how to deal with the Scare Toxin 2.0. Gutting your father’s probably not a good idea, don’t you think?”

Jason, who is currently racing ahead of his competitors for the title of ‘Worst Little Brother By Far, Jesus, Jason, Stop’, snorts and tips back in his chair. “You know, I say we let the little guy have a go. God knows Mister Repressed over here sure could do with a loosening of his bowels, you feel me?”

Luckily, the current frontrunner for ‘Best Little Brother By Far, Not To Play Favourites Or Anything, Tim, But It’s Definitely You’ runs in with Alfred at his heels, shouting “Stop encouraging him!”. Tim has a tiny glass vial in his hand, cradled like it’s a reliquary bearing the tears of the Lord Himself, and a needle and syringe that could probably down a wildebeest. Alfred is outfitted with an IV stand rolling beside him like a third leg, the liquid in the bag swishing like a particularly important water balloon.

Doughnut holes, needle holes, assholes. What a day full of holes, or something. Dick’s not too sure how he’s meant to interpret all of this, and so he decides not to, doubling down on securing Damian to stop him from flying at Tim and accidentally destroying the best hope they have of dealing with this whole mess.

Tim pushes Damian and Dick away from Bruce’s side, steadfastly ignoring the mess they’ve made of Bruce’s pokerboard chest. “I’m not even going to ask,” he says, and he means it with every ounce of his soul. He pushes Bruce’s sleeve up, takes a breath and reminds himself that he’s checked the composition of the potential cure a dozen times by now. Best case scenario, it works, and even in the worst case, they’re only risking liver failure in the next three to four hours.

Looking around at the tableau of people keeping vigil over Bruce, Tim suspects that there won’t be a shortage of donors anyways, so it’s a risk well worth taking.

“Well,” he says, amazed that his hands are so still for someone running on minimal sleep and even less coffee, “here goes nothing.”

He sticks the needle in a split second before Damian shouts “What do you mean ‘nothing’?”, and the antidote’s coursing through Bruce’s veins before Damian can break free and create a second casualty.

Alfred ignores all the hullabaloo to put in the IV line into Bruce’s other arn, and he starts the drip. Amidst all the commotion and all the stress, he looks down at Bruce’s slack, unconscious face, and feels a very gentle sort of jealousy accompanying the usual teeth-grinding feeling of concern.

Jason taps him on the hand and holds out the bag of doughnut holes.

Alfred sighs. “You really will ruin your appetite for brunch, Master Jason.”

Jason just smiles, and he looks as guileless and as sweet as he did when he barely came past Alfred’s waist. “Alfie, it’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than somebody else almost dying and me eating some junk to turn me off your food.” He holds the bag out again, insistent and dear.

This time, Alfred takes it. He can’t help feeling just a little bit charmed. “Just for that, Master Jason, you may count upon getting a double-portion of dessert.”

Even if brunch may be delayed because Alfred fully intends to beat Scarecrow over the head with an electric whisk for the next three hours after this.

At least Alfred isn’t on the dais, thinks Bruce. That’s four targets instead of five, one less thing he needs to worry for. It seems like a tremendous oversight, for his psyche to leave out Alfred as he crafts his idea of a worst-case scenario, but it’s also entirely possible that Alfred is so grounding a presence that even in the depths of delusion, he’s doing his best to support Bruce.

It’s a heartening thought. Bruce looks and sees and thinks and waits, feeling anticipation build. The lights seem sharper now, the edges between his family and the rest of the world becoming more distinct, like a sign to say look here, and nowhere else.

The boys are arranged by age, Damian furthest to the left and Dick furthest to the right. In an emergency, which this will be, Bruce would have no problem just picking up both Damian and Tim and running. Jason and Dick he would need to grab one at a time to get up to any sort of decent speed, which is not ideal, but it’s better than nothing. He doesn’t see snipers skulking in the balconies that overlook the courtyard, doesn’t hear the quiet undercurrent of people planning murder sneaking into place. It doesn’t mean much in a hallucination, but Bruce is banking on his psyche being far too particular to leave out such clues.

Another blank-faced human-approximate comes out into the courtyard, bearing a silver tray with champagne flutes. All the boys take one, even Damian, and the waiter finally proceeds up the steps to Bruce with one special gold-rimmed glass.

He accepts it, and unreality starts to crystalise.

Off to the side, the woman raises her own glass. “A toast! To finding the right man for Mister Wayne!”

The boys knock back their drinks, and Bruce doesn’t, because she’d said man, singular, when these are all the right men, plural, and his is the only glass that’s different.

Damian collapses first; that small of a body with the same amount of poison as all the rest, it’s inevitable. Tim sways a little, and then he’s down and out too. If this were truly real instead of just seemingly real, Jason would hold out longest because between the Pit and the ghoulish training he can metabolise most anything out there to kill him, but he’s writhing on the ground in moments. Dick manages to stumble a few steps forwards, flute still in hand, before he finally falls too.

“Now then, Mister Wayne, it’s time to choose!”

And this, Bruce thinks distantly as he holds the one antidote dose in a glass close to shattering in his grasp, is the truest stuff of nightmares.

The room goes quiet when Bruce starts writhing on the table, eyelids flickering as he grunts and groans. He was quieter when they’d had to set his broken leg without any anaesthesia, and isn’t that an illuminating view into what it takes to be the man in Batman?

Dick is Extremely Stressed Out, and is meaner than he means to be when he looks at Tim. “Why is he getting worse?”

Tim’s gone pale and is going paler still. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Usually as soon as you administer the antitoxin recovery happens right away. This should have worked-”

‘Should have’ isn’t particularly reassuring right now, and has had a long history of biting Bats and their associates in the ass; it’s another one of those kinds of days, looks like.

Damian isn’t having any of it. “You’ve made him worse, Drake! I knew we couldn’t trust you to do anything right, Father is dying because of you. I should have gotten rid of you when I had the chance.” He sounds like he’s never meant it more.

Tim doesn’t even disagree with him, just keeps staring at the puncture wound in the crease of Bruce’s elbow, at the remains of the little antidote that couldn’t. It’s like a metaphor for his life, at this point. The shoddy patch job that didn’t work, the plaster too insignificant to cover the wound, the cure that didn’t heal anything.

Everybody quiets down when Tim doesn’t rise to the bait, even Damian who had been near frothing at the mouth for a fight. The fear gas isn’t deadly, usually, but these aren’t usual times. There are things that could be done, people they could call, things they could do to keep Bruce running long enough for more help to come in.

That’s the thing, though, the absolute worst thing about the fucking toxin; it’s so metaphysically infectious, that the concept of a dying Bruce has rooted them all to the ground. Smooth as anything, it saps away the will to try and try harder, bit by terrible bit.

Bruce is breaking out into cold sweat now, movements growing increasingly violent as he keeps gasping out their names, and isn’t that just a sight to behold?

Tim breaks his own spell first, holding a hand up to his mouth like he’s trying to hold back the desire to throw up. “I’m going to go back to the lab, I must have missed something, there’s got to be something I can do.”

Dick nods, mouth dry. “Sounds like a great idea, Timmy. I’ll stay here and stop Bruce from convulsing all over. D, can you keep his legs still?”

It speaks to the heaviness of the situation that Damian doesn’t do more than glare at Dick before he goes to do his bidding, securely holding Bruce down by his ankles. The blanket had gone flying when Bruce had started convulsing; Damian tugs it back to cover Bruce’s bare feet. The thin skin and battered bones look vulnerable in the harsh light of the medbay, and Damian doesn’t want to look at them. Socks, he thinks. He’s going to festoon his father in so many socks, thick woolly fluffy ones for swanning about the Manor in, and things will be fine.

He grips Bruce’s ankles tighter, and wills whatever spark of magic he may or may not have to come out and do its damned job (can’t leave it all to Drake, can he?).

Jason remains unusually quiet, still in his chair, close by Bruce’s shoulder. He remembers that first hit of the toxin, fresh from the bagel, the immediate confidence that the Joker was there with a crowbar, only this time it’s not just Jason tied up in some shack somewhere in the snow.

This time the fucker was in the room with him, right by Alfred and Dick, right by Bruce who’s unconscious and more useless even than usual, and the greatest, most unbearable fear had been that this time, someone else would die from the blood in their lungs, and this time, he’ll be the one too late to stop it.

Alfred said that Bruce had been calling out for all of them, hadn’t said anything but their names and ‘help’, and he thinks he can guess the shape of the nightmare Bruce is seeing. The bare bones of it, five snapped ribs digging into a soft lung, the thing that’s making Bruce choke. Tim’s a certifiable genius, but a toxin in the blood’s a lot easier to get rid of than a demon in the head.

Jason’s fortunately a master at both, at this point, and he suspects that there’s something he can do.

With uncharacteristic gentleness he brushes Bruce’s hair off his face and tucks it behind an ear. He moves his hand down until he has a sure grip on the nape of Bruce’s neck, secure and confident, and squeezes just a little. “Hey, B,” Jason says conversationally, not looking up from Bruce’s twisted face. “I don’t know what you’re seeing, but I’m gonna guess it’s some fun times involving us.” He drags his chair closer, the legs screaming across the concrete. “Dying horribly, probably, I sure fucking know what you’re like.”

He thinks about the rush of horror that had filled him, and how Alfred’s steady hold on his wrist had helped, how hearing his name being called had helped.

“Whatever it is you’re seeing, it’s not real. Promise you it’s not, ‘cos I bet it’s some dumb thing that wouldn’t have a chance of actually hurting us in real life, because you’re like, the world’s most overbearing parental figure.” Introductory Poisons 101, a Wilderness Survival Skills Camp for a pack of vigilantes haunting greater metropolitan Gotham, a field guide for identifying the warning signs of a rabies infection. Three thousand and a half Powerpoint slides updated with the determination of a man who refuses to be caught out unawares ever again. Jason wants to scream as much as he wants to laugh. “So I’m just gonna tell you right now, that whatever decision you have to make, whatever it is you decide to do to try and save us in your head, you’re doing enough, okay? We came into this trusting you, and whatever hell it is that you got going on, we’re gonna come out of it still trusting you.”

Jesus, it’s embarrassing needing to say these things that need to be said in front of other people. This is why Jason had tried to hold out on making monthly brunch an official thing, and his premonition had been 20/20, urgh. The sole silver lining is that Bruce is unconscious and cannot quote him on any of this.

Still, whatever his grievances and anger and dissatisfaction, it’s a point beyond contention that Jason absolutely doesn’t want to see anybody in this family hurt. Even Bruce. Maybe especially Bruce, on days like these.

“Do what you have to do,” he says easily. “I can take a hit or twelve, and I got a great track record of coming back, you know? Make the call, and just wake the fuck up.”

God, the temptation for a dramatic slap is almost overwhelming. Instead, Jason absently brushes the fine hairs by Bruce’s nape with a thumb, and hopes for the best.

His first instinct is to go for Damian. Damian’s the smallest by far, and the poison will take him first. If he gets the antidote to him, then he’s buying time to figure out a cure for the rest of them. Best case scenario, he can figure a way out of this. Worst case scenario, everyone dies except for Damian. He lets down three of his sons, and the one that does survive gets to know that the only reason he lived is because the others didn’t.

It’s twisting his stomach, twisting his brain, and the panic’s ratcheting up as they start dribbling a bit of blood and convulsing. He has to choose, he has one cure and he has to choose, how is he meant to choose, how is he supposed to come out through this in one piece? Bruce can’t even pull himself out of his chair, and the edges of the world are starting to ominously fade to black. It’s too late to say hey, how about you let me drink four shots of poison instead, please? It’s too late to do anything, why hadn’t he moved the moment he suspected foul play masquerading as champagne? How is he too late again?

What is the point of him, other than to spectacularly fail when he’s needed the most?

Deep breath in, slow breath out. He tries to remember that this is likely a hallucination, but it doesn’t help, so Bruce shoves all other thoughts out of his head, and makes himself move.

It’s triage; a sip of antidote given to everyone, as much as he can spare for each. He could give all of it to just one son and hope for the best, but whatever the outcome of that, the decision-making process behind picking one to live and three to die is going to cause so much more fucking damage than this, so he doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t think about anything, just tips his glass into Damian’s mouth, then Tim’s, then Dick.

He’s got Jason propped in his arms, just the littlest bit of the antidote left in his glass, and gief is already settling in because isn’t this a familiar scene? He holds the flute up to Jason’s mouth, and pulls back when he hears the softest little mumbles. “‘s not real,” he hears Jason say, and abruptly warmth blooms from the back of his neck, running down his spine. Jason’s words come in and out of focus, like a voice over the phone trying to whisper over static. “Trust….you.” More static. “Wake the fuck up.”

The last line comes over more strongly, the warmth at his nape squeezes harder, and Bruce drags in a desperate breath. He feeds the last of the liquid carefully into Jay’s mouth, because it doesn’t hurt to be careful, and tries to focus on the grounding feeling that’s holding him by the neck. “Jason?” he calls out, right at the sky instead of the man in his arms, because he feels close to cracking it.

“Holy shit, Jay, it’s working!”

It had been soft, but they all heard Bruce call for Jason after the world’s most heartening speech. Bruce even seemed to be pressing into Jason’s steady hold, and Dick joins in on the action, commandeering a hand and squeezing it tight. “C’mon, Bruce, you gotta wake up. You’re always the one that gets testy whenever we’re late for brunch. I’m starving, and not even your paranoid brain’s gonna keep me down, so just wake up already!”

Fingers twitch in his hands, and Dick wants to vault off the top of something very tall while he whoops.

Not to be outdone, Damian starts shaking Bruce by his ankles like he’s trying to swing some extremely unwieldy skipping rope. “Yes, Father, I would not allow myself to be killed inside or outside your mind, so you may as well give up and just wake up.” The shaking becomes more intense, and it’s almost funny to see Bruce’s heavily-muscled legs flopping about.

Alfred eyes the EEG read-out, and sees the signs of a man fighting through a nightmare. Fighting desperately, inching ever so slowly towards wakefulness. He’s not usually one for loud cheering or whooping, but what’s a butler to do but provide for his charge? Alfred rounds the table, right by where Jason is, and politely clears his throat. “I shall fetch Master Tim, as this does seem to be working. If you will excuse me,” he says as he leans down and presses a palm to the curve of Bruce’s cheek, “I’ll see you momentarily, sir.”

The touch lingers, and Alfred disappears on the wings of a soft sigh from their communal patient.

Dick and Damian continue shouting encouragement from the top of their lungs, deciding that the best strategy is the loudest one, while Jason stays quiet and keeps a firm hold on Bruce. Bruce’s eyelids flutter harder and harder, like consciousness is only a moment away, and when Tim comes in with the largest needle to date with something that looks like hot pink radioactive waste, the shouting just gets more energetic.

It’s so dumb, and it’s so sweet, thinks Jason. Dick and Tim and Damian are all on one side of Bruce, and the gentle nudges and prodding has turned into what looks like three bakers kneading a massive slab of dough, Dick working on a shoulder, Tim on a hip, and Damian on the feet. Bruce is actively groaning now from being worked over by three violent, overexcited masseuses, and is probably hopped up on whatever stimulant Tim just stabbed him full of. When he wakes up he’s going to be extremely disoriented, and probably bruised to hell and back.

They’re all crazy, and they’re going to give Bruce motion sickness, and shit like this is maybe why Jason still shows up month after month for goddamn Brunch at the Manor.

He’s smiling as he starts bellowing in Bruce’s ear too.

“Wake up, you old man, god, remember that whole year you secretly planted like 15 alarm clocks in my bedroom because I was a teenager who liked to sleep in on the weekends?”

Wake up you complete asshole is the pervading primary vibe in the room; wake up, dad! is the secret group wish.

Sometimes, good things do happen to vigilantes.

Bruce groans, and-

Things escalate really quickly from Jason’s quiet whispers. All of a sudden he’s bombarded with shouting on all sides, like the sky is screaming down at him. If that wasn’t overwhelming enough, he starts feeling warmth in patches all over him, screeching fire burning a path up his arm, and he keeps tipping to the side like he’s being shoved over.

There’s a theme to the cacophony; it’s familiar voices yelling some variation of wake up, and he recognises those voices. They’re ones that he tends to be bad at turning down, all of them, and if they’re saying wake up, then he really should try.

The Woman comes up to him in her beautiful dress, catches him by the chin with her red, red nails, and Bruce looks into a face that isn’t there; the void threatens to pull him under.

“They’re dying,” she tells him, and her voice is the amalgamation of every terrible voice promising every terrible thing in every terrible Gotham alley. “Choose, Bruce Wayne, you have to choose.”

He looks down, at his sons lying down around him like a halo, and looks at her.

“I choose,” he says more calmly than he’s felt throughout this entire hellish experience, “to wake up.”

(Choosing just one is no fucking choice at all.)

The screaming continues long after Bruce wakes up, and he thinks at this point it’s just payback for him worrying them. Alfred had shown up bearing tea and sandwiches almost at the exact moment Bruce had wrenched himself awake, because the man has a sense of timing that is simply sublime. Bruce can’t hold his cup of tea himself because the last kick of drugs Tim had given him had helped kick his brain back into gear but also leaves him so strung out he’s pretty sure he could one hit KO Killer Croc right now.

Everyone seems to find his lack of coordination exceedingly funny, even as they take turns to help him sit up and sip his drink. The hot darjeeling helps with the cotton mouth, and nibbling a delicate little cucumber sandwich helps soften the nausea brought about by the abject despair. He idly brushes powdered sugar off his front, and looks around at his family. Nobody’s bleeding out or foaming at the mouth, and he’s never seen anything so good in his life.

They update him on the situation as he gets his bearings; some new type of fear toxin-paralytic combo present in baked bread, the GCPD being informed and pulling the contaminated food off the shelves, Tim’s three-strep antidote composition forwarded to the pharmaceutical arm of WE for immediate production of the cure, Bruce going down harder than most, likely due to his built-up resistance to previous versions of the toxin. Damian happily outlines his plan of plucking the poison right out of Bruce’s guts, which certainly is an idea, and Bruce carefully doesn’t mention how all of them are keeping in tight contact. Jason’s got his feet propped up on the cot, and his socked feet are pressed to Bruce’s side. He woke up with Dick holding his hand, and he hasn’t dropped it yet. Tim’s leaning over the cot, body turned to face Bruce, and his elbow pokes Bruce right in the waist. A master of secrecy and deception on an average day, Damian’s taken a break from being a professional assassin and offers no apologies or excuses for just straight up sitting on top of Bruce’s legs.

Even Alfred seems to find a thousand reasons to offer up glancing touches as he passes snacks and drinks around, oh.

He’s piled in, and it feels fantastic.

Alfred keeps disappearing and reappearing with more and more food, and the kitchen island upstairs is usurped by Bruce’s body acting as a table for their meal. He has a worryingly warm gravy boat placed securely between his thighs, and staunchly ignores whoever it is that calls it ‘Batman Meat Juice’. A wrought iron pot full of warm tea hangs from the IV stand, and his chest is home to a platter of roast beef and mushroom tempura. He’s clearly intentionally being weighed down, because the first response to him saying he should really get up get out and get Scarecrow was greeted with a mostly-empty bag of doughnuts slammed right into his middle.

Bruce realises he probably deserved that, even if he’s less certain about deserving all of this. There’s no way to free himself barring an out-and-out brawl with all of his sons, and even if he survives that, he won’t survive Alfred who’s been bringing down the cutlery with a look of impending violence.

The atmosphere’s manic; down for the poisoning, up for the recovery, twanging every which way because everybody is clearly curious about what had taken him so deep under, but everybody also had enough sense (enough experience) not to ask.

It’s not like Bruce is famous for sharing information, either, but he’d seen them almost die in front of him. Surely, he’s learned from Jason. Surely, he knows better than to be shitty to his living children after seeing dead children.

He pours Batman’s Meat Juice over a slice of beef, and looks at it instead of at anyone. “It was a competition, with the four of you. They poisoned all of you, and I had the one antidote, and I had to choose.” He tears into the sliver of meat, still firmly avoiding eye contact. “I didn’t, because I couldn’t. All of you managed to wake me up before the final conclusion.”

And how fortunate was that? In the heat of panic, opting to parcel out the antidote had been the only thing that had made sense, but where would Bruce be if he hadn’t woken up? If the fever dream ended with all his children dead at his feet and then the nightmare began?

Dick and Jason don’t give him much time to stew, because they both snort in a way that indicates maximum offense has been taken. “The Scarecrow wishes he could poison me dead,” Damian states with utmost confidence, and Jason going “Even getting smashed to a pulp couldn’t keep me down, and you’re saying some shitty ass ~mystery brew~ was gonna take me out? Christ, dream me was probably taking a nap to avoid all the melodrama,” was an echo of the same thought.

Why they’re offended that Bruce’s worst nightmare is not up to snuff is a little hard to understand, but their vehement confidence in their unwillingness to die is comforting. Even the inevitable escalation of Damian and Jason trying to flex their poison resistance to each other feels familiar and warm, though Bruce twitches reflexively when Jason roars for Alfred to bring out the bagel so that they can have a showdown right now, right here, little bird.

Bruce looks up, and Tim’s just staring at him. “To be honest, if I was enough of a dumbass to just knock back suspicious liquids in suspicious circumstances, I’d be as bad as those two,” he nods to Jason and Damian who are both currently being lectured by Alfred and being threatened with a fate worse than any quick-acting poison (“No kebabs and ‘nugs’ at the next family barbecue, indeed none for the entirety of the spring, sirs, if you so much as say the word ‘bagel’ in my presence again, do you understand me?”). “You really need to worry less about us, especially not-us-us.”

Dick saunters into view, eating an unholy combination of meat and mushrooms sandwiched between custard-stuffed doughnuts. “No joke, I have and probably will keep on being the dumbass that’ll just swallow everything that looks food-shaped, but at some point you just gotta look at the boy throwing up at your feet because he ate from a bag of ancient popcorn that’s gone kinda green and go, you’re an adult human being Dick, and this is what happens when you eat your body weight in junk and black mould.” His tone is casual and light, but his eyes are sharp as anything. That’s the trick of Dick the Flying Grayson; all pomp and splendour in how he walks and talks and moves and acts, and none of it has a patch on what goes on in his head.

Bruce wonders what he’s calculating now.

It turns out to be a kiss, pressed sweetly to Bruce’s brow, a callback to the first few months of Dick’s endless sleepless nights spent curled up in Bruce’s bed. The world goes hazy, and for a moment it’s like he’s at the start of a dream that could go very well or very badly, again.

Bruce blinks, and Dick just smiles. “It’s a Robin’s job to look out for Batman, and it’s our job to look out for you. We would literally stay alive just out of spite, B. Try and come up with something more realistic next time, or you’re gonna make Scarecrow feel bad about his life’s work, okay?”

There is a bit of grease on his forehead, because a tempura-laced kiss will do that to you no matter how dapper the man who gives it, and Bruce for a hysterical moment feels tempted to never wash his face ever again. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, but his voice is rough and there is not a chance that he’s not an open book right now.

“Very good, sirs.” Alfred’s voice cuts through the background chatter, uncharacteristically loud. He has a massive whisk in his hands, but there’s nothing nearby that needs it. It’s a heavy-duty one, probably more commonly used in industrial kitchens than in homes with fewer inhabitants than fingers on the average hand, but Alfred seems to be appreciatingthe heft. “Now that we have sorted everything out, I do beg your pardon. I made a promise to myself that I would teach young Dr. Crane a thing or two about endangering members of the Wayne family, and I’ll just be off getting that done so that I may return in time for tea.” He nods at all of them with exquisite politeness, and it’s with dawning horror that Bruce understands that this is really happening.

(What does this one man intend to do with that one whisk, oh my god.)

Alfred’s even rolled up his sleeves, suit jacket discarded, and he keeps doing practice upward jabs with the whisk absent-mindedly. It’s easy to form some ideas about where Alfred intends to stick it and then twist to whisk, and isn’t that a spot of healthy horrific exercise for the mind.

Jason’s laughter cracks out like a shot, and in a second he’s up and by Alfred’s side, holding the gravy boat like he would a gun (it’s fantastically menacing). “Alfie, you’re a man after my own heart,” he croons, looking intimidating despite the holding of the Meat Juice. “C’mon, I’ll let you ride shotgun. It’s time for you to let your hair down, go buck wild on the town. Shit, I knew there was a reason why I liked brunch.”

It becomes clear, in that moment, that the world’s most terrifying hero matchup is happening right before his very eyes, and Bruce feels a cleaner, purer fear than he did at any point during his nightmare. It’s his duty as Batman to derail this, and there’s only one thing he can think off that could, conceivably work.

“The toxin made me dream that I was on the set of the Bachelor, and at first I thought my challenge would be going on a date with all of you,” he says out in a rush, steely stare fixed on a particularly attractive stalactite.

The merged scream of “WHAT!?” damn near knocks him out again, and somewhat sarcastically Bruce thinks he might actually miss being unconscious and a little dying.

He’s beginning to suspect that brunch may, in fact, be cursed.

A/N: If you’re struggling with your headspace right now I want you to know that a plate full of cheesy wedges will NOT help. Nor will having sad folk songs play for 2 hours on full-blast as you fail to digest too much dairy and potatoes. Please take care of yourselves in these dark dank times.

#bruce wayne #jason todd #dick grayson #tim drake #Damian Wayne #alfred pennyworth #batman #i always wondered why tim is the only one with a straight bird in his name #though i imagine you'd lose gravitas with a name like #jason great titted todd #tumblr swallows italics for reasons i cannot understand #batfamily #when you're a billionaire #but you're not very bright #whale writing

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fordarkisthesuede · 5 years

Text

The Tolls of Justice - Chapter 7

Goooood morning, darlings! It was a longer wait than I wanted to give you, but I hope this absolute monster of a chapter is alllll worth it for what we’re leading up to! :3c

Important Spoiler Tags: self harm, paranoia, playing with knives, discussion of mental illness, bonding through near-death situations, omg Billionaire Playboy Vigilante Bruce Wayne has That™ kind of drawer what a surprise

Read on Ao3 or continue below...

[Chapter 7: Drawing the Strings]

Wayne Manor was too big. John figured he could walk the whole length of it in the time it would take to let Bruce deal with everything being set up for his fancy-schmancy party.

He was okay with not going. It wasn’t like he wanted to actually be in the enormous unused ballroom, all dressed to the nines. Or be on Bruce’s arm for any miniscule part of the evening. Or get to try to be normal-ish for once. It made sense for him not to go, what with a wannabe-killer on the loose. He knew that as soon as he’d realized he was in Wayne Manor and not in some weird fever dream made from various Arkham-brand drugs.

But hearing he wasn’t wanted there in the first place was different. Not so much from calculating, logical Bruce, who might have his best interests at heart - but from Alfred?

He felt the stirrings of the mysterious beast under his skin. It had been kicked hard in its cage and now it was angrier than ever. It was as if it had been staring Alfred down from behind its bars of bone and flesh, teeth bared and growling low since he saw him in the kitchen that morning - and it was lie Alfred could see it, somehow, and stared back as he shoved a pancake into John’s hands with his compliments like that would make things better.

John would be lying if he said it hadn’t made a fraction of a difference – Alfred treated him like he would any other guest to their face. He was polite and seemingly neutral, and even tossed a joke out about Bruce’s life juggling trick. It was enough to remind John that this was Bruce’s father figure he was dealing with and not a stranger, and he should do his best to get along with who could – in the slimmest possibilities of a good future – be his eventual father-in-law.

But the knowledge that Alfred didn’t think he should be around other people kept sitting in John’s head. It sat there in the kitchen, and in the oversized dining room, and back in the kitchen as John very carefully dried the china and attempted to make conversation about Alfred’s journey across the world in-between mentally running through a list of all the mob hits ever made on 13th Street. Bad thoughts were easy to drown out when he was thinking about other things, but as soon as he was left on his own it came back.

Alfred doesn’t want me here, the thought cycled in again as John stepped into the elevator down to cave. It was the one place he could surround himself with Bruce’s presence without the man actually being there. He doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m dangerous around people. Shadows passed over his face.

He knew Alfred was right. Does anyone want me here, with my bloody hands...?

John looked down at them. They were clean, but sometimes he felt like Lady Macbeth trying to scrub away the guilt that seeped a permanent red into her conscience. He squeezed his fingers into fists, feeling the short nails dig a little into his skin as his wrist muscles flexed.

The wrists that Bruce had held not long ago, while lying on him with all the weight of the world packed in mostly-sculpted muscle. He flicked his tongue out, tasting his lips; Bruce’s flavor was all gone, and only maple syrup from breakfast remained, but he was sure it happened. There was no mistaking Bruce’s firm grip.

Bruce does, John countered himself, flexing his hands in a squeezing motion again. Bruce doesn’t care what Alfred thinks. I’m his best friend. He loves me.

He woke up alone. He woke up in the guest room Bruce had given him last time. He had to think carefully about where he was and had snatched the phone off the nightstand to prove to himself that it was Saturday.

...he SAYS he loves me. He left me alone.

But Bruce had kissed him. Been real. John clutched his bandaged forearm, squeezing hard and feeling the fabric beneath his fingertips. He was there, in the elevator, heading towards the Batcave.

But Bruce had also lied to him before. He lied to Alfred very easily. He didn’t want Alfred to know I was with him.

Why would he do that? Why would he hide John away? Why would he not tell his father his boyfriend was there? Only if…

John squeezed his bandaged forearm harder. His gut had told him so the moment Alfred had finished his sentence from behind Bruce’s bedroom door: Alfred didn’t know about Bruce and John’s relationship.

He’s ashamed of me.

He wanted to talk to someone about it. Badly. So badly it gnawed at his stomach.

But of course Mickey and Devi were busy, and Dr. Song would practically say she told him it would happen and tell him to go wherever it was St. Dymphna felt would work for the time being, and John would sooner talk to Harley than go through that mess. Tiffany and Iman wouldn’t understand, and he didn’t think their budding friendships were at that level of emotional intimacy.

The elevator gave a little ding, and John felt his head start to clear with the first breath of cave air. Solid mixed metals and rock, live bats, fresh water, Kevlar cleaner - yes, this was all Bruce. Bruce in his truest form. Logical Bruce with his sweet heart that bled underneath the layers of armor he kept to hide and restrain it all.

Bruce loving him was unquestionable. He was an idiot sometimes, hiding things for his mysterious, inane reasons, but Bruce loved him. He had to. So Bruce might be embarrassed or ashamed of him, but…!

He won’t be for long.

Sure, he could do something outlandish like kidnap Bruce without letting anyone else be wise to it and prove how clever and deserving he was of Bruce’s time and attention and love as he gave him the heavy pet-down they both deserved to indulge in, but it wouldn’t go over so well when John wasn’t officially released into the wild with the sanity stamp on his hand.

Solving at least one of the cases on Bruce’s desk, though? That was sure to earn him points. Hell, Alfred would undoubtedly be impressed, too.

He had a lot to catch up on. He glanced over at the Batcomputer and thought about everything.

The Wednesday Nighters’ deaths at The Lot club were mysterious, but the gang seemed to have a lead on that, what with the idiot whose card was “stolen”. It wasn’t impressive enough if John puzzled the rest out.

His own attempted murder was intriguing, but there wasn’t much to go on. Unless Tiffany could show him the exact spot she lost the shooter in... If she did lose them and it wasn’t some very elaborate scheme to-

Don’t go there, John. You know what the doctors all say about your little paranoid thoughts.

And while he could just throw their advice out the window like they seemed to do to him, he knew they were right. Thinking someone he knew (someone he was growing to like, and was sure he could get the feeling in return if he tried, no less) was out to get even with him wasn’t very progressive. Tiffany had trusted him enough to gamble on following a lead. She didn’t toss his phone over the edge of the building when he’d given it to her. She tried to chase the shooter and got her precious drone smashed to bits as a consequence. She didn’t even pull that weirded out face at the breakfast table...well, he was pretty sure she hadn’t, anyway.

The more he thought about it, the Chandis instance seemed to be connected to Cat-Lady, if the video was to be believed, and John had a feeling that it wasn’t a coincidence that both his and her attacker were wearing masks. And Selina’s looked peculiarly like a Batman knockoff.

Yup, first-in, first-out was the way to go, really. He’d just have to figure out where she was staying and then figure out a way to get there.

It was only two things. He could manage that.

He was going to march over to the giant supercomputer when he caught a flash of movement in his peripheral vision: Tiffany.

For the second time, he found himself finding her in an unlikely place when her back was turned.

She’d brought up Miss Kitty-Witty. She would know exactly where she was. And John, having managed to coax her into working with him before, would surely be able to do it again, as long as he could keep his face straight.

Tiffany was in the little rogue gallery, her phone pressed to her ear. She seemed to be wearing her motorcycle gear from last night, sans the helmet; he could see some of the plating looked a lot like that of the Batsuit, but in a matte midnight blue. She was clearly planning on going somewhere...

John snuck closer, walking on the outside of his heels to lessen the noise.

“I told you, Barb’, I’m not with a guy. If I was, I wouldn’t be so tired when I come back home... Of course my Mom knows where I am; even if I wasn’t with her I’d have to text her. I mean, she’s been getting better, but… Yeah, it’s just work stuff.” Tiffany stepped closer to John’s case. What could she want from there?

Or was John just being paranoid and she was actually going for something else, like Harley’s hammer or Frieze’s ice-ray?

“Oh, uhh… I don’t know. It might be a couple of days. At least I paid rent already.” Tiffany was right in front of the old Joker items; his old belt, his grappling gun, and the razor-sharp Jokerrang. She reached up and snatched his grappling gun off the little pegs Bruce used to keep it in place. Her sixth sense was pretty shitty if she didn’t know he was right behind her by now. “Yeah, I’ll text you if anything interesting happens. Really, Barb’, I don’t know what you expect to-”

“Nice, isn’t it?” John asked from behind her.

Tiffany gave a yelp that echoed against the expansive cave walls as she swung the gun behind her in an arc - it would have hit him in the head if he hadn’t leaned back in the nick of time. John stumbled backwards a step, laughing at the wide-eyed shock on her face. He knew it was loud, but it wasn’t as if anyone else was down there to complain, so he didn’t bother muffling it.

John could hear the voice on the phone shouting in alarm. “No, Barbara, I’m okay, it’s just...one of my colleagues scaring me,” she explained, still frowning over at John. “Yeah, I’ll call you back later.” She hung up, stowed the phone in her pocket, and shoved his arm hard. “Don’t DO that! You scared the shit out of me!”

John bit his lip to try and stop the titters in his throat. “You were on the phone! You wouldn’t have noticed my text!” he explained half-truthfully, “Nice reflexes, by the way. You’ll be like a little Bat in no time! Or would it be a batling...? A Mini-Bat?”

She didn’t seem to find the funny side to that.

John cleared his throat, unsure of what else to say until he realized he should have apologized by now. “Um, ‘sorry’. That’s what I’m trying to say.” He stood straighter. “So - Bats won’t let you play with his toys?”

“Uh… Not exactly.” Tiffany shifted her weight and tried to cross her arms, only realizing the gun was in the way too late and having to put her hand on her hip instead. “Bruce…suggested I borrow it from you. Since you’re kinda stuck here,” she said with a shrug.

Ah-ha. She was heading out on a little mission - visiting the Cat, perhaps, in Bruce’s place. “Well, the man’s got a point… Kinda wished you asked first, though, Tiff’. It might be in Bruce’s fancy case under his fancier house, but it’s still mine.” She shifted uncomfortably. John supposed he should play nice and not glower. “But I suppose I could let you borrow it -” he rocked back on his heels once, thinking quickly - “if you let me come with you. You’re going to see the Cat, right?”

“You want to…” Her already dark eyes darkened further. “Did Bruce put you up to this?”

What a suspicious-aloysius. Clearly Bruce had her a short leash. “Give me some credit, Tiff’, I have a life outside of following him around. Though it is nice when he gets that cute proud face when I do something right…” It always gave him a nice little rush of mood-enhancing chemicals to his head, seeing that face...but he was getting off-track. And Tiffany was starting to pull her weirded-out face. “But I didn’t even know you were heading there for sure until just now.”

She seemed to be analyzing him. Thinking. Asking herself if he was lying. She could easily just take the thing and run; she might be shorter than him but the suit showed off powerful legs, and who said she couldn’t fight him? Bruce might take John’s side over hers, or he might take neither. Could she trust him? Would she?

“Let’s say I do,” Tiffany said, staring him down, “What are you planning on doing?”

“Outside of asking questions? Ha, I’ll wing it!”

The dark blue woven curls of her hair swung slightly with the tilt of her head. “And what if you do something stupid?”

“Like, accidentally hit myself in the head with the grappling gun stupid? ‘Cause I’ve done that. Really hurts!” She wasn’t finding that funny. Okay. “Ohhh, you mean whoops there’s a knife in Cat-Lady’s liver, how’d that get there stupid!” He laughed at his own joke, hoping she’d turn that serious line into a tiny smile. “I’m not an idiot, Tiff’. I learned my lesson,” he beamed, holding up his scarred hand and wiggling his fingers to draw attention to it, “I won’t be shiving anyone any time soon.” Well… “I mean, unless she tries to kill you,” he added sensibly, “Then it’d be a lot more socially acceptable.”

Tiffany blinked in confusion. “Are you expecting her to try and kill me? I didn’t think she’d be that testy about a couple of questions from a stranger.”

“I just figured that with Riddler being her ‘friend’ and all…” He could see the grim understanding growing behind her eyes. The ‘R’ word seemed to have been the trigger. “I mean, I don’t think she knows it was you, but...if she did? She might try to.”

“I see…” (He could tell she did. Though what hue she was seeing it in wasn’t for him to know.) “How do I know you won’t tell her when my back is turned?”

He supposed he could, if he felt cruel enough. “You haven’t given me a reason to,” he shrugged, “so my lips are sealed!” He made a zipping motion over his mouth as he gave her a wink.

Finally, she was actually smiling. Even a small one was better than nothing. “Alright, you can come. But you do anything stupid and I’ll test my roundhouse kick on you.”

“Hm, mhm mm-?!” He mimed grasping at his throat and unzipping his mouth and gave a dramatic gasp. “Whew, hard to breathe like that!”

Tiffany gave a slight titter as he laughed at his own joke. Hers was just a little ha ha ha - that was as much as he could’ve asked for. “John, you could breathe through your nose.”

“And what, ruin the bit? Not on your life.” John checked a little box off of his mental list of ways to win her over. He was getting there. “So, when are we going?”

She glanced him over very quickly. “Uh, you’re planning on going like that?”

How else would he go? Makeup took too long to apply. He’d stand out no matter what he did, with his complexion. “She already knows what I look like, Tiff’. If I pull out a disguise now that’s just another leg she could get up on me later.”

To his surprise, she reached around the back of his case and pulled a long piece of purple cloth off a large plastic hanger and tossed it his way. “If you fall off the bike without something on your arms they’re gonna get shredded to ribbons. And you’ll be...slightly less conspicuous with that.”

John held up the fabric, feeling how heavy it was in his hands, and recognized it instantly. The purple leather trenchcoat he’d worn last year. “Ooh!” He gave it a firm shake and slid it on, instantly feeling the weight sink into his shoulders. He could smell something like mild fabric soap, which meant Bruce had kept it fairly clean. That sweetheart. “Oh, I missed this. I’ll never get why that vampire cosplayer just traded it away…” It was a little thick, really designed for the fall more than the summer. The buttons that made up the double-breasted style were dull black, but he could fix that later. “I need to put in some vents,” he mused, following Tiffany down to the parking pad below. He could hear his ankle boots click slightly on the metal steps, reminding him of when he and Bruce had left for their little missions last year. “How many do you have in that suit? It has to get hot in there.”

“Ten. Bruce’s suit has more, you should look at it later.”

He patted his pockets. Pretty flat. “You wouldn’t happen to have any extra gloves, would you?”

“Yeah, but they’re not going to fit you.”

Upon closer inspection, the sleek motorized bicycle was really built more for one than two. The elevated seat on the back had small handles on the sides for the passenger - or easily-strapped bag - to hold onto. “Uh, you know I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before...”

“It’s okay, I’ve never had a passenger before.” Tiffany tucked the majority of her hair into a tight fitting hood that reminded John of knight’s chainmail. “Just hold onto the handles and lean with the bike if we turn. I need to start it before you get on.”

“What, no holding onto the driver like they do in the movies?”

Tiffany gave him a look. He’d seen it before on Harley when he’d asked what he didn’t realize was an ‘inappropriate’ question - an odd sort of angrily tired, like she’d been asked it too many times before, but had almost gotten used to it. But of what exactly he couldn’t understand; he’d never seen a guy give that expression to help explain it. “You try and I’ll kick you off the bike.”

“Okay, point taken. Handles only.”

Tiffany was trying to find a spot on the bike for the grappling gun. She had a couple of little side compartments that John figured was for drones or her controlling tablet. There was a D-clip on what must have passed for her utility belt that could probably hold it, but John had deep pockets and freer hands.

“You want me to hold onto that?” He held out his hand, “Even I know you shouldn’t shoot ‘n’ drive!”

She plopped it into his hand, seeming somewhat annoyed she couldn’t find a spot elsewhere. “Only while I’m driving.”

It was nice and cold, and just the right amount of weight for a tool that could zip him almost anywhere. Now all he needed was a Batarang in his pocket... He did have that nice rainbow-hued knife Devi had given him; he supposed that was close enough, so he slid it from his pants pocket to his coat and heard a little clink.

It had hit a plastic tube that read Number 45, Wine under a torn brand name label. “Ha! I knew I left the spare somewhere.”

Tiffany was digging around in the little trunk hidden under the backseat. John shuffled to kneel in front of the little side mirror by the controls.

He hadn’t worn makeup since last year, either. It was one of those socially-unconventional things that made people everywhere look at him uncomfortably - and as much as he liked attention and making people question their own ideas of what was ‘fashionable’ and ‘normal’, he did kind of prefer finishing his recovery in peace. Being lynched in a mental ward with shitty excuses for protection wasn’t his idea of a good time, let alone worth ruining his record of good behavior.

John rolled the lipstick on; it was a color bordering on the fine line between dark purple and red. The kind of color he wanted to smear over Bruce’s collar. Color over the inevitable purplish bruises and lines of faded scars. Mix with fresh cuts until the reds were indistinguishable and staining white sheets as they tumbled together, blurring the lines of taboo and illicit...

“Here,” Tiffany yanked John out of his thoughts by handing him an open-faced helmet. It reminded him of more of an old-fashioned army helmet than anything. She blinked, slightly surprised by the slight change in appearance. “Uh, there’s no visor, but I did find a bandana for you.”

Heavy white cotton. It could use a good coat of paint… “...are we ganging up on a piñata?”

“What?” Tiffany scoffed, the corner of her mouth upturned just a little, “John, you use it to cover your mouth. Unless you want to swallow a boatload of mosquitos,” she pointed out with a smirk.

“Point taken,” he grumbled, tying it around his neck.

Tiffany slid on her helmet and started the bike with a rumble of the engine while John was still working the helmet’s strap. He’d only just settled on the back of the bike and Tiffany took off like a shot, causing him to grin anew and clutch the handles like he was riding the old haunted house ride back in the abandoned amusement park, grinning anew.

Clearly, Tiffany and Bruce had something else in common.

*~*~*~*~*

To put it mildly, the Motel 11 on Augury Road was the sort of place that seemed to have a pest problem.

John just didn’t know what kind of pest. Arkham always seemed to have rats until his last two years. The run-down halfway house he’d been in the first time he was released had roaches in three sizes. The Old Five Points station John had kicked around for a few months had a bit of both, plus mice, spiders, and The Pact, depending on where you walked.

This place was still a step above all that, of course; it offered freedom, secrecy, hot water, and quiet.

Not too quiet. People clearly stayed there, and the freeway entrance wasn’t too far; John could hear the rush of cars speeding like they were all Batman on a Friday night call.

Tiffany parked her bike in a discreet out-of-the-way corner in a nearby alleyway and stashed their helmets in the tiny trunk as John took in the sight of the motel’s parking lot.

Selina Kyle had reversed into her parking place so the traffic cameras couldn’t read the plate. There were no markings as to what model car it was, but the sleek dark windows and shiny black finish told John that it was expensive-ish and thus primed for stealing. Or stripping, depending on the area’s hoodlums. He was surprised it hadn’t been touched yet.

“How do you know which room’s hers?” John asked as Tiffany fiddled with her tablet. One of her miniature drones - he was so tempted to name it! - was already zooming towards the building like a little bird.

“Electronic record says someone named ‘Frieda Baast’ checked into room 14[B1] late last night. Preeetty sure that’s her,” she smirked up at him briefly before watching her screen again, tilting it to fly the small drone, “Plus, she parked close to it.”

John hovered over her shoulder a little, watching the camera zoom around the place like a bee. It looked empty at first, but John saw lumps at the end of the bedspread. “Looks like she’s taking a cat nap.”

Tiffany gave him a look. “Ha ha.”

“What? It’s an easy jab!”

“Speaking of easy,” Tiffany snatched the grappling gun out of his pocket and clipped it to her belt, not bothering to even say ‘excuse me’, “she’s only got two exits.”

“Yeah, the front door and the back window. Duh.”

“Exactly,” she continued with an air of a new orderly, “You go around the back in case she tries to run for it.”

John felt offended at the very idea. There was no way he was going to fit through that back window. Tiffany was clearly going to try and hog the glory of confronting Cat Woman by herself.

Telling Tiffany they should switch places wasn’t a good idea, though. She’d take immediate offense, and even if he threatened her, they’d be fighting before they got to the real problem at hand. No, this would take compromise.

“How about we both go in the front door and use your little kit to guard the back?”

She wrinkled her nose and raised her right eyebrow. “Kit?”

“Yeah!” She didn’t get it. Of course. He rolled his eyes; he didn’t like explaining jokes. “Your last name is Fox, you built the drones - so, your kit. A baby fox!”

She didn’t look impressed. “Oh.”

“Doesn’t it have a laser or miniature flamethrower or something on it? It’s got that little tube under the lens.”

“No, Charlie is only a surveillance drone. That piece is so he can connect with Foxtrot in the field. We don’t need that, though,” she waved off as if his curiosity didn’t matter, “You’ve got a good point, we can both cover the main exit better. And she doesn’t know it’s only for surveillance.”

“Charlie? Ha, what happened to Alpha and Bravo?” he joked. “Wait, does Charlie surf?”

“Alpha was the prototype I made for Br- Batman until it…exploded,” she winced, looking away as if she didn’t want to think about it, “Bravo is what he uses in the field now. I’ve got Charlie, and Delta is the backup in the bike. Batman has the larger drones stashed around the city. And they’re all waterproof, but I wouldn’t say they surf.” Tiffany slid on a large pair of rimless yellow-tinted goggles that looked almost like they were taken from a movie. A small green square lit up in the corner of a lens, and John saw small text crawl across the yellow glass as what looked like a diagram flashed up for a moment.

“Woah.”

“Cool, huh?” Tiffany puffed up in pride. “I’m a few steps ahead of the industry. No big deal.”

“I’d say it’s a pretty big deal!” John flattered, actually meaning it. “You got any other surprise gadgets up your sleeves?”

“What, and ruin the fun?” She lightly smacked his shoulder. Friendly, not bruising, accompanied by a warm smile that reached her eyes - John had scored some points. Clearly, the old adage about catching flies with honey was onto something. “Come on, Selina isn’t going to lay around and wait all day.”

“She will if she’s been in the catnip,” John joked, striding next to Tiffany as they snuck their way around to number 14.

Tiffany could now see the camera feed in her right eye; a little controller in her own wrist gauntlet controlled the drone movements once the tablet was put away on her belt. It was incredibly impressive, but John wondered if it wasn’t a little distracting to be watching a camera and where she was walking. It would be worse if she were fighting or taken by surprise…

John decided to stay on the camera’s side. There was no helping her if she couldn’t see from both sides.

It was tempting to burst in unannounced, but Catwoman wasn’t just using her name for a cute pun on her burglary tendencies – he’d seen her dance with Bruce as nimbly as her namesake. So of course if they couldn’t break in to get the door open, they’d just have to get her to come out.

The easiest way was her car. Anyone who gave a rat’s ass about the safety of their primary method of escape checked on their car alarm.

John remembered Batman’s stunners, and how Bruce had started carrying around one in his pocket since ol’ Scarecrow got put away. He knew they packed a serious punch; he’d been hit with one of those, back when…

No. No no no. Not going there today, Johnny-boy.

John shook his head, telling himself he’d have his little traumatic flashback at a different time. It didn’t quite help, only bringing back that after-zap feeling and the image of Ace Chemicals’ control room, which frustrated him, and that made him gnaw on his bottom lip for something to do and squeeze the knife in his pocket really hard.

“Uh...you okay?” Tiffany asked, stopping him without touching him. He almost wished she did, so he knew for sure she was there.

“Ha ha ha! No!” he answered, feeling more annoyed at everything, “Of course not! Why do you think I was in the funny farm for so long, hmmm?”

It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it was. But he was pissed at himself, at his stupid brain for acting up at the wrong time, for not being able to make that memory better than it was because Bruce probably wouldn’t go for a little safe recreation and they kept getting interrupted, damn it, could things not go his way for fifteen full minutes?!

He grit his teeth. There was no use staying angry for things neither of them could control. “Sorry,” he ground out. “I’m just…” He couldn’t explain it. She wouldn’t get it.

Or would she? Surely she had nasty little memories of where she was last year, too. He knew he caused one of those. His doctors always said he should open up to others. Share the experience.

“It’s just one of those stupid thoughts. The ‘hey, guess what you did a long time ago, boy-o? Let’s relive that,’ kind. It’s not fun.” He breathed in. He was outside, in Gotham, with all its car exhaust and leftover hot dogs covering the rot that seemed to make up the city’s foundation. It was better than Ace or his old cages; at least he could clean out some of the mess by himself. “They just come in at random, sometimes. I’ll be...”

Not fine. It was what Bruce said all the time. And not ‘normal’, because he never would be.

“I’ll be okay.”

Tiffany looked sympathetic. Or was it empathetic? Both? She looked at him less judgy and more understanding, and that was all he wanted. “You need a minute?”

“Nah. I was just thinking we need to set off the car alarm and kinda wanted a taser to do it.”

“Oh. We don’t need that.” Tiffany waved over her shoulder for him to follow as she took position by the door, the material of her hood now covering her mouth and nose. John slinked under the window and stood on the other side.

John watched as - quick as he could say ‘Rawhide’ - Tiffany took his grappling gun and fired at one of the headlights before retracting the clattering metal teeth with a snap of a button and clipping it to her belt by its’ jaws.

Like back in his room, half hidden in the dark, John was counting beats. Feeling his heart drum along a little, excitement building in anticipation.

The door opened partway, and Tiffany met his eyes for the briefest second before they spun on their heels to block the doorway and push forward.

“Selina, how are you, can we come in, thanks!” John rushed, pushing the door wide open.

Catwoman was just as fast and nimble as he remembered; it made him wish he’d brought some of his old playing cards along. She rushed straight to the bathroom window and unbolted it as fast as lightning - only to find the drone flying there, the lens right at eye level with a little red LED blinking to life.

Tiffany had her hand poised over the little controls at her wrist. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she taunted, “Unless you want impromptu laser eye surgery.”

Selina turned to face them partway, looking more pissed off than he’d ever seen her. She had cut her hair short and dressed in tight fitting black and white; John could see something slightly protruding above her lower back, which likely meant a knife. She was dressed for combative self-defense, some instructor might say. But like everyone else, she had bags under her eyes - and they weren’t leftovers of eyeliner. In fact, there wasn’t a trace of her usual style. There was only a glowering resentment and an obvious pressure bearing down on her shoulders. He could see the tension in her brow and jaw and wondered what it was that made her hate them that much.

“Fine, you got me.” Selina stared him down; he could practically see possible escape plans swirling behind her eyes. “What do you want?”

John could not resist a joke with an opener like that. “Oh, you know - freedom, a little niche of my own, a sunset dinner with Bruce overlooking the city...and my own cotton candy machine,” John answered, enjoying the confusion twisting her face into something less threatening, “But I’d really like some answers.”

“I see.” Selina shot a glance over to Tiffany, not seeming to recognize her. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” she said sarcastically, giving her a short once-over. “You must be Bats’ side-kick. Or have you gotten yourself mixed up in this crazy clown’s delusions?”

John could practically feel his dislike for her grow, simmering in the front of his head. What did she know about him? Or even the basic definition of a delusion, for that matter?

Tiffany seemed to have bristled a little less. “It doesn’t matter who I work with. If I don’t hear what I need to know, making your little hideout a beacon for trouble will be the least of your worries.”

“What, don’t you have a cute name to go along with the rest of the crew?” Selina taunted, not looking like she was enjoying it.

John held his gaze steady on the stealthy Cat, though his mind was already wandering to what Tiffany’s reaction would be. She supposedly wasn’t in the cave half the time anymore, and with the obvious costume change she’d likely not be calling herself ‘Oracle’ now. What would it be? Spoiler, as a homage to her original purpose of spoiling criminal’s fun? Batgirl, in mimic of her mentor? Something to allude to her range of skills, perhaps…Spectrum[B2] ? Or some word beginning with ‘T’?

“Robin. Now step away from the window,” Tiffany commanded, side-stepping close to the drone as Selina moved closer to the edge of the bathtub.

“Hm, cute. Hope that’s not your real name, Robin.”

Selina looked very much like a cat itching to stretch its claws by the birdfeeder. It made John antsier, and he had half a mind to shove her into the bathtub and hold her there until he got the answers to the questions sitting in his gut.

Calm down, Bruce’s voice echoed in his head from a distant memory.

Sweet, rational Bruce would be right. She might kick him away, and a fight wouldn’t give him anything they actually needed. His impulses had to be tempered. And what did those doctors always say to do about it?

John whipped out the butterfly knife and began to fiddle with it, opening it and twirling it in his hand in a familiar pattern. He couldn’t quite remember just when or how he had gotten so good at it since his first release. It was sort of...natural.

He already felt the little urge ebbing away with the repetitive motion. It helped that it doubled as a passive threat - Selina eyed it a little upon seeing the flash of light glint off the blade with every turn and snap.

Selina sighed, glowering lightly at him like she was a cat stuck in a bathroom during dinner. “Let me save you the time - you’re here to ask about the attack on me in Bludhaven, right? All because I wouldn’t give up the dirty details to Bruce?” She folded her arms across her chest, looking almost business like. “The short version is: I don’t know who they were. One minute I’m strolling down my gallery, and the next the lights cut out and some knife-happy freak crashes through my window. The only thing I can tell you about him was that he was wearing a mask.”

“How do you know it was a ‘he’?” John asked.

Selina rolled her eyes. “Please. I’ve seen enough men in costumes to know one when I see one. Tall, wide build, in a mask and ridiculous cape - only a man would wear that and think they look cool.”

John thought that remark was annoyingly unnecessary. And wrong - a third of Gotham could all agree that Batman’s picture should be next to the word ‘cool’ in the dictionary. (She was clearly jealous. Who wouldn’t be?)

“Casual sexism aside,” Tiffany grunted, “did you notice anything else? Any distinctive markings? Smells?”

“I just said he wore a mask. You think a guy like that wouldn’t cover himself up elsewhere?” Selina shot back, clearly not impressed, “I would’ve thought the sidekick to Bats would know to pay attention to context clues.”

John thought about throwing the knife at her, but it was a bad idea. For several reasons. “And I would’ve thought you were smart enough to not make deals under the table anymore, now that you’re free from the pound,” he sneered, clicking the knife open and shut, “What did Roman Sionis cut you in for?”

Selina glared, her stony green eyes hardening at him. “My deal with Roman was above the table, like all my sales. I don’t see how him buying something from my gallery has anything to do with this. Just because he’s loaded doesn’t mean he’s another crazed mob boss who needs to cut ties with everyone he meets.”

So Alfred was right - Roman bought something from the gallery. John made a mental note to mention that later in the most flattering way possible later.

“Did you see him after that?” Tiffany asked.

“Why would I?” Selina asked coolly.

“Handsome, rich, easy to rob…” Tiffany trailed off, seeming to smirk at her, “We all know he’s the kind that splashes champagne on pretty girls.”

“He does seem right up your alley, Cat,” John added.

Selina looked mildly disgusted at the mild pun. Or maybe the implication. John wasn’t sure which. “Look, we had a drink together after the payment transferred. I didn’t see him after that and I didn’t care. Why does this matter?”

…so she really didn’t know. That was interesting. John had figured she had a bit more of a detective instinct than that. “Because, surprise! He is a mob boss,” John said smugly, “One in a mask, no less.”

“I still don’t see how that matters. I don’t care who my clients are, as long as I get paid. And he has no reason to try and kill me, if that’s what you’re implying – the pieces I sold him were authentic. We parted on perfectly friendly terms.”

“Pieces?” Tiffany puzzled, “What, did he buy half your gallery for his yacht?”

(John quietly wondered if she wasn’t reading his mind somehow.)

“Don’t be silly,” Selina said tiredly, “It was a set of masks. And no, they weren’t anything like what the guy from the gallery was wearing.”

Tiffany stared her down, looking cockier than usual behind her glasses. “So if you left Bludhaven to run for your life and got a nice cash deposit, what the hell are you doing here?”

“We can’t all afford to stay at the Hilton for a week,” Selina dead-panned, shifting to add another mildly scathing remark.

But now who was missing context? And with all the obvious bitterness and tension oozing out of every pore, there was a clear answer hanging in the air. One he definitely preferred over the paranoid idea that she was here for Bruce. “I knew it,” John grinned, snapping the knife in his hand open, “You’re here on a job!” he pointed at her with the tip of the knife, not missing the flash down at it. Thinking of whether he would or wouldn’t use it. “What’s wrong, Kitty, get bored of hanging paintings you hadn’t stolen? Wanted that thrill back?”

“Don’t act like you know me,” she sneered in a slightly louder voice than she needed to use, “you’ll only embarrass yourself with your paranoid delusions of what I am.”

She was baiting for a fight. Maybe she wanted to watch him crack in front of Tiffany. Well, weird people said there was more than one way to skin a cat. “Ooh, throwing around psych terms! If you want to play psychiatrist, you better bring better material than that. Like… I would be willing to bet,” he emphasized with a little faux jab and a step towards her, “that you were actually happy down there, weren’t you? Settling nicely in a weird new life you’re not used to,” step, “when it’s allll upturned by some lunatic,” step, “and you’re forced to run back to the only life you knew before.”

He could tell he was right. Very right. She looked like he’d pinned her to the dissection tray in a lab.

“So you come back home!” He splayed his hands open, feeling more and more assured of himself, “And you need to prove to the world you can still land on your feet, so you pick right up where you left off. Am I right?”

“I don’t need to prove anything to anyone,” Selina growled, looking predictably pissed off, “And what I do in Gotham is my business.”

“It’s not just your business,” Tiffany injected, stepping closer to both of them. John wished he could communicate to her that it was a bad idea without having to threaten her; he just hoped Catwoman wouldn’t get as skittish as her namesake when cornered. “This isn’t just your city. It’s all of ours.”

“Who are you doing business with, Cat?” John asked, choosing to ignore Tiffany’s attempt to get Selina Kyle to play hero. If he was going that route he might as well have mentioned how they were in the same sort of boat! Either way it wasn’t going to appeal to her the way it might with someone else. “How do you know they weren’t the ones who tried to kill you?”

She was skirting her gaze between both of them. Annoyed. Wary. Backing up just a slight bit, metaphorically and literally.

“If they wanted to kill me, they would’ve done it already.”

“Unless they realized they could use you.”

She was thinking about it, staring him down, wondering if he was right, if what she thought was an obsessive lunatic might have had a very good point… She hadn’t considered it before, had she? She had met them already. Why wouldn’t they kill her on sight if not to use her for a day or two?

“Just something to think about!” John smirked, smacking her lightly on the shoulder with his free hand and turning to leave, trying to guide Tiffany to the door by her shoulder. “Come on, Robin. Cat Lady’s not in the mood to play with us.”

Tiffany didn’t budge. She had the same sort of stalwart glare that Batman got. “You know we’re only trying to help you.”

Wrong thing to say. Really wrong thing to say.

“Help me?” Selina hissed, “You barge in and poke your nose where it doesn’t belong, and you call that helping?”

“Robin,” John warned-

“God, you’re just like him! Just as stubborn and deluded with his self-righteous concept of justice. I don’t need help! Not from Bats,” the woman spat, “and not from you! If someone’s after me, I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” John interrupted, finding the ‘if’ particularly amusing, “You’ll pull a Riddler? Put yourself on display to lure them in and go for the kill?” It felt really good to rub it in her face. Almost soothing, in its own way. He couldn’t help but grin wider through his mildly-reddening vision and twist the metaphorical knife a little more. “You know what happened to him,” he purred, pointing the knife in his hand a little at her face, “Let’s not pretend it can’t happen to you.”

He felt a weight on his shoulder. Tiffany’s lightweight armored glove was attempting to pull him back, like she thought he might actually stab Selina in the face to prove a point. He went back to spinning the knife in his hand and stepped away. “Good luck out there, Cat-Lady,” he added, pulling Tiffany’s shoulder along with him in a loose, sidelong sort of hug as the drone hovered behind them like it was on a leash, its harmless lens trained on the angry thief at their backs. “You’ll need more than he did.”

Tiffany was stiff. Or maybe that was just the armor. It was hard to tell… He decided to let go as soon they were out of sight; she didn’t seem to be at the ‘hugging’ level of friendship yet, even if it was only a little one that barely counted. It would probably take longer to get there now. Which was a shame, because he felt like they could both use one.

He did want to break the silence, though. Something about the walk back to a getaway vehicle always seemed out of place, like an overly-long transition between scenes in a movie. But things were real, out in Gotham - he could feel the short heels of his boots as he walked and the city heat pressing against him. He clicked the knife shut and put it back in his pocket, not needing it anymore. “Good job back there,” he said earnestly, flashing a thumb’s up at her, “We can officially cross Black Mask off our list of suspects!”

Even with the mask and high-tech glasses covering her face, Tiffany was clearly angry with him. “So it’s our list now? Because I thought you did an awful lot of talking back there. Almost like I wasn’t there.”

“Oh.” He felt dumb just saying it aloud, but it was a reflex. “Um… I guess I got a little carried away?”

“A little? I was trying to get her to work with us, not plant suicidal ideas in her head!”

“I wasn’t doing that!” He protested, hoping he looked as honest as he felt. (Besides, even if he was, it wouldn’t be his fault if she did go down the Riddler-esque path of showboating and winding up dead.)

“What, next you’ll tell me you weren’t openly threatening her, too?” Tiffany rounded on him, looking more furious as she stopped at the end of the row of rooms.

“I wasn’t!” He clicked his heel hard on the pavement. “I was stimming! She just happened to be close to the other end when I was trying to make a point!” She didn’t seem to believe that, but he didn’t care; he knew it was the truth. “Did you want me to just walk away and let her yell at you for nothing all day?!”

“Yeah! I might have gotten a word in that way!”

“And what, convince her to have a sudden change of heart?” He scowled, getting agitated by the very idea she’d do a sudden one-eighty, “She won’t be a hero if you tell her she should!”

“I wasn’t trying to force her,” she countered, “I was suggesting! Unlike you, trying to play psychiatrist just because she pissed you off!”

“Oh, and I guess you wouldn’t get pissed off if someone tried to tell you what your issues are?!”

“You only made her madder!”

“YOU only made her madder! You don’t just offer her help!”

Tiffany was practically stomping towards the motorcycle in the distance as she threw up her hands in exhaustion. “There is just no dealing with you! I don’t know why I went along with this!”

That hurt. The kind that left a burn-like sting over a punch. They were teammates. Or at least they were supposed to be. Was it just guilt or pity that was holding their shreds of civility together? Was trying to get along with her the first step towards failure?

...or was it her fault? She couldn’t see the obvious nature of Selina Kyle - too independent and fickle to follow life-path suggestions, let alone accept help. Or maybe Tiffany did see it, and she thought Selina was still a better match for the crew - for Bruce - than he was. Maybe, like Alfred, Tiffany thought he was too unstable and dangerous to be around.

He stood in the corner of the alleyway, watching her angrily push on her helmet, and wondered at the intricate nuances of who exactly was to blame. He looked out at the city on the opposite end, wondering if he should just get a Ryde or risk using the Sky Rail...and thought it was odd a large white van was going that fast in his direction from the turn.

Ha, they’d have to stomp on the brakes to get into the parking space here...

It was getting a little too close…

WAY too close!

John darted into the alley, his heart jumping as he heard a sickening crunch behind him.

The van had smashed right into the corner of the building. Right where he had been just a moment ago.

It didn’t matter how curious he was about the driver. He didn’t want to hang around in case they had backup.

“Start the bike!” He shouted at Tiffany as she stood there, looking at the accident behind him. “NOW!”

“But-”

There came another crunch. Like metal pulling away.

The car was reversing, clearly not taking enough damage to stop the engine. It was impossible to see who was driving.

Tiffany revved the bike to life as John slammed the trunk and clumsily straddled the back seat. He’d barely sat down when the van had successfully pulled away from the building and turned its wheels towards the alleyway.

Tiffany had clearly seen this in the rearview mirror - she sped off, past the dumpster and down one of the many long back-routes of Gotham as wind whipped John’s hair. He gripped one handle hard as he pulled the bandana over his face and practically prayed that Tiffany did not decide to suddenly lose control.

The driver of the van didn’t seem to care how fast they were going, what route they were taking, or if half their front bumper was dislodged. They sped past the same brick and concrete and fire escapes and a rainbow of graffiti like it was nothing.

Tiffany tilted the bike to turn onto the street, narrowly missing a peeling station-wagon that sat too close to the alley.

John turned to see if the van was still there, wondering if maybe he could get a glimpse of the driver as they turned - the station-wagon was upended with a loud pop of fiberglass, swiveling into the road as the van barreled into traffic with a sharp turn, leaving a chorus of honking and squealing tires to follow.

John’s heart was practically drumming against his ribs like a fist, barely heard over the roar of the motorcycle but felt all too much - the van had a web of cracks in its windshield and more severe dents in its engine and driver side, but it still managed to follow them, dropping the headlight dangling from its front into the street for some other driver to run over.

Tiffany dodged between cars, seeming to ignore the beeps and rude gestures. John turned forward to see where they were, trying to think quickly on where they could go where their chaser wouldn’t follow, and heard more telltale sounds of the van in pursuit following Tiffany’s lead.

He was horribly reminded of his chase with the G.C.P.D. last year, when he had Waller thrown in the nearest vehicle as they’d ignored almost every traffic law on the way to Ace Chemicals, winding every which way to lose the cops on their tail.

He’d already killed people that way.

He didn’t want to be responsible for more off-screen deaths.

The van was close behind, if the rearview mirror was anything to go by. Like it was tracking their every move and just waiting to splat them against a...

Oh. Now there was an idea. The van couldn’t squish them if they did the squishing first!

“ROBIN!” He shouted over the wind, tapping her on the shoulder.

She shoved her visor up. “WHAT?”

“TURN HERE!”

Tiffany made a right turn down the emptier street, passing an abandoned storefront, and John saw his chance - there was streetlamp in the middle of the sidewalk in the distance, right next to an alley.

The van could turn, but he knew it wouldn’t be able to turn too sharply without clipping the corner.

John did what he wasn’t supposed to do and quickly wrapped an arm around the armor plates of Robin’s waist as he unclipped the grappling gun still dangling from her belt.

“WHAT ARE YOU-?”

Timing and aim - a formula too tricky and complex to actually think through. It was all about gut feeling and best judgement.

So John pointed, waited until the mirror showed the van right at their tail, and fired the hook at the lamppost.

Aaand retract!

They were pulled towards the post sharply, and John pushed the little button on the gun to unclench its jaws as the motorcycle tilted into a turn.

The crash of the van hitting the corner’s wall rang in John’s ears like a small explosion, getting quieter as Tiffany screeched the bike to a halt.

John let go and sat back in the seat, unable to stop himself from laughing in relief, letting out the strained ache in his lungs, and then laughing harder at sight of the van. The very smashed front, the now ruined windshield, the bent tire - they were going to have a hard time chasing them now!

Tiffany pushed down the parking lever in two seconds and hopped off, looking an odd mix of pissed off and amazed as she yanked her mask down to her neck and pulled off her helmet. “You…! You fucking idiot! That was brilliant! And stupid!” She shouted with a shove, causing him to teeter a little on the seat.

“Aha ha…! Sorry, sorry,” he tried, holding up his hands in surrender, “I had to do something to get that creep off our backs! And you nailed the landing! Ten outta ten!”

She looked conflicted. Like she was proud of herself but didn’t want to admit it. “Yeah,” she said simply, “but we could have died!”

Yeesh, did she sound like Bruce. “We could have, but we didn’t,” he emphasized, sliding off the bike with ease. “Besides, life’s not worth living without some risk!”

“Just...fucking warn me next time,” she said loudly, power-walking towards the van. “You’re lucky I’m an excellent driver!”

John decided to keep the thought of there wasn’t any time to himself. She sort of had a point - Gotham was full of alleyways. A few more people might have gotten into accidents along the way, but he could have waited...though he did sort of prefer stopping the van now rather than later, so he still felt his decision was the best. Still, another instance of someone telling him something uncannily familiar to what another person said…

Ah, who was he to dwell on little things like that?

“I thought I was stupidly brilliant?” He teased, following her with a twirl of the grappling gun in his hand.

“You’re a lot of things,” she shot back, not sounding as nearly as mad.

He wasn’t sure how to take the odd mix of implied-insult and praise. He decided to focus more on the positive aspect of her actually saying something nice and marked it as a personal progress.

Tiffany pulled out one of Batman’s portable stunners and kept it ready, poised to throw open the passenger side door of the van - John kept the gun pointed at what should be level with the driver’s face. “Ready when you are, Robin.”

Tiffany counted down from three on her fingers, and opened the cabin door with what looked like enough force to rip it off the hinges.

Broken glass and plastic littered the very…empty seats.

“Well, that’s anticlimactic,” John grumbled, lowering the grappling gun, “Self-driving cars sure have come a long way!” He pulled out his phone to take a quick picture: proof that it happened, of course, but also proof for Bruce.

Tiffany was already climbing into the seat. “It was driving pretty erratically,” she commented as she poked around the ignition.

“Oh, sure, it clipped some corners and sped up a lot – but I’d say that was more reckless than erratic.”

“It wasn’t quite driving straight.” Tiffany pulled up a normal two-pound weight from the gas pedal, tugging some wire tracing from it to the back area, which was also empty. “And it’s easy to see why. Check this out,” she gestured, waving her hand in.

John hoisted himself up and in, keeping his hands to himself in the likely case it was dusted over later. “Shouldn’t we be worrying about the eventual crowd?”

“We’ve got a minute. Look,” she tugged the line, connected to a pulley system controlled by what looked suspiciously like a standing kitchen mixer, “The mixers are rigged to pull the weights on the brake and gas pedals. They probably have remote capability.”

“You’d think that would be a reeeeally short radius...”

“That’s what the cell phone’s for,” Tiffany said, gesturing to the out-of-date smartphone sticking upright in the dashboard. “They must have used it as a dash-cam, and connected it to the mixers to control through an app at the same time. There’s actually a free one for remote device control.”

“I somehow didn’t pitch you for the kitchen-gadget type.”

Tiffany shrugged, seeming slightly downcast at that. “I’m not. I bought my mom one of these for her birthday. This one’s a little different, but it probably has the same sort of rig.”

“So whoever we’re dealing with doesn’t have the handy funds for an actual radio transmitter setup to drive this thing, huh...” John pondered, pulling away the bandana on his neck to pick up the phone up.

The phone’s battery was getting low and the signal was on the edge of reception, but a remote-wipe app was up and struggling to work; John quickly canceled the wipe action and turned the tower radio off before the mystery-driver could do any further damage.

Beep.

A beeping noise?

Beep.

That couldn’t be good.

“What’s that?” Tiffany pulled away from the backseat. Whatever was beeping came from the back, and John had a sneaking suspicion it was positioned close to the gas tank.

John pocketed the phone. “Time to go!” He snatched Tiffany’s arm and half dragged her out of the van, thinking wildly – if it were him, he would have rigged the whole thing to blast the car sky-high, and running was likely not going to cut it.

Thankfully, like alleyways, Gotham had a lot of fire escapes.

He didn’t think, only counted off the beeps that seemed to coordinate with his heart – six, seven – as he aimed, fired, and zipped up the line with Tiffany being held against her will in one arm.

Nine, ten –

A blast of superheated air hit his back as they reached the top of the metal staircase, accompanied by the roar of exploding gasoline and metal bending against its will.

John grimaced as he smacked his shin right against the metal grating as he wedged his heels in the little bars. “That’s gonna leave a mark,” he growled, casting a look down at the now-definitely-ruined car. “But it looks like our geese live to see another day!” he joked, trying to lighten up the mood for both of them.

Tiffany was just silently looking down at the wreckage below and clinging to him like she thought he might drop her.

“You okay, there, birdie?”

“Yeah,” she said, the ‘oh God, that could have been me’ written clearly on her face.

“‘Cause you’re not as heavy as Bruce in full gear, but your pal Joker can only hang around with you for so long.”

She shot him a look he couldn’t decipher and silently climbed up and over the railing.

“You sure you’re okay?” He asked again as he followed her, pulling out his phone for another snap of the now-burning van below. “You kiiinda seem like you’re in shock.”

“Yeah, I just…” She pushed her goggles on top of her head to look at him, a little wary and unbelieving, but guilty more than anything. “I’m sorry I called you stupid. I didn’t mean it.” She crossed her arms, looking down at her bike below. “You saved us twice today.”

Part of him wanted to just say it was okay, and another wanted to rub it in her face, but he pushed both ideas away. “You’re welcome! But friends don’t wait until after they’re saved to apologize for being rude,” he emphasized with a light glare. “Still, I’d say this calls for a group pic! Just for my album, of course.”

“...you’re not gonna let me go without one, are you?” Tiffany mused.

“How can I, it’s our first proper team-up!” He gently put his arm around her shoulder to draw her in. “Ooh, put your goggles on! Then we’ll be Joker and Robin.” He made sure to get both of them at a good angle, with Tiffany’s little smile and yellow goggles making her look like she was defining ‘cool’ in her own way. Snap!

It was a really good one. There wasn’t a trace of awkwardness on her face this time, and the angle was perfectly flattering for both of them.

“Okay, we should go before the fuzz shows up.” She pushed her goggles back up into her hair and led the way down the stairs, charging down with hard stomps. “You grabbed the phone from the car, right?”

“Yup! I stopped it from doing a little wipe. It was probably tracking us, too.” He followed closely, seeing the plates of her armor shift a little with movement. It really was like a slimmer version of Batman’s suit. “So why ‘Robin’? I kind of expected something a little more…”

“Batty?” Tiffany kicked the ladder down and started to climb back to the safety of hard pavement. “I always liked robins,” she said simply, “My suit’s wings aren’t suited to be bats’, anyway.”

It was a short fall, but worth every second of the wheee he didn’t even try to hold in as he slid down the ladder after her. He plopped the phone into her hand upon landing, not caring about the bemused look she was throwing him. “Here, you’ll probably find more than I could.”

Tiffany poked around on it, swiping with her gloves’ little pads as she walked towards the bike. “Looks like the wipe started with downloads and unused applications.” Swipe, swipe, tap. “Two different apps were used for the mixers… Bluetooth’s enabled, too... Doesn’t look like any navigation software was installed,” she muttered, “They might have a remote tracker elsewhere. But just what are they tracing?”

He was surprised the answer wasn’t so obvious to her. “Uh, pretty sure it’s me, Tiff’. I mean, the car did swerve towards me back at the motel. If it was you they were after, they would’ve veered towards the bike.”

“But the Batcave has a sensor to detect tracking devices upon arrival. Both the entrance and the elevator would’ve set it off if it was stuck to you...”

“I doubt they could’ve just seen me,” John panned, already emptying his pockets, “I might have changed my clothes, but I have to be carrying something…”

She frowned. “You don’t think it’s someone from St. Dymphna, do you? They gave you a phone, right?”

“I doubt it. It’s too basic! And look, it’s barely got a signal,” he held it out for her to see. “Besides, if someone working at St. Dymphna wanted to kill me, all they’d have to do is give me an overdose and claim it was an accident.”

There was his own cell phone, of course, but it was the least likely thing of all. No one but he, Bruce, and his friends knew of its existence, and he kept it close at all times. Remote access was turned off, as was a lot of casual security violations the phone’s software wanted to enable by default. It was possible that someone could use the Batcomputer to look at it, though… He wouldn’t put it past Bruce to leave an emergency loophole.

Just as he was about to put that one away, too, a text came in from Iman:

Where are you?

There was the nagging thought that maybe it was one of their little makeshift crew. Especially former-Agent Iman, who could easily plant something on him without suspicion.

But he trusted Bruce with his life. He should extend that same trust to those who Bruce trusted...right?

Right. It was just the paranoia talking.

Out with Tiffy for a joyride! he answered. Don’t tell Bruce though, I’m hoping to surprise him with what we’ve found.

Are you visiting Selina with her?

Of course he was, where else would he be? Hey, don’t ruin the surprise! ;)

John, PLEASE be careful. Both you and Selina have been targeted recently. Your attempted murderer/s are probably still be hunting you.

It’s safer for you to be in the Manor.

You know Bruce would say the same.

A little too late for that, he thought privately. Not like he hadn’t thought someone would try it again eventually…

Iman sure had good timing with her commentary… She had access to the Batcomputer. In fact, she had access to just about everything. She could have known all along where Selina was hiding out and planted the van near there and just waited until-!

“Robin,” he started, remembering what Dr. Leland had said about proving to himself that irrational ideas like that were wrong, “You trust Iman, right?”

“Of course I do,” she said confidently. “Why?”

See, John? It’s fine, he told himself. “Just wondering.”

There was no use worrying Iman needlessly by spilling the whole can of beans. We’ll be back soon! Promise!! he wrote, making sure not to scrape the screen against the knife he’d gotten from Devi as he slid it back into his pocket.

Speaking of Devi, he’d been carrying around that knife since last night...but the metal handle would probably interfere with a radio signal. And he doubted she would have planned out the shooting to deliberately put herself in harm’s way. She was smart enough to keep herself out of the way for something like that.

The only other thing he had was his rainbow-splattered wallet. There was the hotel key Mickey had given him last night, which he’d stuck opposite the official state ID grinning up at him from the little clear pocket. But the keycard was pure plastic with a little security stripe - nothing more. And why give it to John to bank on killing him later when he or Devi could have just thrown him in the middle of the sniper’s gunfire? It didn’t make sense…

The only other things he had in there were cash, an emergency contact card, some state-given insurance, that really good picture of Bruce he’d saved from an old newspaper…

John stared at the little blue card he’d hidden behind the clipping and felt the urge to smack himself.

Of course. Of course - of course - of course. The expired card had a chip in it. He hadn’t even thought about it since he had to jimmy the parole officer’s door open… “I found it.”

“Found it?” Tiffany looked up from her examination of the bike’s underbelly. The trunk was wide open and searched thoroughly.

“It’s the only thing I can think of that I’ve been carrying around before Friday,” he said, stretching it out to her.

Batman’s apprentice took it gingerly, and he knew by the utter shock on her face it was something important. “How did you...?!”

A distant wail of a fire engine pierced the air. Tiffany stashed the card in a little pouch in her belt, shoved her helmet over her head, and started the bike’s engine.

“Come on! We’ve hung around too much!”

“Oh I don’t know,” John beamed, taking the seat behind her with his borrowed helmet loosely stuck on, “We could always get lunch.”

*~*~*~*~*

Upon arriving back at the cave (unfortunately lunch-less), Tiffany had barely gotten off the bird-cycle before making a beeline for the Batcomputer. “I knew it - Michael Hodges! The same guy who booked the room at The Lot…”

“From the Friday Nighters’ murders?”

“Mm-hmm…”

John felt like reality had twisted itself a little more at her casual affirmation. He was desperate for something to squeeze or tap. The cold metal of the knife in his pocket wasn’t doing it. The grappling gun was too familiar to ground him in the here-and-now. He settled for holding himself, clutching handfuls of leather and reminding himself that it smelled too clean to be fake.

From what he had read of Bruce and Iman’s notes, all seven cops ‘n’ crooks were drugged and shot in their seats, left to watch as each died and bleed into the couches. It stunk of the sort of gloating reserved for serial killers who had debts to settle. He’d wondered if that’s what they were - debts of death being repaid with more death. The little group had been around for a while. Who was to say someone couldn’t trace them back to a single, faulty so-called accident?

But the fact that the guy who booked the murder-room had his card conveniently dropped into John’s lap… It brewed a terrible feeling in his stomach. Clearly, whoever had tried to shoot him and tried to run him over, too, and they were connected to a mass homicide barely a day after two other mass homicides.

It could be a coincidence.

But didn’t the fact that he had to use ‘could’ tell him it wasn’t?

“It’s not a coincidence, is it,” he said, clutching himself a little harder. “They planted that deliberately.”

“I hate to say it, but...it really seems that way,” Tiffany affirmed with a concerned frown. “Where did you even get this?” Tiffany asked, shaking him out of his thoughts without even glancing over at him.

“It’s a long story,” he tried, not wanting to just spill everything he was feeling, “I kind of found it.”

“So, you stole it,” she said, giving him a disapproving side-eye as she jammed the card into a slot.

“Look, I got an order at work, it was sitting inside of it all expired, and I was never planning on actually using it to buy anything,” he growled in a huff, “I was only ever going to use it as a key! And if it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t have found all that stuff on Ian!”

He wasn’t sure if Tiffany was actually listening or not. Her eyes were darting over the screen, hunting for something particular in the schematics of the little chip. “How long have you had this?”

“Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?” She glanced at him once, then when back to scanning for something in the computer’s analysis.

“Yeah, Tuesday! Makes me wonder why our would-be killer took so long to find me.”

“That’s easy,” Tiffany said slowly, still not looking at him, “This thing’s shit.”

Maybe it was stress, or maybe it was her expression and the casual tone she used, but John found it a particularly funny thing to say. “Y-you said that so seriously,” he managed between titters.

“Yeah, because it’s seriously shit,” she replied with a smirk. “The receiver on this thing is pretty bad - even without the Batcave’s defenses blocking it, it must only be getting a signal a third of the time.”

“And me wedging it in a door wouldn’t have anything to do with that?”

“Maybe?” she shrugged with an exaggeratingly-puzzled look, “We’ll never know now. But they can’t track you anymore - my belt has extra-special lining, so they’ll think you got severely injured, if anything. They’ll have to wait until the police or news report comes out to know, and that could be a while.”

John had heard all of that, but he was too focused on the word anymore to really take the rest in.

Even if the thing was working a full thirty-three percent of the time, that was still a thirty-three percent chance his would-be killer knew he was staying at Wayne Manor. He’d prefer that number be a nice, round zero…

“John?” Tiffany waved a hand in front of his face.

“Ha, sorry, just thinking,” he waved off, shoving his hands in his pockets so she wouldn’t see him flexing his hands.

“Look, John - I know you’re worried, but the house is going to be packed tonight. You’d have to have one borrowed brain cell to try and get past the amount of security Bruce has for his parties. And thanks to our resident genius,” she said with a self-satisfied smile, “we should be able to track the signal back to ‘em.”

That was all well and good, but whenever anyone told him not to worry, he knew whatever they were going to say wasn’t going to put his mind at ease.

“So, do you know who slid you the card? Like, who the order was from or anything?”

He did know, but he couldn’t remember the name exactly. John pulled his phone up and scrolled through his gallery, passing the photos of the van, his friends, graffiti… “S. Townsend. Bruce never did get back to me on this signature…” He shared it with the Batcomputer, instantly seeing it appear on the oversized screen. “I was thinking it was that chairperson.”

Tiffany sat back in the captain’s seat, looking thoughtful. “There is a Sonja Townsend on our list of potentials. She’s Michael’s mother-in-law.”

It sounded like a winner to him. “So it’s got to be her!”

“Well…” Tiffany pulled up the security footage of the woman at The Lot, clearly on her way to the murder-room. Big hat, sunglasses...what about this was special? “Look,” she zoomed in, enhancing on the jaw and nose that could be seen in certain shots, “Sonja isn’t this young.” Sonja’s company photo pulled up on the second monitor. “She’s in her mid-sixties. This woman’s half her age, at least. You can see it in her face, and I know Sonja’s waist isn’t that small.”

“All it takes is a corset and a good makeup application,” John said simply.

“I’m not saying I won’t look into this. I just think we’re might be looking for another fraud. Whoever they are, they must have known Michael enough to want to frame him.”

John didn’t have any experience with mothers-in-law - at least that he knew of - but if the media had taught him anything, they were filled with vengeance for their child-in-law for whatever reason. But as he’d learned the hard way, TV wasn’t always right. “What about her kid?”

“A daughter, but it’s definitely not her. She’s currently eight months pregnant. And she’s three inches too short, even without the heels our killer wore. As far as we can tell there’s no girlfriend in the picture, either, and mutual friends that could fit the bill have pretty sturdy alibis.”

John tilted his head, studying the image of the woman on camera. A sturdy, confident pose. A slightly round face without blemish or scarring. Red lips without any hint of smugness. Dutiful.

“I swear she looks almost like one of those really expensive sex workers,” Tiffany said, “The kind that meet businessmen in their offices.”

Jealousy hit John like a light stab. Had...Bruce had someone like that? Even though he’d told John he was waiting for him… “And you would know...how?”

“I’ve run into a couple when I was doing overtime,” she said nonchalantly, “Some of the managers on the twelfth floor seem to be steady clients.”

“You...haven’t seen them above there?” He asked nervously, “Near Bruce’s usual haunts?”

Tiffany laughed. “Bruce? No way! The guy’s way too paranoid about his social persona - he’s not about to invite one of them up to the office.”

“Oh, thank God,” John sunk, feeling some weight lift off his shoulders, “Don’t scare me like that! I mean, I know he loves me, but... I mean, I wouldn’t mind too much if he’d just asked permission first or something…”

Tiffany had a very odd look on her face. Uncomfortable? Confused? Concerned? She had looked away from him and seemed to be pulling up more programs not related to what they were doing. “I’ll look more into where this card might have come from,” she said steadily, as if they had never changed the subject at all, “I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

It shook something inside, deep down, pricking his head with a familiar feeling. He’d said something wrong.

He stared at the head in front of him for a moment, wishing he could crack open her consciousness for a little peek at her thoughts. She had changed the subject and wanted to be alone, all because he mentioned Bruce. Did she not...know about them?

Naaah. Alfred he could understand not telling - but Tiffany? She was part of the team, not a relation that might judge Bruce harshly and tear his heart to shreds. Tiffany had to know.

She was probably just uncomfortable with it because of the whole almost-tried-to-kill-her thing… Or the whole almost-tried-to-kill-Bruce thing. Either way, that was water under the bridge, and she’d have to cross it sometime. Besides, she’d have to be completely blind not to notice how far along Bruce and John had come from that point.

“O-kay, well - I’m going to borrow one of the tablets and do a little research of my own. And then I will tell you what I find!” He said as cheerfully as he could manage with a slap to the back of the chair.

He picked up the spare bat-engraved tablet from the workbench on the way out, expecting her to tell him to be careful with it as soon as it went into his hand, but instead John was left with an uncharacteristically stony silence all the way to the elevator.

*~*~*~*~*

John had been careful about wandering the manor - he didn’t like the idea of suddenly running into Alfred or Tiffany and feeling worse than before, but he did like the idea of running into Bruce on the upper floor. Sadly, his fantasy about bumping into Bruce casually and pulling him into a random room to blow off steam hadn’t come to pass. Instead, he found storage rooms, a second, smaller library, and Bruce’s home office, and still wound up right back at his own guest room.

It was, admittedly, the perfect place to think. The classic green wallpaper was a pretty homey shade, the view of the garden was nice, and the vast empty space that normally bothered him was perfect to pace in and lay out all the things he needed for thinking.

“Of course I’m stimming, Doc’,” he said, looking from the picture of himself and Batman he’d put on his nightstand to his makeshift crime board spread on the floor, “it helps a lot, but it doesn’t help the nasty little thought in my head.”

“What thought?”

“That I’m not entirely welcome here.” He sighed to himself, refocusing on Batman’s stubbled jaw. “Bruce has...guests here, right now. And not just the ones having a literal ball. A surrogate father, and a...well, I don’t know, somewhat-adopted child? Their relationship is weirdly familial.”

“And that makes you feel unwelcome?”

“It’s just… Alfred doesn’t like me very much,” he lamented, looking down at the torn article depicting the Chandis stuck in the harbor. “He’s not rude or anything. It’s the little things. The way he looks at me. How much space he leaves between us.” (The killer had to have stowed away on the boat, hiding himself to lie in wait until the moment was right to kill the crew. Brutal. Forward.) “He said he didn’t think I should be around other people. He didn’t know I could hear him… It was like he was trying to convince Bruce that I should be locked up.”

“How did that make you feel?”

Isn’t that obvious, he wanted to shout into the phone. He didn’t. He looked down at the picture of the warehouse, of the crime scene photos of the mobsters on the ground. “Angry. Mostly Hurt.” He breathed slowly, squeezing his free hand into a fist and letting go. “I just… I just want him to like me. He’s Bruce’s family.”

“I know you and Dr. Leland discussed your feelings about needing to be accepted - do you remember what she told you?”

“That I shouldn’t expect instant results,” he said, not quite remembering Dr. Leland’s exact phrasing.

“That’s true, too, but more importantly: there will always be people who won’t accept you for who you are. A parental figure in Bruce’s life will naturally be wary of someone who once put his son’s life in danger.”

She had no idea just how much he’d put him in. She would never know. “So… Should I just…not try?”

“I encourage you to try. But you shouldn’t expect anyone to take to you right away. And if there’s no improvement, you have to accept the loss.” There came a brief pause. “What about the other guest?”

“It’s a kid-of-a-family-friend sort of thing. I know she’s going to take a while to come around,” he muttered, “and I didn’t like her at first, but she’s grown on me - and I don’t think it’s entirely mutual.” He studied the picture of the dead group sitting at almost a makeshift conference table. All three major killings were in groups. The only two that weren’t were Muddy Nye and Hubbard Jr., clearly only cover-ups…

“Sounds like you’ve been making a good effort to get along with her. I’m guessing Bruce and her are close?”

“Of course! How’d you guess?” he asked, studying the strings he’d laid over the pages to connect them all. Black Mask connected to the Chandis, the warehouse, Hubbard’s Garage, Muddy, and Selina Kyle; Selina connected to Black Mask and her art gallery, with the Chandis’ killer linking it to the boat; the warehouse connected to Hubbard’s Garage; Sonja Townsend connected to The Lot and St. Dymphna, and Bruce could only be connected to both of those.

(Unless he counted his previous not-quite-a-friendship with Selina, of course… And he did know Roman, but did that really connect him to Black Mask?)

“Would you be making an effort if Bruce wasn’t close with her?”

Oh. That was a good question. One that was potentially driving in the ‘are you revolving your life around Bruce Wayne’ undercurrent that Dr. Song seemed to use as her driving force behind their therapy. It wasn’t necessarily something that made him mad, but it wasn’t something he liked to discuss with anyone except Bruce. Not that he had, exactly, but… Bruce would understand more than anyone else. Doctors and strangers and everyone else would line up around the block to tell him how obsessed he was and that it was “dangerous” and “inappropriate” if he said one word about it.

But he couldn’t keep Dr. Song waiting forever. He paced around the floor-bound casebook slowly, thinking carefully about her question.

Maybe, if they never ever knew each other before, he might not try as hard. If there was no Batman, there would be no reason to try to apologize for old-John’s actions at all. (Well, except at the funeral. But he didn’t think he caused that much of a scene...) They could just be strangers, and there wouldn’t be this dangling thread of animosity towards him. They could, potentially, just be acquaintances.

But if her Dad was alive and she just built Batman’s gear in silence…he still liked being around interesting people. And the little tech-whiz had just enough humor and potential to qualify as interesting in John’s book. He was pretty sure that was why Bruce made her his partner-in-vigilante-crime, outside of compromising for the guilt for her father’s death.

“John?”

“Yeah,” he answered, “I would. Maybe not as much, but...I would.”

“Do you think either of them would make an effort with you, if things were reversed?”

He watched the string paths on the floor turn upside down. “Ha! I wouldn’t know that… I’d have a harder time liking them, though.”

“Try to look at it from that perspective. They clearly care about Bruce a great deal, and the fact that they haven’t been openly hostile mean they’re making an effort. Take those strides with them - give them space and time, and if you feel overwhelmed or threatened, don’t be afraid to walk away,” she advised in her wise, calm tone.

John stared at the upside-down pictures, and the strings leading things together, and breathed out. She would be right, if Bruce wasn’t Batman. If Bruce wasn’t the glue holding the mansion together with his lifelong mission for his personal pursuit of justice. The Batman complicated things far beyond the notion of family and friends. He always hung there, upside down like the proverbial flipside to...

His brain fizzled and thoughts faded away as he stared down at the drawings he’d made over the bodies on display in the Chandis’ storage room.

He HAD seen that shape before. Two lines arcing out from a long vertical line, aka three lines meeting to turn into one.

Not at all unlike the foot of a bird stamped on heavy stone tablet of the Gotham Cemetery’s mausoleum floor...

“Remember, you can always call me,” Dr. Song said in his ear, stirring him half from the memory and thoughts that were getting squished together. “My phone is always on.”

“Okay,” he heard himself say. He could hear Bruce’s innocent question echoing back out of time from Dr. Crane’s living room: Did you ever hear anyone talk about the Court of Owls? “I’ve gotta go, doc’.” He vaguely heard her say what was probably ‘goodnight’, but he was too focused on the symbol at his feet. “Yeah, ‘night…”

There were no voices, no music, no hums of lights – just a quiet hush of a lonely room.

His head felt fuzzy, narrowing in on the symbol he’d scribbled over the bodies, silently putting the strings together.

The Court of Owls. An old cult-like organization who believed in keeping the Devil out of Gotham by any means necessary – which usually meant straight-up murder. They disbanded years ago, since the heads of it were either hung in execution or offed themselves before the law could be given the chance. The rest had left Gotham entirely, leaving their bloody sins behind to dry and stain and be swept over.

Until now.

Everything started from Bludhaven. Black Mask had his leg over the fence separating the two cities. The drug shipment, the crew on the Chandis. Catwoman had made her living there. Ian Coggs had supposedly moved to Bludhaven.

And all of them were back in town. They brought The Court with them like a plague…

But that wasn’t true - Black Mask had an inside guy, Muddy, a newbie who didn’t mind giving up the details to the Court.

They were the real rat. They knew when the ship was coming in, and who would be waiting for it – they didn’t care about the drugs, only about leaving their message behind. A warning that Black Mask was being hunted. They killed Muddy for good measure and played dress-up to throw the group off the scent entirely, just in case they delivered a message before their own demise.

John stared at the picture of his attempted-shooter. There was a line connecting the Chandis’ killer to Selina Kyle. Another connecting The Lot to himself.

The masks. The capes. Not copycats, exactly.

Owls.

John felt like he wanted to shed his skin. Chemicals in his brain rushed like he’d woken up next to Bruce for the first time. He could feel his lips wobbling and the thing inside of him vibrating.

Hee hee ha ha HA HA HA HA!

“All this time! Ha ha ha, I’d been thinking it was a riv-al ga-a-ng!” he cackled to himself. “And it’s some - rogue crusader club - risen from the dead! Hee hee aha ha ha! They could’ve killed me before I…!”

Oh.

The realization made his lungs ache with the dying laughs stuck in them.

They could have killed him. Bruce probably hadn’t considered The Court of Owls as a possibility either. His best buddy hadn’t told him he’d had a theory about it, so he must be as in the dark as the rest of Gotham. But he couldn’t blame him, he was so busy chasing after Black Mask and the various killers and now dealing with him and the Gala and…

He stared at the pages on his bedroom floor, with all the strings laid out, connecting everything together in a complex web. “I have to tell Bruce,” he reaffirmed to himself.

But Bruce was having that big soiree downstairs. The Gotham elite had all stepped out to Bruce’s mansion to show off and pal around on the billionaire’s estate under the pretense of charity. Texting Bruce was likely to backfire, as all the music would likely drown out the phones’ vibrations and tones, and Bruce probably had his Wayne-mask on, which meant his social graces had to be generally adhered to and he couldn’t just cut off whatever schlub he was talking to just to talk to John.

Which meant there was only one solution: John would have to go down there.

He’d see Bruce in a tux’, undoubtedly impress him with his case-solving abilities, and maybe squeeze in a make-out session in one of the unused rooms. It was a win-win.

He just had to get something to wear and smear makeup on his face. Easy-peasy.

Bruce hadn’t left the suit in John’s room or the Batcave, so it likely was kept in Bruce’s bedroom closet. The same went for John’s makeup. Bruce never just threw things away - as evidenced by the everything in Wayne Manor - so they’d likely be shoved in a drawer somewhere in his grand bathroom.

John had already dumped out half of his meager possessions when searching for his crime-board materials, but there was one thing he needed to find; even if he had to borrow another one of Bruce’s black suits, there was no way he was wearing nothing but black. He pulled out a half-eaten packet of mini-marshmallows, the shiv he’d crafted out of a broken razor and a toothbrush his first week into his stay at St. Dymphna, a very orange button-down too crinkled to deign being put in the closet, the photo album he’d been filling since Bruce had given it to him for Christmas - ah-ha! He shoved the purple bow-tie that had been folded in the corner of the bag into his pocket.

He needed something to cover his hands, too, now that he thought of it. He only had so much peach-tone foundation, and he didn’t trust the setting powder that much.

It was quiet out there, but he knew there was a party going on despite the lack of music thumping under his feet. He passed mirrors and wall-sconces and breathed in, smelling all kinds of buffet food and the smell of old house that seemed to permeate everything. He passed the spots he remembered Bruce throwing some of his clothes down on when John had been there last, and felt a little jolt of deep-seated excitement hit his groin. What he wouldn’t give to relive that wonderful rush of endorphins…

Bruce’s room was just as he’d left it that morning. Except the bed was made. And there were no more clothes on the floor. And there was a definite lack of Bruce’s super-handsome face looking at him with soft longing from the pillow.

But now he was alone in there. With no one to stop him. And John had itchy fingers and a curiosity to fulfill.

“Focus, John,” he muttered to himself, squeezing his hands to try and pass the urge to rifle through Bruce’s bedside drawers, “You’ve got a mission to do.”

The walk-in closet was like a peek into Bruce’s inner-fashionista. Black, white, gray, dark blue, thin classy stripes; t-shirts, full suits, sports jackets, slacks, jeans; shoes that cost more than John’s whole outfits; a whole section of silk ties and pocket squares in colors John had never seen Bruce wore…

It made him want to pull Bruce and his fancy-schmancy black credit card into a proper store and force him to try on some more colors. He settled for running his hands across the rack of expensive shirts instead, flipping them halfway and releasing the smells of fabric detergent and leftover colognes.

John took a step backward, seeing a flash of color behind the up-ended fabric.

A secret button. In red. With ‘ESC’ written on it.

That had to mean ‘escape’, right? What happened if he pressed it? Did Bruce have a secret panel for Batman gear? A panic room? Both?

Bruce had never mentioned it. And if it turned out to fire Batarangs, that was just extra dodging practice and wounds he could make Bruce clean up, so he decided to push it, bracing himself to move.

But there was no alarm or spray of surprise-sharp-things or secret trap door that dropped John into some holding cell. There came a quiet squeak of hinges behind him - and behind the opposing rack of suits, there was an open gap in the wall with a long, shiny pole that plunged who-knew-how-deep into the floor. John took a peek downward, seeing lights reflecting off the pole far, far down.

A secret route to the Batcave, maybe? John made a mental note to ask about that later. He did remember Bruce mentioning wanting to put in an extra entrance…but he wasn’t going to just go down the pole to find out. Pressing buttons was one thing, but travelling potentially-incomplete paths was another entirely.

The door closed by itself after John pulled his head out of the enclosure. He continued down the rack of suits, finding some in clear protective bags, and found a tuxedo in Bruce’s size - but with white formal gloves in the breast pocket. What a lovely coincidence!

They fit his hands a little loosely, but it was better than nothing, so he decided they would do. Bruce must have kept them for if he had scars or visible battle wounds on his hands.

John found his tailored charcoal-suit at the very back, kept in a full-length plastic cover with one of his playing cards peeking out over the breast pocket. He could smell the same laundry detergent Bruce used on everything else in his closet as soon as he unzipped the bag. “I’m steppin’ out, my dear - To breathe an atmosphere -” he sang to himself as he quickly changed, “That simply reeks – ha ha ha ha – wi-ith claaass!”

It still fit as snug and comfortable as ever. He hung up the street-clothes he had been wearing on the now-empty hanger for later and decided that his ankle boots (which he had worn with the same suit last time) still looked fancy enough. Bruce had not thoughtfully put the whole deck in the suit’s pockets, though. He had to have kept them somewhere…

He decided to give into the urge to peek in the drawers, finding nothing but socks in one, and another with an awful lot of boxer-briefs in Bruce’s favored colors, and the last...

Weapons. A telescoping nightstick, razor-sharp throwing stars, an actual honest-to-goodness pair of nun-chucks, a can of extra-strength mace, a stunner, a pair of police-quality handcuffs, a literal money-clip of cash, and…

“Oh. My. Batman.”

Bruce had not only kept his razor-cards in a cute plastic card-case with the Joker card face-up on top, but he’d kept his old joy-buzzer on a fancy velvet bracelet-holder! (Or was it a watch holder? John could never tell the difference.) They were incredibly out-of-place sitting with the non-Batman defense weapons. It made John wonder if Bruce just hadn’t gotten around to moving them to someplace more secure - if someone poked through his drawers, like John was doing now, they might put things together.

Or just think Bruce was obsessed with him and bought the things under the table from the G.C.P.D.

The thought made John giggle. He was definitely taking the joy-buzzer back. And borrowing the can of mace for good measure. He wanted to take the full deck of cards, but one card was surely enough to qualify as an emergency use, and the rest of the deck would be awfully bulky with the rest of the things in his pockets. Not to mention, he liked the idea of taking them slowly to see if Bruce noticed any missing.

John smirked to himself as he stood in front of the embedded mirror in one of the closet’s cabinet doors to put on his home-made bow-tie. Bruce had stolen more from John’s evidence locker than he’d previously thought, and kept them in display pieces in his bedroom like they were treasures. It was enough to make any boyfriend smug. God, he could not wait to tease Bruce for it later. Maybe pull the card out of his pocket and tap it against his cheek, and wait until Bruce got that surprised look on his face and asked him where he found it, and John would tell him it was a s-e-c-r-e-t…

Though...speaking of secrets. “I wonder where Bruce put my Batarang,” he muttered, tilting his head in the mirror to make sure the tie was staying put. “It wasn’t in the cave earlier…”

And if it wasn’t in the secret drawer… It had to be somewhere in Bruce’s room.

So naturally, he poked into the closest thing outside of the closet - Bruce’s bedside table. He wiggled his fingers before pulling the knob to the top drawer, grinning to himself as he prepared to be surprised with what was inside.

Hm. Just ordinary things. Flashlight, a candle and matches, pen and paper with the Wayne Enterprise logo, the billy club Bruce used to keep under his pillow, and what looked like a powered-off burner phone. Bo-ring.

John checked under the pillow to see if maybe it was there - nope, nothing. Maybe the second drawer of the nightstand?

He opened it, stared, and promptly shut it. He hadn’t…seen that? Right? He was imagining things?

He peeked again, half-hoping he was. Nope, that pearly-white fleshlight was definitely real. So was the bottle of lube and condoms next to it, and the…

John felt uncomfortably warm. Guilty for looking, a little embarrassed for what he’d seen, and turned on by the mental image he was producing. He let the he amused, nervous giggle leave his mouth, grateful that Bruce wasn’t there to see him like this.

Especially since his Batarang - with the lipstick-scrawled message still intact - was sitting right on top of the condom box. It really made a guy all…wonder-y.

He snatched it out of the drawer and focused on tapping on the wood grain of the furniture rather than the dangerous thoughts trying to force their way to the front of his head. Just save those thoughts for later, John. Muuuch later. You’ve got a job to do.

But it was sweet that Bruce kept his little promise-note. Really sweet. Kissable sweet. Shove-him-against-a-wall sweet. The lipstick was dried, but still slightly waxy, so John was careful when putting it in his pocket.

He breathed in and out, smelling remnants of Bruce, and went to put on his face in Bruce’s bathroom.

Thankfully, John had learned how to apply foundation fairly fast, and temporary hair color was only comb-in job. It was the little details that took longer, like eyebrows and careful shading. Especially since he had to do it in a smaller mirror, or else...it wasn’t fun.

He left in a hurry and straightened himself out as much as possible, his mind full of Owls and Bruce and the out-of-body feeling that came with looking at himself in the mirror with his man-off-the-street makeup. He avoided looking at any hallway mirrors, reminding himself that he did a fine job and didn’t need to triple-check, and followed the sounds of people and classic lounge music to the ballroom, taking the stairs two at a time.

Wayne Manor’s ballroom wasn’t as big as John imagined. He expected something along the lines of an old castle’s ballroom, but it was actually smaller than the manor’s foyer. It still glittered like something out of a storybook or an old Hollywood movie, with an enormous crystal chandelier dangling from the high ceiling, long banquet tables complete with ice sculptures and chocolate fountains, and people dressed to the nines dancing or milling about with champagne flutes.

It was there, just outside the ballroom door, that John realized he would have to sift through the crowd towards Bruce, who was unfortunately not easily visible.

Well, he had to do what he had to do. Enter the world not as John Doe or Joker or whoever he might have been nearly a decade ago, but as some other new rich schmo out for a shoe shine on the ballroom floor with the rest of Gotham’s elite. He could do that.

He strode in, weaving through the outskirts of the crowd as he scanned them, searching for Bruce’s beautiful face among the crowd. It was difficult - there were an awful lot of black tuxedos and pretty faces, and his growling stomach didn’t help any.

He looked over by the long buffet table - the one with shining silver trays bearing all manners of savory hors d'oeuvres - and spotted a familiar face.

She had her hair up in a very sleek ornate bun, and he couldn’t recall ever seeing her wearing lip gloss or sensible chocolate-colored high heels, but it was definitely Iman in that champagne halter dress. He approached her as casually as he could, popping one of the little fluffy pork-filled dough-things from the end of the table in his mouth on the way. “Well, fancy seeing you here, stranger,” he said as he sidled up to her.

She searched his face for a moment, clearly trying to disguise her confusion with polite examination. He grinned wide when her left eyebrow shot up to her hairline. “John?”

“In the make-up-covered flesh,” he answered quietly. “I’d say you clean up nicely, but you’ve honestly looked this pretty every day I’ve seen you!”

“Thank you,” she said politely, the silvery pearls in her ears reflecting the chandelier with the tilt of her head. They went very well with the snake-shaped hearing aid. “That suit looks like it was tailored for you.”

“It was; I tailored it myself.”

“I’m guessing you’re looking for Bruce?”

Damn, what a guess! “Ha! What are you, a mind reader? Can you guess what number I’m thinking of, too?”

She smiled warmly. “Of course not. You’d guess a letter instead.”

“Man, you’re good,” he chuckled. “You haven’t seen Bruce, have you? I figured something out and I kinda want to tell him in person. And you, too, of course!”

Iman opened her mouth to reply when Tiffany wedged herself on Iman’s other side.

“Oh man, I swear if I have to talk to another…” Tiffany paused, seeing John but not recognizing him. “Oh, uh, sorry. Ignore me,” she said, turning to busy herself with choosing from finger-sandwiches.

“It’s gonna be hard for anyone to ignore you when you’re looking that pretty,” John said, taking in the one-shoulder satiny blue jumper. She’d sprayed silver glitter in the dyed portion her hair, too. The effect wasn’t as cute looking when she whipped her head around with the just-seen-a-ghost type of surprise on her face.

“What are you doing here?” she stage-whispered, “And where did you even get all that?” she added, gesturing to his whole ensemble.

“I could ask you the same question,” he teased, “I’ve had all this since the last time I was here! Well, except for this,” he added, thumbing his tie, “I just couldn’t let a perfectly good scrap of material go to waste! Oh, but I’m here to see Bruce. And you guys! I found something major, and it, uh, probably shouldn’t wait. At least for too long.”

“And you can’t just tell us now?” Tiffany asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

He bit back the desire to ask what her problem was. It wouldn’t be a great start to the evening plan. “It’s easier if I just tell you all at once. In private. Hopefully in the next ten or fifteen minutes, depending on if I can find Bruce in this ridiculous crowd.”

“Which case does it deal with?” Iman asked, watching him with that same analytical curiosity he’d seen half the time she asked him questions.

All of them! He wanted to say. But you didn’t get an audience by spoiling half of the ending. “You’ll find out if you meet me in the parlor,” he said, hoping he was projecting an air of mystery. “I’m gonna keep looking for Bruce. And if you see him, tell him I’m looking for him!” he added, clicking his fingers in their direction as he made his way to the edge of the crowd.

He looked out into the party. People were dancing, laughing, pushing signed checks and wads of cash into glass bowls for the charity of their choice - if it weren’t for the otherworldly feeling he was getting and the fact that all the upper-class twits surrounding him didn’t really care about the actual people they were helping, it might have made a nice picture.

Actually, getting a picture was a good idea. They really did help with the whole grounding-himself-in-reality task he had to do more and more often nowadays. He pulled out his phone, thinking about what angle to use, and saw a text pop up from Devi.

How u holdin up J?

His phone had definitely vibrated in his hand, so that was real… Oh, there was no way he could resist showing off, now.

You’ll never guess where I am!!! :D He wrote back, having to press a little harder on the screen so the thin cotton would let him type.

Ur bfs bedroom????

Dude u DIDNT

John giggled to himself. Her mind would be blown if she knew what he’d found in there, but he wasn’t about to tell her all that. It raised too many follow-up questions. LOL I wish!!

He turned around and decided to swallow his discomfort to take a partial selfie in the glittering, perfectly-lit ballroom and send it to her. It was honestly better to look at his made-up face with a camera than a mirror, where he couldn’t manage to look at the whole thing without feeling distorted. Maybe it was because he’d done it with Bruce before, back at Dr. Crane’s house? Or maybe it was the way the digital camera moved that made it feel fake enough. Or both.

I’m at the gala! Undercover, of course. ;D he added.

Ok that makeup is amazing I barely recognize u!!!

Whats it like? Live up 2 the hype?

Everyone is super pretty, it’s annoying and crowded.

But it’s got swanky music and good food sooo... Pretty ok???

He should ask how she was, since she took the effort to reach out to him. How’s it going over there? You and Mickey doing ok?

Well we r still standin so its good. My sis came to visit which was nice but I decided not to transfer out. 2 much trouble. Mickey had no choice but 2 stay bc usual insurance bs :\

Oooh but that bitch Karen got her ASS reprimanded for yelling at the mens room by the gym for some reason last night! Dont ask how i found out ;p

HA I told her Mickey went in there when he was hiding from her in the library yesterday!!! Ha ha ha ha I can’t believe she actually yelled at nothing!!!

Omg!!! Mickey actually laughed when i told him!!! Classic J!!!

If u didnt almost die id say u need to come back

Its less colorful and WAY 2 quiet wo u

John felt that familiar fuzzy warmth that came with Bruce saying he missed him. He looked up into the crowd and was sure he spotted the familiar head of sleek black hair, so he decided to try and navigate through the crowd and text at the same time.

Awwww!!! Don’t worry, it’s only until they catch the guy! He wrote, side-stepping a hired butler before the tray knocked into him. (Should he tell her about Batman working on it? Surely he could excuse it away with a surprise visit. It wouldn’t be the first time Batman had been perched outside his window.) God, was there always this many people huddled together or what? Which should be soon, since Batsy’s on the case!

He’d no sooner pressed send when he smacked into an obstacle and heard the tinkling clink of shattered glass.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, but clearly she didn’t hear him.

“Fuck,” the woman he’d bumped into muttered, wiping off the end of her oddly familiar orange off-shoulder dress. It was too dark to blend in with the rest of the summer dresses swirling in the crowd. It was more suited to autumn, especially with the chunky black heels she was wearing with it...

Waaait a second.

Sure, the curly bob curving around her ears and framing her face was brown, but he knew that cute face anywhere! He’d sat across from it dozens of times!

“Jackie Lant!” He exclaimed, unable to help the smile stretching on his lips as she turned with the very clear look of a deer caught in headlights.

It was actually kind of nice how she seemed to instantly recognize him through the makeup and hair dye. Though the sight of him didn’t seem to excite her. “H-hey, John…”

She must have been thinking he was talking to her for some sort of threatening purpose. He should squash that right away by just talking like he normally did. “Talk about a coincidence! I thought that dress looked familiar – tailored by Mr. Prinya himself! It figures you’d wear it in summer. It’s just everything pumpkiny all year ‘round for you, isn’t it?” He chuckled. “But I’m surprised you’re back in Gotham! How’s the acting gig going for you? I’m assuming well enough to get you invited here?”

Jackie snorted into a small smile as her nerves melted away. “You haven’t changed a bit,” she said, propping one hand on her hip, “You still talk a mile a minute. Well, firstly - I, uh, don’t go by Jackie. In public, anyway,” she added with a pout and a side-eye to the crowd, “It’s Jacqueline, right now.”

“Little close to home, don’t you think?” John smirked.

“It’s easy to get used to,” she shrugged, “Besides, it makes for a good stage name; I get more callbacks with it. Probably because it makes me sound classically trained,” she emphasized with finger-quotes and a slight smirk that made a spark in her leaf-brown eyes. “No one suspects I just learned from life experience and being a huge theater nerd.”

John sniggered. “Well, if you ever need a letter of recommendation, I think me and Bruce can give you one! ‘Fooled entire asylum of patients and employees into thinking she was a trustworthy budding doctor,’” he mimed writing on an invisible notepad, “‘Played dual role as a sympathetic victim of our money-hungry society and a secondary villain, with a believable and overall stellar performance,’” he continued with a grin, “‘Solid ten out of ten!’”

“…sounds kind of like you’re still mad,” she responded, folding her arms across her chest with a dull look at the crowd. She looked more like the hopeless person he’d seen clutching her stitches on the mausoleum floor than the one watching the Batmobile take off afterwards. “Not that I really blame you.”

Well, he couldn’t help but enjoy holding her sins over her head a little, but he wasn’t really mad…anymore. They both did pretty rotten things at some point. “Oh, turn that frown upside-down, Pumpkin-head,” he teased, poking her in the corner of her mouth, “I’m only messing with you! It’s water under the bridge!” She eyed him, seeming like she wanted to believe that, but wasn’t too sure if he meant it. She looked like she needed a little boost. And what better way than to lighten up her grungy past a little? “Besides,” he added in a low voice, “you’re an idiot if you think I don’t replay the memory of you shooting ol’ Scarecrow in the shoulder whenever I’m feeling blue.”

That, surprisingly, made her laugh. It was light and short, but it lit up her face, so he knew he hit a bullseye. “Honestly, so do I,” she said with a dark gleam in her expression. “Especially when someone’s really annoying me. It’s a good reminder of what I’m capable of.”

One of the butlers had swooped over to their spot on the floor to clean up the glass.

“Oh, excuse me,” Jackie said politely and pulled John towards a less crowded section of the floor. “Sorry - I don’t really like the idea of smacking into anyone else out here,” she muttered, “but I’ve been meaning to ask – what are you doing here? I thought you weren’t released yet.”

Sheesh, can a guy just not want to have a good time, he wanted to say. But he didn’t really want to rile up anyone just yet, and it wasn’t her fault she didn’t know he’d been asked that twice already. She must not have known about the incident at St. Dymphna yesterday. (Not that he could blame her for not looking at the news. The same cycle of misery and murder never made for an entertaining time.) “It’s a secret,” he said simply, “Besides, I’m here for a good time, not a long time!” he added with a wink, snatching a shrimp cocktail off a waiter’s tray. It only lasted two bites, but it was delicious. “How about you? The last I saw you, you were running from your problems in a shit-box of a car.” She couldn’t possibly have been doing well enough to get a formal invitation if she had gotten her dress tailored in his neck of the woods…

“Ha, I still am,” she said, not sounding very amused despite the tiny smirk on her lips. “I’m here because it’s better than sitting around my hotel room feeling sorry for myself,” she grunted, the light in her eyes dimming as she snatched a flute off another waiter’s tray and downed half of it in one gulp. She stared at the glass, thinking of something with all the depressed seriousness he’d seen back in the mausoleum last year. “Fifteen years ago, my best friend was found rolled up in a rug in the dumpster three blocks from where she lived.”

John remembered the many pictures she had hung up in her small apartment; a lot of those friends were dead. “Oh… Uh, I’m sorry,” he tried, not sure what else he could say without sounding like a huge jerk.

“Don’t apologize,” she said with an oddly sharp look, “I didn’t tell you to get sympathy. I get enough of that from everyone else. I told you because you would’ve picked my brain apart to get it out anyway, and I don’t really feel like playing that game.”

“Ouch, Jackie,” John clutched his chest and pouted dramatically, “You think so low of me! And here I thought we were getting to be friends…” He couldn’t hold the pout for long – if she was going to be rude, he could needle her with a taste of her own medicine. “But I guess if we were, I’d drop dead in a week.”

She didn’t seem to take that harshly at all. In fact, she lightened up a little. “See, that’s more like it,” she said with a Bruce-like smile. “No one else gives me dark jokes like that. They all think it’ll just make it worse.”

Huh! Well, at least John didn’t have to worry about tossing around grim jokes in her presence…?

“Honestly, though,” she continued, “I’m really only in Gotham for-”

“Jacqueline, baby – who’s this?” A man who couldn’t be much older – or taller - than Jackie sidled up to her out of nowhere, putting his arm protectively around her shoulder and flashing what could only be described as a bad attempt at ‘the Bruce Wayne press smile’. He didn’t have Bruce’s natural charm to pull it off, but he was fairly handsome, in a standard-Hollywood-twenty-something sort of way. Bronzer, foundation, and eyebrow powder were enhancing his face, but admittedly the curly swoop of dirty blond hair and lithe athletic frame helped with the overall look.

Jackie seemed to brighten a little more; she clearly knew him. “There you are, Matt – I was just talking about you. This is one of my old work-buddies.” She nodded slightly as she gestured to John, giving him a significant look he took to mean play along. “We worked on my last play here together. He’s a real Gothamite.”

The man called Matt reached his hand out to shake John’s. “Nice to meet you, Mr…?”

Shit. John had gotten used to being himself out on the floor, and now he had to put his normal-person face on, even if he didn’t want to play along. He grappled for the most normal names he could think of. He didn’t want to use his own, no matter how ordinary ‘John’ was.

Eric? No, I need something more familiar... Uh, J...erome? Jerimiah? Ooh, wait-!

“Jack,” he answered, thinking of the card currently sitting in his breast pocket. He might as well pick a good surname to go with it. And who was this guy to know where it came from? “Jack Napier,” he finished, reaching out to shake the guy’s hand. “Sorry - auditory processing,” he snorted, trying to smooth it over, “Takes a bit for the ol’ brain case to catch up sometimes.”

Matt didn’t seem to quite understand that, but he shook John’s hand anyway. “Matt Chaney,” he said proudly, like his mere name was something to envy.

“Matt and I snuck in here for research,” Jackie said with a small wink.

“Jacqueline-”

“Oh, lighten up, Matt. Jack’s great at keeping secrets.”

John tittered. “Got a noodle stuffed with ‘em,” he joked, “and not a single leak in the pan.”

“There’s a new TV soap role he’s trying out for,” Jackie explained with a pointed thumb up at Matt’s chin, “Think Bruce Wayne, but with less dough.”

“Oh, you’re on TV?” John asked, looking over their shoulder to see if Bruce made a coincidental appearance in the crowd. Maybe he was brooding somewhere…

“I’ve gotten some good contacts recently,” Matt boasted, which John translated to a ‘no’. “You worked with Jacqueline before she moved, right? Man, you must be pretty jealous now.”

...jealous of what? “Uh, look, you’re both rather attractive, but I’m afraid my heart’s spoken for,” he answered, tapping his chest where his undying love for Bruce Wayne lay embedded. “And neither of you are…really my type.”

Jackie sniggered as Matt frowned at him. “He doesn’t really go on social media, babe,” she said to her boyfriend with a genuinely amused grin as she pulled her phone out of the small purse dangling from a pathetically tiny strap on her shoulder. John could see the Lucky Hotel logo on a card she’d stuck in the back of the phone case; no wonder she altered her dress at his place! “Matt’s big on Root and MuSec[B1] nowadays,” she explained, tapping on her screen, “I’ve got a bit of a following myself. Here, this one’s gotten me a lot of attention.”

John watched the very short video. He couldn’t hear the background music, but he watched as Jackie dramatically flipped a fan between her face, showing her normal face at first (with her hair still dyed brown), and then transitioning to a wide, grinning jack-o-lantern face done entirely in stage makeup. She’d worn yellow contacts to make the black of the painted eye-holes pop and seemed to have crafted painted plastic teeth for her jaw to open wide. “Ooh hoo hoo! Ve-ry nice,” he praised, watching the light in her eyes brighten further. “Reminds me of your last Halloween costume,” he teased.

Matt was clearly seething with jealousy - he plucked the phone out of Jackie’s hand and pulled up a different video. “Here, check this one out,” he said haughtily.

“‘Video removed for copyright violation’,” John read from the video placeholder on the page, “Impressive!”

“What?!” Matt pulled the phone back to him a deep scowl. “Not again! Those stupid fucking…”

“Why, Mr. Chaney,” a clear voice said from John’s left, “what a delight; it seems we’re destined to keep running into each other.”

John tossed a look towards the stranger heading towards them: a man with extraordinarily average looks and flat, mousy brown hair. He could’ve passed him in the street a hundred times.

“And who are your friends?” The man asked, looking between Jackie and John. He settled back on John, looking more and more curious. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Oh, uh, Jacqueline – my girlfriend,” Matt emphasized by putting his arm back around Jackie and giving her a little squeeze – “this is Reverend Overfield; we met when I was scouting around town a while back. Reverend, this is Jacqueline Latern, and-”

“Jack Napier,” John interrupted, deciding to take initiative in shaking the Reverend’s hand like people were supposed to do. But weren’t guys like the Rev’ supposed to wear those little white collars everywhere they went, and not full-blown tuxedos?

“We haven’t met before, have we?” the Reverend asked as he withdrew his hand. “You seem familiar.”

You might have seen me on the news, John thought privately. “Oh, I’m just your typical man about town,” he answered with all the patented Wayne charm he could channel. “I’m sure you’d find a dozen like me in this crowd.” He looked over the faces of people behind the Reverend’s shoulders, hoping to suddenly see Bruce come into view, but no such luck. He’d have to stealthily make an excuse and slip away when he could.

“Do you live in the area, or further into the city?” The reverend asked, looking oddly probing for such an innocent question.

“I’m just taking the tour, Rev’,” John said with a growing impatience.

“Splendid!” He beamed, as if he was truly enthused by the idea, “You should pay us a proper visit before you decide to go.” He pulled out a business card and handed it to John. “We’re currently housed in of the older churches in the city. It’s quite the sight by itself; you don’t have to worry about being pressured into anything.”

John doubted that. He looked at the card. Rev. Sebastian Overfield, Church of the Written Mercy was stamped next to a picture of three people clustered together to reach up to what John figured was supposed to be a beam of light. “The Written Mercy? ”

“So it is written, and so it shall be,” he nodded with a serene sort of smile that usually came with John’s neighbors being doped up. “God has written our destinies out since the dawn of time. Regardless of evil’s lawless discord interfering with those destinies, we firmly believe those injustices can be resolved with faith, perseverance, and God’s guidance. Of course, we are always open to interpretations now and again.”

“You mean want people to tear your philosophy apart?” Jackie asked with raised brow.

The reverend gave a polite laugh. “There are no better fresh interpretations of ideas than from strangers.”

John’s first impulse was to tell him fate was as much of a joke as the justice system - but while justice had dealt John a bad hand and turned his whole life into a long, bad joke, fate had given him something worthwhile.

Something beautiful, in the form of a man who might as well have been divine for all the life upheavals and whirlwinds of emotion he caused. A man that could, finally, be seen in the immense, glittering crowd over Jackie’s and Matt’s shoulders.

“I think the inevitability of death is the only true fate in the world,” Jackie said as John stared out into the crowd, feeling a sweet sting at the sudden appearance of some pretty nameless thing putting her hands on Bruce’s shoulder to guide him into a dance, “How long we take to get there, the people we meet along the way – all of that is random.”

John could see Bruce following along with the motions, but his smile wasn’t reaching his tired eyes.

“I can see where that comes from,” Reverend Overfield nodded sympathetically, “It’s hard to believe that the people we lose in this lifetime aren’t taken away by chance; but I have always believed that every loss has a place in one’s life, even those most painful to live with. How about you, Mr. Napier?”

He did agree with Jackie’s point about them all being born astride a coffin and being subject to only the unknown, but... There was no way that was all there was. How could he think that, when a piece of his destiny was twirling slowly out beyond them as they spoke? “I think we’re at the mercy of a chaotic, constantly-changing universe,” he said, keeping his eyes firmly on his disarmed dark knight, “but there are some people that are always meant to be there…” (Some of the doctors always seemed to think it was dangerous for patients to think of soul-mates and pre-determination. But they weren’t here, were they? John could speak freely, since he wasn’t going to see most of these people again. Who would care?) “Our choices can make the universe change the how and why, but they’re there; and their choices shape us in return.”

He wouldn’t be there, the way he was now, without Bruce. If Bruce hadn’t saved him. If Bruce hadn’t believed in him. John felt it, deep down, past his thoughts and feelings, past his memories, past his sensory input…

“That’s an interesting way of putting it,” Jackie commented thoughtfully.

“So fate is essentially giving us soul mates, but with free will?” Matt said with what sounded like a sneer.

John could feel himself being stared at, and tore himself away from looking out at Bruce’s strained dance. The Reverend Overfield was staring at him a little too intently. John had the feeling he’d said something wrong; there was a definite dislike sitting in that subtle expression. Not that he cared – the guy was weirding him out anyway. “Aaany-who, this has been a fun diversion and all, but I’ve got a brooding billionaire-playboy in desperate need of some livening up - I’m sure I’ll see you all around!”

He gave a little wave to the group as he made his way back to the ballroom floor, hearing Jackie’s little call of good luck as he plopped the empty shrimp-glass onto a passing waiter’s tray.

John didn’t need luck. He had Bruce squarely in his sights, and navigating around the various tuxedos and shiny gowns was nothing compared to dodging punches and stray bullets.

Judging by the look on Bruce’s face as he spun slowly around on the dance floor with the pretty young thing that had dragged him there, John figured Bruce would rather be in his favorite suit, dancing to a very different tune.

[B1]My answer to TikTok!

*~*~*~*~*

Notes: ...now, I know what you’re thinking. Yes, that’s where I’m cutting this chapter off. Yes, you don’t get to see The Dance I teased you with yet. But it took well over my original time-limit to finish this with all the Tiffany-John bonding and various developments I’d been planning for ages! I always seem to go “yeah I can do this large amount of development in a short amount of time nbd” and then forget that when I flesh out ideas, I pull all the stops to make sure they flow with the story right and it takes foreeeevvverrr. So, as I sorta predicted, our Big Gala Saturday is split into 2 parts! So you’ll have to wait a liiiittle while longer to see The Dance...s. But we’ll get to see Brucie next time! It’s gonna be one hell of a night... >:3c

John is just a barrel of fun to write once I get into the rhythm! Having him bond with Tiffany was a great challenge, and I managed to check off soooo much of my wishlist. Jackie Lant’s return! John choosing his “name”! The fun inclusion of the famous Bat Pole! John and Tiff bonding through their investigation and getting a selfie out of it! Ahhhh!!! I’d been planning having him grapple Tiffany out of the way of that van for months! What fun!!!

Writing John with Selina was tough, though, because part of me knows he’d love to just deck her in the face out of undealt-with jealousy re: Bruce, but I had to remind myself that for all his similarities, this isn’t a S2!John Doe. This is an evolving John “the player” can control, and naturally I get to choose the shape he takes in his chrysalis. Our boy is doing his damnedest to keep his violent impulses in check as he grapples with reality and grows to truly care for people outside of Bruce like the recovering patient he is. He’s come a long way in such a short time! ;w;

I’m hoping I can finish and upload the next part by my birthday. So fingers crossed I’ll upload in the next 6 weeks! Please comment, kudos, and subscribe/bookmark to help charge the muse! (And reblogs are HIGHLY appreciated!)

PS - I couldn’t NOT reference @fractualized‘s Free John Doe series! If you haven’t read it yet, check it out! :D

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superbataddicted · 5 years

Text

Writer's Month 2019

Day 3 Prompt: Coffee Shop AU

Fandom: Superbat, Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Superman/Batman

Writer: batzmaru65

(Summary: An AU similar to a parallel universe take. Bruce is a detective in this story, not a vigilante or a billionaire. Clark is still Superman and a reporter. There is slight change in the spelling of Clark and Bruce's surname.)

Bruce stumbled into the coffee shop, hair dishevelled, tie askew and suit crumpled. He dragged himself towards the counter where a female barista stood smiling, not at all shocked at the sight of him.

“The usual, Mr Weyne?” The middle-aged lady asked, already starting preparations to make Bruce’s double espresso, extra strong, no milk and just a dash of sugar.

Bruce did not even have the energy to give a reply. He merely nodded and leaned against the counter, head propped on a fist, sucking in the aroma of brewing coffee as if his life depended on it. But it was not enough to stave off his exhaustion and a huge yawn broke out, bringing tears to his eyes.

“You’re gonna kill yourself one day at the rate you’re going,” the dark-haired woman admonished as she poured Bruce’s order into a takeaway cup and closed the lid.

Bruce smiled wanly and reached out to take the proffered cup.

“Just a little while more, Martha,” he muttered, stifling another yawn, “We’ve finally found something and it’s all going to end soon.”

“That’s good to hear and all the best, Mr Wyene.”

Bruce nodded again and after slipping some bills onto the counter, he dragged himself out of the shop, all attention fixed on the coffee. Distracted and eager to have his caffeine fix, Bruce did not watch where he was going. A careless step, a trip over a flowerpot and Bruce was falling forward, gravity pulling him down a flight of steps. His heart lurched and he gasped, arms flailing, trying to stop the inevitable. The cup tumbled out of his grasp, lid falling off and dark liquid splashed out, sparkling in the sunlight. The ground rushed up and Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, body tensed in anticipation of the pain that would come.

However, instead of hard concrete smashing against his face and body, Bruce fell against warmth and soft strength. An arm had gone round his waist, fingers gripping his hips, holding him steady. It took a moment for Bruce to realise that the anticipated pain was not forthcoming. Opening his eyes, he was greeted by a pair of brilliant blue peeping out from behind a long fringe.

“Are you alright?” the stranger frowned in concern and leaned in closer. Bruce flushed at how intimate their posture was and he scrambled out of the grasp of the taller man.

“Yes I...ah...thanks.”

Averting his gaze from that pair of attractive blue eyes, Bruce froze at the sight of a press pass hanging around the stranger’s neck.

Clarke Kent. Daily Globe.

Narrowing his eyes in suspicion, Bruce glared at the reporter but the ferocity of his glare was without much impact. With his puffy eyes and dark circles, he came across as sleepy rather than angry.

“I’m not falling for your trick and stay away from me and my team!”

Bruce growled before he turned and darted away, berating himself as he made his escape. He had let his guard down, had not checked whether there was a tail when he snuck out. He wished the press would stop hounding him and his team of investigators. They had been hot on their heels ever since they were appointed as the independent committee to look into the Lex’s Charity scandal – a scam that had stretched across America and several countries overseas. The number of front companies and shell corporations, not to mention the complex paper trail to move and hide the embezzlement were so cleverly thought out. Bruce and his team had a hard time cracking the case, misled by false trails which ended up in dead ends. It was frustrating as hell but last night, they had finally found a clue to unravelling the entire mess. Elated, Bruce wanted to reward himself with his favourite drink so tired was he of the awful-tasting coffee the police headquarters had been serving. And look at the trouble it had almost caused him.

Bruce waved a hand in greeting to the few investigators still awake. The rest of his team had fallen into an exhausted slumber, slumped over their desks or curled up on the floor. They had not slept much and neither had they gone home much either. Pressurized by the higher-ups who wanted the case solved as fast as possible, none of them had wanted to waste their time on trivialities.

Opening the door to his tiny cluttered office. Bruce slumped into his chair with a tired sigh, only to jerk up in shock at the sight of his double espresso sitting quietly on his desk pad, steam curling from the cup which was missing its lid.

Didn’t I spill it just now?

Question marks ran circles round his head and his eyes darted wildly around to find no one in the room. Lurching out of his seat, he wrenched the door open, the blinds rattling in protest against the glass.

“Hey, Alfred,” he called to his assistant, still immaculately dressed unlike the rest of them, “Did anyone come in just now?”

“Not that I know of, sir,” Alfred replied with an arch of an eyebrow.

“You’re sure? That a tall, blue eyes, long fringe reporter guy didn’t drop by?”

Alfred stopped his typing and gave Bruce a pointed stare.

“I have 20/20 vision, sir.”

“Oh, okay...okay then.”

Bruce retreated back into his office and rushed to the window, checking it. It was still locked and even if it was not, it would be impossible for anyone to enter anyway. His office was on the 11th floor and there were no ledges or protruding edges near the window. Lips pursed, Bruce flopped back into his chair, legs up on his desk and crossed. He stared thoughtfully at the cup of coffee.

The only culprit he could think of was Clarke Kent from the Daily Globe. But if it was really him, how did he pull it off then? A flash of memory brought the coffee shop incident to mind. Bruce was certain that he was about to hit the ground and then Mr Kent was suddenly there holding him tight.

Who or what are you?

Bruce wondered and then grinned fierce and feral. A mystery to solve. Just what Bruce loved most and why he ended up in this job. Mr Clarke Kent had better watch out for Bruce was going to get to the bottom of the truth no matter what. That was why he was called the “Hound”.

If Bruce had opened his window and looked up at the sky with a pair of powerful binoculars, he would have seen an interesting sight. A man was floating way up high, red cape fluttering, arms crossed over his chest where a S-like symbol marked his suit. Clarke was smiling, a mischievous grin, as he watched Bruce’s reaction.

Mr Bruce Weyne had intrigued him for a long while, even though the detective had no inkling of his existence. In this day and age where corruption abounds and money makes the world goes round, crime was the norm and the oppressed was left to rot. Clarke had been fighting a losing battle to address this injustice despite his superpowers. He had been on a lookout for some help. Someone or a few someones who could take on the system and continue the fight from within. His own investigations had led him to Bruce, descended from a long lineage of crimefighters from the grand old days of sheriffs to his late father’s career as a judge. His mother was a political activist and both of them had died in a shootout when he was eight, courtesy of the mafia.

Because of the tragedy, Bruce had grown up with the determination to undo the wrongs happening in his city. However, his recent investigations into the Lex’s Charity scam was leading him towards the same fate as his parents. As the saying goes, Bruce had opened up a can of worms and the current mafia bass, Jack Napier, was aiming to make an example of him, as bloody and cruel as possible, That was why Clarke had been watching over him and he had surged forward, panic constricting his heart when he saw Bruce fall. He had not intended to reveal himself in this manner but since the dice had been cast, he might as well make full use of the situation. Hence, the mystery of a steaming cup of coffee in his office which no one had entered. He knew that that would get Bruce hooked and hot on his trail.

Clarke grinned at the thought of Bruce coming after him just like the nickname his colleagues had fondly christened him with. At last, he need not watch him from afar. He could finally get close and build a relationship that, fingers crossed, would go beyond mere friendship. Clarke liked what he had seen of Bruce and he was not one to deny his feelings. It was nice holding him in his arms just now and Clarke wished for more intimacy between them.

#writersmonth #writersmonth2019 #superbat #clark kent/bruce wayne #clark x bruce #prompt: coffee shop AU #wm: day 3 #Fanfiction #DCU

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regrettablewritings · 5 years

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How differently do they think of each other now compared to when they first met?: You thought of Clark as anyone who’d ever met him before did: He was timid, and something about his demeanor seemed poorly suited for the frame that actually portrayed it. However, he seemed harmless enough; nothing worth digging into. That was what you had made sure to take note of during your period as a mole for one “Mr. Knight.” (You really wished Mr. Wayne would’ve thought up a less laughable alias, but he wasn’t paying you to criticize. Only to keep your finger on the pulse of Metropolis by infiltrating the ranks of the Daily Planet). However, as time went on, that initial response seemed to shift somewhat.

It didn’t take long for you to notice his frequent disappearances during the work day. When you inquired about it, an apparent friend of his, Lois, explained that it had something to do with some “health concerns” or whatever story he was supposedly working on that week. You raised a brow at the matter but took note for future reference. Part of you wanted to believe that your job (your real one as a mole) had been made a lot easier by potentially having a link to finding out who the caped Kryptonian was. But another part of you was suspicious of the possibility; after all, that would be far too good of luck for that to be the case, right? Probably.

You would’ve been happy to have left it like that, had it not been for the brief but relatively multiple occurrences where you’d witnessed Clark be able to perform acts that would have required excessive strength such as moving a full file cabinet with ease, or gripping the edge of his desk enough to snap the pulpy wood it was made out of. It was perhaps in your need to justify everything that wound up being your downfall. You were on a mission – a very important one at that – and it wouldn’t do to constantly pester your boss about every strange thing that occurred in the area. (If that were the case, you would’ve had the Bruce Wayne lurking around the nightclub scene, intimidating every other person who could do a vape trick through a gaged hole in their mouth.)

In this case, you looked to the small file of Daily Planet workers that Mr. Wayne had provided you with, pleased to use Clark’s farm boy heritage as an excuse for his freakish strength (never mind that he supposedly had health issues that may or may not have a supposed effect on it). But perhaps also you just needed a reason to not have to be suspicious of him: He was, from what few interactions the two of you had had, a very nice guy. Not a Nice Guy™, but a man who appeared to be nice by nature. You sure as heck never met one back in Gotham!

Clark admittedly didn’t have much of an opinion on you for the first chunk of your time undercover. It wasn’t necessarily that you didn’t appear in his awareness enough for him to form an idea of you, it was just that with his self-appointed position as a sort of guardian of the Earth (or at least Metropolis), learning about new coworkers wasn’t really on the top of his list. Especially with this Batman nonsense beginning to spill over from across the bay. But from what he did manage to take note of, however, you were polite and dedicated, always seeing your assigned tasks to the end – which was undeniably something that Clark couldn’t always say for himself.

He didn’t expect the latter to come back to bite him in his nigh-on invincible ass, though.

It didn’t matter to you that he’d insisted that all was forgiven: The amount of guilt you’d accumulated after being tied up into his near-defeat just wouldn’t quit.

“Please,” you said, almost seriously, “punch my body backwards. Fling me into the sun… Lois mentioned you got a place in the Arctic, right? Drop me off there and leave me to fend for myself.”

Once again, Clark found himself laughing (albeit in an attempt to alleviate the tension).

“It’s okay,” he swore. A beat before shrugging. “Well, not okay … But it’s all said and done. You didn’t mean any harm –”

“This entire UC mission was to figure out who Superman was so my boss could kick the shit out of him.”

“… Well, you didn’t mean the extent of the harm, anyway.”

Even after you placed your two-weeks notice at the Daily Planet, thus ending your time in Metropolis, the apologies wouldn’t quit. Nor did your efforts to attempt proportionate compensation via expensive fruit baskets.

(“Wow,” Lois breathed, observing the intricate designs carved into a large watermelon. The great fruit itself had been converted into a basket that now held grapes and honeydew and all sorts of other natural goodies. “Somebody must really like you, Clark.” She smirked as Clark’s ears burned red. He cast his eyes downward, but he knew she knew.)

But eventually he must have gotten sick of fruit or acquired a compost pile too large for the likes of the city, because eventually he contacted you and suggested the two of you settle this in a more agreeable way: Having a nice dinner and chatting. Even though Clark insisted it was something he’d managed to pull together, the fact that the restaurant was practically bare save for the staff gave you the creeping suspicion that he had called in a favor with Mr. Wayne. You intended on asking Clark if this had been the case (aside from his alter ego, the man was pretty honest about everything else), but first: You had to talk about the fight that happened so long ago.

It was by no intention (at least, not of your own) that the discussion would diverge into other topics, which then turned into conversations all a world of their own. Things like how different Metropolis was from Gotham. Or your respective personal lives when not saving the world or writing for a flimsy paper or being a billionaire’s second righthand. Or favorite dishes to cook. Or favorite past times. By the time the night was over, you’d forgotten what the two of you had come together for in the first place.

Fast forward to now, when the two of you are a couple. You still think he’s a dorkish sweetheart, but really only when he’s in civilian mode. This is because you’ve since come to know Clark as being far more multidimensional than the stereotypical, sheepish lad he sells himself as. You respect his sacrificing attitude, nerve-wrecking as it can often be. It’s interesting how a man can seem so ideal yet struggle so much with the weight of what his abilities carry, and he lets you know about that weight often enough. He wants to be the best hero he can, but that’s just plain impossible. Nevertheless, he tries and sometimes he pushes himself too far in the attempts. He needs a lot more comfort and validation than he lets in on, of which you are glad to provide.

Clark is quite glad to learn that being ambitious wasn’t just a trait you wore for your time undercover – it was something that you had arrived in Metropolis with, and one that you carried out in everything you did no matter how big or small. Let’s be real, Clark’s always admired a go-getter, so it’s no surprise that that is perhaps the trait he’s most excited about seeing in you. He admires your openness to carrying out tasks, something of which he can’t quite do as often as he’d like due to who and what he is. However, he’s more than happy to support you because you’re his biggest cheerleader and have faith in him. Going off of this, he also appreciates your loyalty. It’s an impassioned sort, assisted by the aforementioned sense of dedication you display. Once your mind is made up, it would take either a lot or your own self to actually sway you off the course you’d set. No wonder he was able to buy you as a genuine journalist for so long!

What do their friends/family think of their relationship?: Given that he’s far less hostile towards Clark post-fight, Bruce doesn’t feel nearly as threatened about the relationship as he probably could’ve been. Of course, he’s still put off by it: He hadn’t expected his spy to come back dating the very man he’d been afraid of all these years. However, given that he’s grown to trust Clark as a person, all Bruce can do is sigh heavily and just let things happen. The both of you are grown-ups, he trusts nothing weird is going to happen.

“Besides,” he resigns, “at least the guy can protect you if need be.” Damn right he could.

Neither of you get the chance to even tell Lois before she figures it out (the woman isn’t an award-winning investigative journalist for nothing). Honestly, she thought the two of you had been dating long before you actually began (“I thought that the fruit baskets were little tokens of affection after the fifth week of it happening,” she said). However, she is quick to regard the relationship as something straight out of a cheesy romance novel and she’s absolutely living for it.

“Enemies-turned-lovers – god, can Clark ever be a part of something not cliché?” she giggles into her morning coffee the day she figures out the situation. Suffice to say she’s at least glad that the man is actually interacting with more people on a regular basis than just her. On that note, the League also soon finds out (because let’s be real, Diana could either see it in Clark’s features, or Bruce blabbed about it). With the exception of Bruce (who is exasperated about it), the League is predominately neutral regarding the relationship. Actually, scratch that: Barry bluntly comments about how strange the union is because “didn’t [Clark] almost die because of the information [you] got on [him]?” He doesn’t mean to come off in any negative kind of way, it just perplexes him at first. However, given that he and Clark are “speed buddies” and therefore share kindred, sprinted spirits, he trusts Clark’s decision and is happy for him.

When you finally videochat your family so they can finally lay their eyes on your boyfriend, you have to pray to whatever god is out there that the camera feed is too grainy for them to make out Clark’s features too well. When your sibling commented on how Clark looks vaguely familiar, your stomach took a plunge into your bowls. Thankfully, Clark was able to play it off as a joke about how he just has “basic white guy face.” It manages to get a chuckle out of your family. All in all, they think you’ve found yourself a “fine young man.” It’s your friends, however, you struggle the most with. It’s not that they disapprove of the relationship – far from it, in fact – it’s just that with them being physically present and far more social media savvy, it’s harder to keep them from recognizing Clark as the controversial Kryptonian. As a result, Clark kept his almost sheepish workplace demeanor, adding fuel to the image by always opting to wear clothes that are just unflattering to his figure. Nothing godawful, but definitely nothing to indicate at the 6’1” mass of pure muscle that he really was.

No neither side’s surprise, they bought it. Mainly because Clark was naturally very likable. Your friends boldly praise Clark for being “a rare breed of man”, and you for managing to snag him. It’s when they ask you guys how you met, however, that things had to be fudged a bit. As far as they know, you two met while he was interviewing you for a piece that wound up getting cancelled. You’re pretty sure they wouldn’t be able to handle learning you’re involved with espionage, much less that it was the reason you are now dating Superman.

How do their personalities/skills complement or contrast with each other?: While both you and Clark are go-getters, it’s really only in your own respective rights. For example, it’s in his nature to present it as tamer. He works in ways that, at their core, are meant to minimize damages to the best of his ability. (Whether or not this actually plays out, of course, depends on the circumstances.) This isn’t to say that you’re necessarily rambunctious but being that you were trained under and employed by a man with an “any means necessary” point of view, it’s easy to sometimes let your ambitions get the better of you. You both are also skilled in the ways of being elusive, with it being in your job description by the nature of the job, and with it being a necessity for him to be able to be Superman and Clark separately.

What is their favorite aspect of each other?: Even from day one, with what little you knew or cared about Clark, you had to admit: You admired his kindly nature. Depressing as it was to say, it just wasn’t a common thing to find in people, much less the men hardened by urban living. And your job and all its accompaniments hadn’t necessarily convinced you otherwise – you were just so used to seeing and reporting horrible, dark things about seemingly nice people that you had lost quite a bit of hope by the time Clark had rolled around. In fact, you honestly didn’t really by his willingness to help or his politeness – at first. But once he proved that everything about his efforts was genuine, you couldn’t help but admire those traits. A little too much so, in your initial opinion.

Part of you even questioned your own reliability, that maybe you took small, normal instances of him being a decent human and exaggerated them to godlike status to make your eventual romantic relationship with him more justifiable. But ultimately you clung to it: The universe was offering you a walking piece of Heaven, who were you to truly deny yourself that? Of course, it sometimes exhausted you to see him try to fulfill expectations that weren’t even necessarily there (especially with his Clark Kent alias), but more on that later. In healthy doses, his unselfishness was his strongest point.

Having been raised in a farming community, Clark grew up appreciating the value of working hard to get results. This has since bled into the real world where go-getters tend to gain some bit of admiration within him, especially those who use their determination to see a job through to a greater good. Granted, the situations wherein you tended to use this trait of yours are a bit controversial: Espionage, for all intents and purposes, was a shady business to get into, especially since his first awareness of your involvement in it required you to be a mole and feed your employer information, of which subsequently got Clark’s ass kicked. But you win some brownie points when he gets to observe that same diligence in you outside of work. If you set your sights on a project or something you wish to acquire, you’re going to see it through, from getting a recipe for a stay-in date night down, to attempting to fix the dryer despite knowing very little about handyman-ship.

Suffice to say, godly being loves a trier.

Do either of them have pet peeves about each other?: It may seem cold, but you hate that Clark blames himself for not being able to stop anything and everything. It’s ridiculous. He may be “godlike” to the eyes of many, but that doesn’t make him God, much less suggest that even God helps everybody. He just needs to accept to the vest of is ability that there are some (and by some, you mean plenty) of things he can’t do. That’s what makes him human. He doesn’t … take this bluntness too well. Yes, he knows you’re right, but the delivery of this type of sensitive subject doesn’t always flow sweetly through your lips. And that’s what he doesn’t like.

Your concern for his self-validation doesn’t always translate as being from a place of good intentions, unfortunately. Sometimes you just come off as cold and cruel. And that is probably when he dislikes from you: That despite being a very caring person, you seem to be a little more detached compared to him. You’re more so about people rather than for people, whereas he has built himself up as a figure for people and about people. As a result, he sometimes feels beside himself, thinking that your aloof nature shouldn’t be excused by what you’ve experienced and that it only contributes to a bigger problem as a whole.

The truth of the matter is that while both sides have valid arguments, the delivery of such concerns – especially when in the heat of an argument – can result in ill delivery of either impression.

The words “martyr syndrome”, “ridiculous”, “cold”, and “selfish” are likely to be thrown about until you either storm off or he practically blasts out of the apartment before he accidentally lasers the kitchen counter out of rage.

How would each reconcile with each other after a fight?: Cool down time is especially important in a situation wherein one member of the couple is capable of accidentally setting off a very dangerous super power when enraged. Clark would never hurt you, mind you; even when frustrated with you, he would never wish you ill in spite of what he may imply when blinded by anger. However, you make him pretty vulnerable, mind you. And sometimes, that vulnerability may mess with his ability to focus on trying not to smash a balled fist against the coffee table and turning it into toothpicks upon impact. And while you may not be anywhere near that strong or gifted with abilities that would allow you to destroy things with the same capacity, you still have plenty of anger to simmer down from.

Screaming into a pillow usually only does so much (mostly just making your throat and head hurt), so more often than not you’ll try to nap away the pain. If you manage to wake up before Clark comes back, there’s a slight chance you’ll be in a better mood. Maybe not a perfect one, but you’ve at the very least calmed down a bit. Depending on the situation, you may have even accepted that you can’t stay mad forever, let alone with him, and you want to just end this silly dispute and make peace. You wait up for him to return which, in itself, is a feat considering that his abilities allow him to literally travel all over the world in record time – which he has done in some cases under the duress of an argument. If you stay up for hours, even into the blooming light of the rising sun, he won’t even try to talk with you when he returns – he’ll just usher you back to bed and quietly say you’ll talk when you’re both well-rested.

When that time eventually comes, the keyword here is “softer.” Speak what you mean in softer language. Don’t sugarcoat it, but there’s definitely a better way to state your claim than, “Shit happens everywhere in the world, it’s not your job or even your ability to clean it all up, nor should you kick your own ass about it.” Clark will be patient and let you tell your side, nodding or furrowing his brows at certain comments, before telling his own side of the situation regarding himself. Then, when you’re ready, he’ll confide in you (in softer terms) his worry that you’re being too indifferent about the current state of the world and his place in them. He understands you don’t mean to come off in such a way, but it just concerns him that you’ve really given up on everything.

Of course, you haven’t. You just felt it was easier to cope with everything this way. He understands. Just like deep down, you understand that your beloved boyfriend just wants to bring to the world more peace than there was before he came. Neither part may necessarily agree with the others’ methods or how it may impact them (making you cold, making him filled with anxiety), but the most that you can do is be there for one another. Offer each other support and love and keep as much of a balance as possible. Because in the end, you keep him grounded and Clark lifts you up.

What would be their ideal vacation getaway together?: It’s hard to place where or even what vacationing with Clark would look like to be honest. Given who Clark is, he can’t always just up and decide to take a break. At least, that’s what he convinces himself. And it drives you absolutely nuts! Once Lois and Diana catch wind of this, they’re on Clark’s back like college students on free food, scolding him for “neglecting his boyfriend duties.” He only really gives in after Diana’s fifty-fifth insistence that the League can handle things in his absence. However, it then becomes a matter of where to go.

Given his abilities, he can and has easily traveled to other countries in very little time with few to no difficulties. But since he more often than not is not there to take in the scenery or culture, this makes it only a bit easier. However, you insist that on vacation he ought to act a little more normal so that he can get the full experience. This means you have to choose a vacation destination wisely, otherwise y’all have wasted money. Generally speaking, Clark’s nervousness about being too far from Metropolis is likely going to affect how far the two of you go at first, never mind how easy it would be for him to just fly back if the League truly did need him. However, enough nudging can result in a trip a little further from Metropolis than Clark would have expected to be besides Smallville.

He finds that he likes Yosemite Park. Not so much the crowds it tends to draw, but definitely the hiking trails and the potential picnics that could be had further away from the screeches of children and bellowing of their frustrated parents. Plus, his abilities make going further inward and elsewhere all the more easy, with getting lost or having to escape potentially dangerous animals being a thing of the past when Clark can easily fly above the treetops and back toward civilization if need be. Of course, he still tries to avoid being cocky and to keep his wits about him, but for the most part, Clark finds himself enjoying the vacation. Once he’s gotten through his hesitancies and potential guilt about relaxing, he practically collapses into a puddle of released stresses, his head warming your lap as the two of you enjoy the gentle breeze of the little patch of forest you decided to spend your little picnic for two in.

He dreadfully misses it when it comes time for him to resume his jobs as both a reporter and as guardian of Metropolis (and, furthermore, the world).

Think of a new way (AU, different situation, etc.) they could have met for the first time

The world was strange, and Clark wasn’t sure how much right he had to conclude that for himself. Because, on one hand, he was a flying, laser-shooting alien with unparalleled strength. But on the other, he was involved with a team composed of two technical demigods (both whose people were thought to be myths), a cyborg revived from the brink of death by a box, and a man fast enough to phase through solid material with just the proper amount of focus. This went without mentioning the fact that his enemy-turned friend was a billionaire who’d been dressing like a bat for the last three decades but, all things considered, that was arguably normal by comparison.

But, with the exception of Victor, you never would’ve assumed such oddities about any of them. Not at first glance at least. But that was the point: The world could only handle so much strangeness before people became too opposed to it for it to carry on. Which was why it made Clark a little more than on edge when things around Metropolis started to seem a little … odd.

It started off with little things: Black marks appearing in alleyways, cracking and booming noises often occurring before or after. “Not unlike thunderclaps,” witnesses would later say. TVs and other electrical devices going wonky or even outright snapping out of life. Fuse boxes would be blackened, the areas around them sometimes scorched. But the electric companies couldn’t find anything about the equipment that would suggest sabotage; and inspectors on the case found little to nothing that could suffice as evidence that there was purposeful vandalism. And with all the more obvious surveillance cameras damaged before any footage could be captured, there was only so much to go on. There was little rhyme or reason indicating a pattern to which areas got struck besides the fact that they tended to be in wealthier areas, but considering much of Metropolis was inhabited by the upper-class, it was nearly a moot note so the likelihood of a successful stakeout was remarkably slim – if performed by the average cop.

Bruce wasn’t a cop. But he also wasn’t the average detective. It had taken some time and a lot of surveillance, coupled with Lois’ own findings done on her own time, but by the end of a month and a half, they were pretty certain they had found their culprit. All that was left was to have Clark find them and bring them in, hopefully to join the League.

Why Clark?

“Pretty sure that if you get electrocuted, you’ll just register it as a tickle,” Bruce admitted. Blunt, but fair.

Still, Clark couldn’t help but think as he scouted the skies one night, maybe the rich guy who has plenty of time the next day to rest might want to go searching in the middle of the night?

But there was no use in arguing, much less at this point. Though some small part of him wish he’d put up a bit more of a fight beforehand. Normally, Clark was glad to have found the city experiencing little to no issues, especially at night. However, considering the added weight of expectations placed on this particular outing, there he couldn’t help but hold a little bit of anticipation in him –

VwwmmmmmpapapapKRACK.

It was faint, being in the distance, but it was nothing his hearing couldn’t register: The sound of fuse tampering and popping out of life. There, some odd three miles away: There was a glow swelling and slightly throbbing with diminishing power, crawling out of an alleyway into the night air.

Well, Clark thought somewhat optimistically. At least I won’t have to track them down based on looks alone …

+++++++++

Moving to Metropolis was supposed to be the start of something new. Something good and new, specifically. Not getting into a freak accident involving a weird, unnatural-looking cloud appearing just as you were checking out your apartment’s fuse box and waking up months later from a comatose state. That alone should have been enough of a cue that things weren’t going to go your way.

But, oh, it didn’t stop there. It would’ve been fine to have stopped when a majority of your clothes would stick to you regardless of the fashion; that was bearable. But it went on: From your phone exploding in your touch to your electronics following suit. It didn’t stop when the electricity in your building flickered with your rage; nor did it stop when, on a fearful whim, you attempted to summon as much voltage from as many transformers in a three-block radius as possible – and succeeded. Well, that is, before your attempts to return the acquired energy resulted in their sources exploding. You weren’t trying that again.

Not until you had a better grasp of it all… . But god, why was it all so dam hard to grasp?

You’d though it be best to practice in the richer parts of town – the electric company would be in a far bigger hurry to bring them their power back, the absolute bastards. But with how many generators and the like you were destroying, you were running out of practice space.

You groaned as you watched the circuit box before you begin to putter out of use.

“Greeeeat, (Y/N),” you told yourself. “You finally begin to get the hang of putting shit back where it came, you get a little too excited, and blam-o.” The all too familiar feeling of disappointment developed a sigh in you; you had long since passed feeling anxious about the destruction of property, and you knew you could do no good by trying to fix it. All you could do now was leave the scene, pretend to sleep peacefully, and try to figure out where to go next.

It had been nearly two months since you started your high-voltage, highly dangerous practicing; surely by now the cops were on to you, what with most of your “victims” being people of note. Logic said to shake them off your trail by moving to a type of location they wouldn’t have seen comic. But … that meant going to lower-income neighborhoods. And as much as you wanted to figure out how to stop blowing up electronics by touch, you really weren’t comfortable with doing it at the expense of those who needed the help more.

“Good evening,” came a voice, yanking you out of your nervous thoughts. It had taken your brain a moment to register it, but you could’ve sworn it came come from the sky: A type of voice dashing heroes in old movies would use; heroes with big, strong chins.

Superman did, of course, have such a feature on him, you came to find. But as he descending from the sky, into the alley (thus blocking your way out), you were forced to consider that every feature he had appeared to be big and strong: His towering height, his bulging muscles that the suit made no effort to hide, his … hands that would most definitely kill you if he so much as poked you with one finger.

That last thought alone, even in a hypothetical sense, was all it took for your fight or flight senses to kick in, your hands suddenly flying up in defense with fizzles of what electricity you’d collected springing in your palms.

Superman, however, did not flinch. He barely even regarded your sparkling, trembling hands (which did nothing for your confidence, both in your abilities and in your chances of getting out of this unmaimed).

“You don’t want to do that,” Superman stated. Simple as that. And he was right: You really didn’t want to have to “fight” him. But what else could you do?

On Clark’s own end, he could just feel the anxiety radiating off of you. He didn’t even have to listen for your heartbeat thundering in your chest. Honestly, though he hated to admit it, looking at you reminded him of seeing small, scared animals back in Smallville. Rabbits and mice found scittering about on the farm to be more specific.

On one hand, he was just glad you weren’t some hyper-powered hooligan willing to throw a punch in a fight they weren’t ready for. But on the other, he felt a little bad scaring you like this. It was probably best if he didn’t near you. For now.

“It’s okay,” he offered. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You sighed and lowered your hands, your pitiful static fizzling to a halt. “Look,” you said quietly, “I promise I’ll go away. I’ll switch towns! I swear!”

At this, the man furrowed his brows. “I’m afraid that can’t happen …” Your heart plummeted before being slingshotted back into a revived desire to plea and flee.

“I swear, okay! Nobody was supposed to get hurt!” you insisted. “I don’t think anybody even really got hurt, per se … Just inconvenienced. But I promise, it won’t happen again – ” In the midst of your rambling, Superman took a step towards you. It was a simple movement, all things considered, but for you, in this moment of high stress, it might as well have been an outright threat. You couldn’t stop yourself from releasing a pathetic yelp, nearly stepping all over your own feet to take a few steps back.

Crap, Clark cursed. Okay, clearly acting serious and stern was helping nobody. At this point, you were probably going to run in the opposite direction and smack your skull against the dead end of the alleyway. To hell with this.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he suddenly said. He raised his hands in a weak attempt to show his change of demeanor. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.” You had to admit, even in your moment of fear, the sudden shift in tone was not lost on you.

He still had hints of old school hero in his voice, but now there was something … more? It was hard to place (especially in your current jumpy state), but you were just able enough to pick out nodes of what his voice now held: Sunshine; apples; the type of voice a sweet man running a humble little bookstore or fruit stand might have.

It had to have been a trap. You weren’t one to disapprove of Superman, given all that he’s done, but being on the other side of him just wasn’t doing much for your ability to think straight. And Clark could sense it.

“Hey,” he tried again. “I’m sorry if I scared you.” You blinked, a brow slowly beginning to raise. “We – I’ve been looking for you, per a friend’s request, and – ” No sooner had he said it, Clark regretted it. The look of resumed discomfort of your face made him really acknowledge that.

“ ‘Friend’?” you demanded. “Who the hell is your friend? What do you want?!”

Oh, geez.

“Listen, please, remain calm!” Clark pleaded. To him, in that moment, he’d thought he’d been sounding gentle enough. But as the nearby streetlights began to flicker, he knew better.

Once again, regret: If there was anything he’d learned working with Lois and Bruce, it was that telling someone on the verge of panic or in the midst of complete frustration to “calm down” in any sense was a bad, bad, bad idea. Saying so to a person who had powers, controlled or not, however? Absolutely terrible idea.

While your previous attempt at intimidation by way of summoning electricity had done little to impress Clark, he had to admit: You were a bit better at it now. The more the streetlights blinked, the more streams of electronic light appeared to gather towards you, specifically in your palms and feet.

“Look, buddy,” you hissed. “I’ve been dealing with a lot of crap leading up to this. I moved to a new city. I got goddamn electrocuted into a coma – ” At this point, Clark couldn’t help but notice thin streaks of static begin to make a beeline towards your eyes. Not promising, if his experience had told him so.

You gritted your teeth, increasingly glowing eyes narrowing. “Then! I wake up to these – these stupid, stupid powers! Powers I don’t have the first fucking clue of how to control. But do you see me running around, actively trying to kill people like every other goddamn psycho in this ‘city of tomorrow’? No! I’ve had to figure all this crap out on. My. Own.” The brights of your eyes increased, simultaneously illuminating the growing rage of your expression while also blinding Clark to being able to make it out in the first place.

At your feet, small currents began to sizzle against the crackling pavement. You were no longer trying to back away: You took a step forward, and it definitely made Clark feel worry.

“Could I have done it differently? Sure. Maybe. But don’t forget, Flyboy: I could’ve been so. Much. Worse!” Clark could hear the tingling rattle of lightbulbs struggling within the streetlights, trying to retain whatever power they could.

“I – ” But Clark was cut off.

“And you,” you growled, “have the audacity … To tell me to calm DOWN?!” In that moment, three things happened in the following order:

The first had been that your eyes, filled with so much fury, could no longer remain squinted; they widened, revealing themselves to be entirely white with pure energy at this point. The second thing appeared to be connected with the sudden snapping, due to it being how any lightbulb in a streetlight or artsy lamp within a three-block radius became overwhelmed – too overwhelmed to maintain proper form, in fact. They popped and shattered, leaving bits of glass to tumble to the streets below.

The third instance, however, had nothing to do with your powers: It was just Clark, getting a word in.

“I get it,” he said. Had there been any lightbulbs left, they might have shattered as well in sync with the snarl you gave the man.

“Quit lying!” you demanded. The wave of volts began to ripple all the more erratically. But Clark held his ground.

“I’m not lying,” he swore. He even placed one hand to his heart, the other upright. “Scout’s honor.” Unfortunately for him, the sincerity of a Boy Scout appeared to mean little to you. He went on, “I didn’t always have control of my powers. I didn’t have anyone to help me figure them out; I had to wing it!” You raised a bemused brow in reaction.

Okay … Clark thought. It’s … better than the glare, I guess? He swallowed. Dare to try one last time before things potentially get yucky?

“That’s, uh, actually why I’ve … come to find you,” he stated. “The friend? I swear he’s a good man. A little rough around the edges, but – ”

“You’re not helping your case,” you snapped.

“I’m a part of a sort of group, there’s people like you and me, and we think it’d be best if you joined – er, if you wanted to.”

“Ah. So, you want to basically make me into a weapon?”

“Nonononono, not that at all. I swear. It’s just – Look, even if you don’t want to join,” Clark bit his lip, “we could at least potentially find a way to help you get those powers under control so that you won’t keep breaking stuff.” A beat passed. “Well,” he shrugged, “it’s more like my friend will. He’s good with science and can definitely provide the right materials.”

To his credit, Clark did begin to notice an apparent lapse in the energy you were emitting. It was hard for the average eye to properly compute it but for him, the change was definitely there.

On your own end, you had to admit: The temptation was definitely lingering through his words. But then, perhaps you were just desperate and overwhelmed and looking for an out in this entire situation. But something still very much bothered you.

“How can I know I can trust you?” you asked, brow completely scrunched with uncertainty. The entire situation considered, it was still a bit of a shocker for one to not entirely trust the great and beloved Superman’s words. And, judging by his stumbling, it wasn’t a scenario he had been prepared to answer right on the spot.

“Uh – Becaaauussseee …” Another thing Clark had learned working with Lois and Perry Mason: The longer you stammer and search for answers, the less legit your word comes cross. His mind scrambled for something, anything that would win your favor over. But, in the end, there was only one thing that stood out. And, for the first time completely since landing in that alley, Clark felt just as nervous as you had.

“My … name …” He inhaled deeply, trying his best not to exhale chill winds. “My name … is Clark Kent. I work with The Daily Planet.”

You blinked. “… Pardon?” The voltage at your feet dampened.

Clark continued, “I’m a Kryptonian refugee, but I was raised here on Earth. The friend who sent me here is – ” He stopped himself short before deciding that Bruce could kick his ass about this later. “It’s Bruce Wayne.”

“Bruce Wayne?!” you interjected. Part of you wanted to call crap but the other part of you had to remember that the man in front of you was claiming to be a humanoid alien who worked at the local newspaper; who’s to say he really wasn’t acquainted with the rich guy across the bay? Judging by the hint of smile this Clark Kent guy let slip, you … honestly couldn’t bring yourself to really disbelieve him. The static at your fingertips dribbled into your palms before shrinking away.

“Yeah, uh … It’s a bit of a story,” Clark claimed, a bit of sheepishness in his voice.

The shift from mostly illuminated to just barely lit by the light of the moon was sudden and startling. But for Clark, it was a good thing. The ground immediately beneath you had been blackened by your doing, but you otherwise appeared perfectly fine, if a bit curious.

“Got proof?” you asked.

“I mean, I gave you my secret identity – that’s pretty trusting if I do say so myself,” Clark pointed out. As much as you hated to admit it, he had a point. And you were getting awfully tired. In fact …

In that moment, you had realized something: That was about the most power and damage you’d caused ever since getting these powers in one fell swoop. You were a little impressed. But you were also plenty concerned. Sure, you’d meant to be threatening in the moment, but the fact still remained: If the only other person around hadn’t been Superman, how easily could you have actually harmed another person in your moment of anger? The second you attempted to truly ponder it, a shudder threatened to ripple through your body; you did not enjoy considering those odds.

But how long until you got so pissed off that you pulled another one of those? How long until you actually did cause harm? That thought was even worse …

“Are you positive?” you mumbled, causing Clark to cock his head by an inch.

“I’m sorry?” he questioned.

You looked him dead in the eye and dared him to lie: “Are you positive you guys can, like, help me control my powers?” The smile he gave you alone would have been enough to convince you.

“We’ve trained with literal scientific anomalies and legends, Miss. I can assure you: You’re in good company with us.” The sweet, honey warmness of his voice did everything to calm the well of fear and guilt within you. It was more than enough.

“Okay,” you said with finality.

“Okay?”

“Mhm. Let’s do this.” Almost instantly, however, you raised your fingers to draw a point. “But I’m not fighting or anything. Just so we’re clear. I’m just coming along to get my groove in order, so tell your ‘friend’, Bruce Wayne, alright?”

The man didn’t even try to hide a chuckle at your stance. You were going to be just fine, he’d decided. And you? Well … the jury was still out on whether or not this was where your move to Metropolis would finally turn into a good, new thing.

#i had to repost because the original’s format was terrible on the app #regrettablewritings #hopefully this one is better...#clark kent x reader #clark kent imagines #clark kent imagine #clark kent headcanon #clark kent headcanons #superman imagine #superman imagines #superman x reader #dceu headcanons #dceu imagines

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