Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bruce had forgotten about the circus Bella mentioned at the Kanes’ charity gala, as much as he was able to forget about anything. Rather, he put it to the very back of his mind, an offhand comment only notable because it had been mentioned by two different people in one night.

He had far more important things to think about after the gala, and in the swelling tide of Bruce’s public image, offhand comments tended to be frequent and best taken with a grain of salt.

The city was recovering, however slowly. Most nights Bruce had trouble seeing that, embroiled as he was in the worst Gotham had to offer. But, ultimately, the indomitable human spirit or habit or whatever it was that made people cling on so desperately in hope of a better future was pulling through, dragging the city kicking and screaming into the slow, grueling process of recovery.

The damage from the flood would likely haunt Gotham’s streets and dimly lit alleyways for decades to come, unable to ever be fixed completely while the city remained a cesspool of crime and instability.

But the Renewal Promise was a start, and Bruce found that he was putting more and more faith into Bella Reál, trusting her to direct his money to where it needed to go most. Not that he didn’t verify as much as he could, but he could only do so much as Bruce Wayne while spending nearly every single full night out pushing himself as hard as he could to try and keep up with the rise and fall of Gotham’s mob and criminal activity. He was still dealing with the fallout from Carmine Falcone’s death, of course, and seemed like he would be for a while. 

The circus took place on an unsurprisingly drizzly April evening, the last freezing winter rains lashed out in occasional bursts over the city as Bruce drove north into Uptown Gotham.

Bella had agreed to meet him there, so he drove himself to Cherry Hill Park, dressed nicely but casually in slacks and a pullover. He had no idea what the dress code was for this sort of event, so he had just left it completely up to Alfred.

The rain blessedly trickled to a stop as Bruce came up on the massive oak trees and circus tents of the park, nestled like an anthill between the towering buildings all around. A thick fog crept in to take the rain’s place, dancing and curling through the air.

There would be a few high-profile guests here tonight amongst the milling crowds, Bruce knew, and was correct in assuming there was a valet service so he could minimize contact with any press present. Thank the lord.

He stepped out of the car, handed the keys to the young woman in a uniform who popped up at his side, and shot a dazzling smile first at her and then at the handful of cameramen who were quickly turning their lenses in the direction of his car.

He inhaled deeply, enjoying the faint smell of soil and plant matter, overlaid by the heavy scent of the woodsmoke and fried food that clouded the air. It still shocked him when he was able to smell anything other than blood and leather and Gotham.

The valet flushed bright pink at his smile and slid into his car, out of his sight. He turned to look at the main circular tent, about a hundred feet away in the middle of the park. It rose high above the rest of the tents, a huge mass of red and white canvas that glowed from within. A playful sign that read ‘Haly’s Circus’ hung over the main entrance.

Warmly dressed crowds thronged between the striped peaks, the hum of chatter and children laughing rising high above the funnel cake and kettle corn stands into the dense fog of Gotham’s twilight. 

A man in a black uniform came up to Bruce, offering to show him to his seat, which he accepted. He went where he was ushered, through the tent’s less busy rear entrance into the warm interior.

The elevated seating area he was directed to was slightly higher than many of the other more crowded ones. Bella was already there, talking with Councilman Hady’s wife, a frankly rude and obnoxious young lady with a mildly ridiculous fur coat on. She’d been riding the wave of Hady’s success, it seemed, despite his recent fuck-ups. 

Bella made eye contact with Bruce when Mrs. Hady gestured aggressively away. She grimaced slightly and gave a tiny shake of her head. Do not approach.

Bruce smiled, partially in gratitude and partially in amusement over her predicament, moving to lean against the wooden railing and look out into the rest of the tent.

Long strings of warm yellow bulbs stretched low across the vast ceiling, more intense spotlights and floodlights illuminating the center area. There was a wooden platform in the very middle, surrounded by a circular expanse of sand and sawdust. The surrounding stands were squat and wooden, steadily filling with excited circus-goers. Music played far above, a happy, lilting melody that filtered minutely through the chatter.

If Bruce focused hard he could make out speakers secured to the towering wooden poles holding up the very middle of the ceiling. A circular metal frame connected the tops of the poles. There were several platforms and rickety walkways high above the crowd, as well as several trapezes and loose ropes hanging.

He had a similar trapeze bar in the cave, although he really wasn’t more than proficient at it. He didn’t much enjoy the performance aspect, although the flexibility and rush of height and movement was pleasantly similar to swinging with a grapple gun.

He turned his attention back down, towards the opposite side of the sand circle, where a small group of costumed performers were preparing for their acts. A woman had a tightrope strung between two of the furthest poles, and was lounging on it, bent practically in half while she chatted with a very big bald man standing below her.

A little boy, maybe nine or ten, in a red and green leotard-like costume hung upside down giggling from the shoulders of a wiry, muscular man in a similarly colored getup. The man’s bearded face was cracked in a warm smile, bright white teeth against dark tanned skin. They had to be related, Bruce thought, looking at the similarities between the two. Father and son?

A flash of white face paint drew Bruce’s gaze. A performer in a full jester uniform was balancing a bowling pin on his nose, face tilted up and body rebalancing constantly. Bruce pushed down the repulsion that rose within him at the sight of a clown. He might have put the Joker away, but the clown often terrorized him in nightmares. And Joker’s gang was constantly generating new members, for whatever reason.

Fucking clowns. What even. The Joker was in Arkham now, at least, where he could hurt as few people as possible.

A deep voice boomed over the speakers, much louder than the music had been before, and Bruce turned to find his seat. Mrs. Hady had finally gotten up, so Bruce sat down with an obnoxiously exaggerated sigh. Bella rolled her eyes and snorted.

“So,” Bruce began lowly as the announcer began to introduce the lady on the tightrope. A grin pulled at his lips, “how’s Mrs. Hady doing concerning her husband’s new... position?”

“Well, surprisingly,” Bella responded, folding her hands neatly in her lap. 

“Unfortunately, even,” Bruce muttered.

She covered her laugh with a hand, polite as always.

“Yes, unfortunately.”

The flood lights dimmed, the music swelling as the first act appeared sparkling and poised high above the crowd, lit by a bright spotlight.

The tightrope and juggling acts were impressively smooth, speaking to years dedicated to practice and performing. The magicians’ acts in the packed sand below were less impressive only because Bruce knew how most of the tricks worked so the magic was lost on him. The ones he didn’t know were a fun little puzzle for a minute there, though.

A blonde woman in a skintight yellow costume stepped off the platform and flipped through the air before coming to a graceful stop suspended by flowing fabric. Cheers rose from the crowd, and the hoop and silk aerial acts took off.

The gymnasts and contortionists were incredibly skilled, twisting through the air like they did it in their sleep, sharp lines of muscle as they pulled and released, stretched and contracted.

He could see the slight shape of the little boy from before dancing around on a platform high above him, occasionally peeking out to wave at people below with a wide, beaming grin.

And then, as the other performers took their places across from him he leapt from the very edge of the platform in a swan dive, a perfect arc until he made contact with the woman in the middle, clasping wrists securely. She was wearing a matching red and green leotard, although hers had yellow throughout.

She used his momentum to swing them up once, twice, and then let go. The boy somersaulted through the air dizzyingly quickly, too many times for Bruce to count this far away. He straightened just in time for his father to catch him by the wrists, pulling him up onto the other platform. His form remained picture perfect throughout, fully controlled down to the point of his toes.

Bruce joined the applause roaring through the tent, impressed.

“What do they feed that kid?” Bella whispered at his side, leaning up to reach his ear.

Bruce shrugged. Probably whatever normal ten year olds eat, if that mischievous grin gave any indication of how hard it is to keep him from eating things he didn’t want to eat. Bruce remembered being a kid, an unhappy one at that, and he had still been prone to sweet things and trashy junk food.

“And now... ladies and gentlemen, for our final act,” the announcer boomed, “you just got a glimpse of what they can do, are you ready to see more?!”

The crowd screamed its approval, echoing in the warm air of the huge tent. 

“Please welcome John, Mary, and Little Richard... the Flying Graysons!” 

The applause and cheers that followed were the loudest they had been all night.

The family was preparing for their act, Mary climbing up John’s back and wrapping herself tight. John stood with his bare toes off the edge of the platform, perfectly balanced even with the extra weight. The boy crouched, inspecting something behind them on the platform. Bruce’s brow furrowed as he watched the boy hesitate for the first time all night, still half turned towards the ground.

And then John leapt from the platform, taking Mary with him on his back, and Richard Grayson surged forward with a shout.

“NO!"

There was a moment where time froze, the boy’s scream echoing in the suddenly silent air, as the couple hung motionless at the apex of their arch, the wires that should’ve easily held their combined weight snapping—

Bruce stood up.

—and then John and Mary Grayson were falling, a chorus of hundreds of horrified gasps chasing them down.

They hit the packed sand with an awful cracking thud, and the silence that pressed in for a split second was deafening, heavy and stunned.

And the tent erupted into chaos.

The many children in the crowd were wailing, horrified, their parents trying desperately to turn them from the broken bodies in the middle of the floor. Everyone was shouting, standing up. The other performers seemed frozen in shock, the ones on the ground clutching each other in horror and the ones up top fleeing the aerial platforms.

Bruce was running before he even knew what he was doing, vaulting over the wooden railing and sprinting along the perimeter of the sand. The sawdust mixed in kicked up in clouds, clinging to his slacks.

He ignored Bella’s shout from behind him and glanced up once before he reached the base of the leftmost ladder, adrenaline shooting through his veins when he saw that Richard Grayson was still standing motionless on the very edge of the platform, staring down at his very dead parents. There was no way they had survived that fall.

Bruce ripped the flimsy ‘Employees Only’ sign off the ladder and started up, scaling it as quickly as he could manage while still being cautious. He hadn’t climbed something this high in the field without the weight of his armor and gear in a while.

He reached the top after barely even twenty seconds, and then he tuned out any input from the panicked crowd below and focused entirely on the boy in front of him.

Richard Grayson was silent and still, back towards Bruce. 

“Richard.”

He didn’t move, didn’t even twitch. Shock, then, likely.

Bruce pulled himself the rest of the way onto the platform, mind racing. Fuck, he needed to get the kid away from that edge but he didn’t want to scare him into falling. Breaking him out of the shock could very well do that.

Bruce made up his mind in about two seconds, taking stock of the platform and its stability.

He shifted silently forward onto his knees, spreading them for purchase as his upper body darted forward. He hooked a lightning fast arm around the kid’s middle, yanking him backwards into Bruce’s body as Bruce braced his spine against the pole. The sand wasn’t visible from here, slowly turning red so far below them.

Richard choked out a reflexive gasp and kicked out, hard, but Bruce was ready for that, pinning his strong little biceps down against his sides with an arm banded around him and shifting so he could hook a knee over the kid’s tiny legs.

“You’re safe,” Bruce said, quietly but urgently, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

There were tears streaming down the kid’s face now, but he wasn’t really crying, just breathing in awful, heartbreaking little gasps.

Bruce held on tightly and as gently as he could manage, slowing down his breathing and exaggerating each inhale and exhale until they rocked Richard back and forth a little.

After a minute the kid went totally limp and stopped fighting. Bruce planted his foot so he was no longer pinning his legs down and used his grip on the boy’s arm to turn him halfway around in his lap.

Big blue eyes swimming with tears blinked up at him, expression lost and alarmingly vacant again. His tanned skin was worryingly pale.

Bruce was suddenly at a loss for what to do next. Introducing himself felt wildly uncomfortable and ridiculous given the circumstances. His whole body ached with the pain he knew the boy was feeling, that bottomless sort of grief and horror. Two gunshots reverberated in his mind, the second cutting off the echoing sound of his mother’s scream.

Richard could see it in his eyes, maybe, because suddenly he was surging forward, grabbing Bruce’s shirt in desperate little fists.

“Someone cut their lines!” He gasped out, face crumpled, inches away from Bruce’s own. “I saw—“

He cut off, out of breath and drowning in his tears. Bruce cupped his face gently in his hands, wiping as much away as he could with his thumbs.

“What did you see?” He asked, aiming for calm and achieving something way too intense.

It seemed to encourage Richard, regardless, because his eyes had flinty anger in them now, which he was clearly trying to cling onto.

The words broke out of him like a flood breaking through a dam.

“I saw a dirty footprint right here!” He flung himself around in Bruce’s lap, wildly pointing a couple feet to the left.

“And Mama and Papa don’t allow shoes up here, especially nasty dirty ones like that—“ he cut off again before forcing on, voice hoarse, “—and it wasn’t up here before so someone had to have come up when everyone was coming in and they cut their lines.”

The ending was a broken whimper, like his world had fallen out from under him. It had, Bruce knew. He thought of Richard’s beaming smile, the way he had illuminated everyone around him like the sun. Compared it to now, the vacant horror in his eyes and the way he was half collapsed.

He felt that familiar burning rage stir in his gut.

Bruce’s eyes fixed on the boot print easily. It was just one towards the edge of the platform, like whoever left it there had planted one foot out to take a quick look down at the crowd. Roughly twelve or thirteen US men’s, with thick tread. That was all Bruce could tell in the poor lighting from several feet away.

He was offhandedly surprised by how much the kid had picked up in just those few moments he had crouched over the print.

The sound of sirens grew louder as the crowd’s ruckus quieted some, many of the circus- goers having flooded out the entrances quickly after the incident. Bruce leaned back and to the side, holding Richard tighter as he peered down the ladder. Bella Reál and two flustered police officers stood at the base, arguing.

He straightened. Turned back to the kid.

“You’re Bruce Wayne,” the boy managed through his tears, hiccuping slightly. He still hadn’t looked away from Bruce’s face, blue eyes locked on colder gray ones like it was the only thing keeping him afloat.

“I’ve seen you on the TV.”

The depth of his gaze meant Bruce didn’t have to ask what he’d seen. Bruce’s dead parents usually came up whenever he did in the media.

Bruce had been about to introduce himself, and now he didn’t know what to say again. He settled for wiping the tears away again, cradling Richard's face gently but firmly in his hands.

“You’re Richard Grayson,” he murmured.

Fresh tears welled in the kid’s glassy eyes, but he blinked through them.

“Dick. Everyone calls me Dick. Don’t call me Richard.” He tacked on a quick habitual “please” after a second, the way kids sometimes mindlessly do, and collapsed forward completely, putting all of his slight weight into Bruce’s lap and the hands holding Dick’s chin up.

Bruce lowered the boy’s head onto his chest, figuring that was as good permission as any to fully hold him. He hitched his arms under Dick’s thighs, pulling his little body up against his chest.

Dick kept his head down, turning it into Bruce’s neck. Bruce could feel fresh tears dripping against his skin. He wondered how Dick had any left to cry. 

“What do I do? What do I do? ” Dick whispered against his skin. “Mama and Papa—“ his voice broke.

Bruce’s decision was made in that instant. Unwise, perhaps, but more concrete than any he had made since the day he’d first slammed his fist into someone else’s face.

“We’re going to figure out who did this,” he murmured into Dick’s hair. “Okay? I’m going to help you figure this out.”

Dick didn’t answer for a minute, and Bruce waited patiently even if he was growing increasingly concerned at the yelling coming from down below.

“Okay,” Dick whispered.

Bruce took a deep breath, holding Dick tighter. He sat up fully, pivoting to rest his feet on a rung of the ladder while he adjusted Dick so he had his arms around Bruce’s neck. He fished his phone out of his pocket and snapped a quick photo of the boot print, leaning as close as he dared. He turned the phone off and returned it to the pocket, pushing it all the way down so it wouldn’t fall out as he climbed down. He pressed a gentle hand against Dick’s glossy hair.

“Don’t look, please.”

The boy’s chest hitched with a sob at the reminder, however subtle, of his parents’ broken bodies below. He tucked himself in tight, wrapping his legs around Bruce’s waist with a level of trust that was continuously surprising.

Dick stayed like that the whole way down, ignoring the loud arguing that cut off as Bruce neared the bottom. Bruce oriented himself on the ground and widened his eyes at the officers, trying to look confused and wounded. The latter was not hard to manage, considering Bruce’s insides felt like one open wound.

“Is there an ambulance here yet?” He asked, genuinely wondering because the cops hadn’t said anything. One was red in the face and looked extremely uncomfortable and the other was staring at him in mute pity.

Surely the paramedics had arrived, with the amount of cops that had just started crawling over the scene.

Bruce tilted his head to look. John and Mary’s bodies were partially obscured by the cluster of police around them, but Bruce could see their brightly colored costumes, and he caught a glimpse of limbs twisted in unnatural ways. Dark blood had stained the sand around Mary’s head and John’s torso.

His view was obscured fully by Bella stepping in front of him, face furrowed in concern.

“Hey, are you alright? The ambulances just got here, do you want to take him over there?” She took charge of the situation like an actual angel. “I’ll come with you.”

He nodded and she turned to the officers with raised brows.

“I’m taking them over there. Now please do your jobs instead of standing here trying to argue with me.”

“Alright, Miss Reál,” the uncomfortable one said grudgingly, “but make sure Wayne gives his statement.”

Bella closed her eyes for just a second, gathering patience, before she ghosted a hand against Bruce’s shoulder to nudge him in the direction of the tent’s back entrance. Away from the bodies.

Bruce let go of Dick with one arm to catch the officer that had looked at him pityingly by the shoulder.

“There’s a shoe print up there,” he said, fast and low. “Not mine.”

The cop’s eyebrows twisted in surprise and confusion and he nodded in understanding, turning away to talk with the other officers that were approaching.

Bella led Bruce out into the cold, damp night. Dick was becoming limp in his arms, likely fighting the exhaustion that had to be creeping up on him.

The circus grounds had cleared of the majority of the crowd, but there were still clusters of traumatized people amongst the scattered trash and kettle corn, not really paying attention to anything outside of their personal space.

“Bella,” he said in the brief moment of relative privacy, “would I qualify as an emergency foster home?”

She cut him a glance that was altogether too discerning for his liking. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “With a few changes.”

He nodded, holding Dick tighter. The kid was still awake, if just barely, and Bruce knew he could hear them. He didn’t stiffen, though, despite the fresh wave of tears against Bruce’s neck. There was an understanding between them, despite being total strangers. Bruce stood firmer in his decision that he could do it, he could take this child in, at least temporarily.

“Okay,” he said, as they approached the front of the tent, red and blue police lights reflecting from at least a dozen vehicles.

And he would find out who cut those goddamn lines. 

Chapter Text

Bruce was not an affectionate person by nature. 

He never had been, really. The only people he could remember touching him regularly were his parents; his mom with her sweet smelling hugs, and his dad with his strong handshakes and hair ruffles. 

And Alfred. But Bruce knew Alfred wasn’t an affectionate person by nature either so the affection between the two remained soft and distant. A hand brushed over Bruce’s brow here. A squeeze of Alfred’s shoulder there. 

Bruce probably would’ve died by now without it, he thought.

He had needed to get over himself once he started making his public appearances as Brucie Wayne, but even now his skin will crawl sometimes when fingers slid into his hair and over his skin. The first couple times had been rough, but Bruce had gotten the hang of it.

Dick Grayson was an extremely affectionate person by nature. 

It should have been a problem, but it really wasn’t. It didn’t feel like Bruce had to grin and bear it, it was pleasant, even. Dick just climbed all over him, hugged him randomly, planted kisses on his cheeks, took his hand to show him things. Warmth and trust and contentment, that’s what it felt like to Bruce. 

Robin was light and clarity and friendliness in a city that was utterly devoid of it. He was red and green and yellow and he darted across the city skyline like he was born to it. The little inverted shadow of the bat vigilante so rarely seen by the general public.

Bruce had never known someone like Dick Grayson, wondered if it was possible to know anyone like Dick Grayson.

While Batman was the cold logic to Brucie Wayne’s burning hot emotion, Dick Grayson and Robin both shone brightly in similar ways. The boy burned with hope.

Right now, Dick was bouncing excitedly alongside Bruce as he methodically donned the batsuit and all of its components.

“Anyway that’s why Lucy and I don’t like Mrs front desk lady and the hall monitor in the front half of the building!” Robin was talking, and Bruce used half his brain to listen, the other half to carefully fasten the grappling hook in place on his gauntlet, double checking that the thin, whip-strong wire was greased properly and coiled against his covered forearm. 

He bent over Dick, catching the boy’s wildly gesturing arm in a gloved hand. He slid out the grappling compartment in Robin’s gauntlet, checking it even more thoroughly than his own. 

Bruce knew Robin’s armor-- faded red bulletproof chest plate and durable green leather for his long sleeves and leggings-- had worn down to fit him comfortably now. Yellow flashed on the underside of the dim green cape, his tool belt, and the subtle stylized R on his chest. Six months since Dick’s first appearance in the cape had left the leather and Kevlar supple and molded to the touch. Bruce didn’t really understand Dick’s insistence on that particular suit design and color, but he’d be damned if he didn’t make it as protective and comfortable as possible.

“And Lucy said she has a crush on James, but I don’t get it at all because James is mean to all of the girls in the class. I mean, she says he’s cute, but I think he and Bradley Gate and that weird 5th grader Tyler all look the same. And Bradley is much nicer than James. Even Tyler is nicer than James, but then Lucy would have to deal with how weird Tyler is, which I don’t think she’d like.” 

Bruce frowned, tilting Dick’s face up so he could carefully adhere the domino mask to his skin. 

“Bradley Gate was attending Bristol Prep when I went there.” 

“Yeah, because his dad was also named Bradley Gate and his dad’s dad was also named Bradley Gate. It’s all he ever talks about,” clear blue eyes gave a sharp roll right before they disappeared behind opaque screens. “Every boy in his family has been named Bradley Gate for years and years, he said.” 

Properly masked, Robin bounced out of Bruce’s reach, running quick little fingers through his blue-black curls. 

“Which is kind of annoying of him, but it would be better than Lucy liking James. She just likes him because she knows it’ll make everyone talk about her. And he’s blond.” Robin pouted. 

He effortlessly leapt up to sit on the roof of the souped-up Charger that he had taken to calling the Batmobile. Bruce tried not to show that he actually found the name pretty funny, if not a bit on the nose. 

Bruce pulled the cowl on, blinking as his eyes adjusted. The cape went on next, clipping solidly to his shoulders and collar.

“Why does Lucy want everyone to talk about her?” He asked. 

Robin stopped kicking his feet, neatly missing the car’s doors and windows. He thought for a moment. 

“I don’t know,” he frowned.

Batman ran through the checklist in his head one last time, stepping forward from the metal table in the middle of the trolley terminal and picking Robin up from the car’s roof. 

“You should find out,” he recommended mildly, opening the passenger door and tucking the boy into the seat. 

Robin’s dramatic sigh was cut off by the door closing, but two seconds later the driver’s side opened and Batman slid in, fastening his belt. Dark, pointed ears tilted toward Robin as he waited for the kid to buckle himself in. 

Dick took his time, clearly thinking. The steel catch latched securely with a click.

“I’ll find out,” he decided eventually. “If I even stay friends with Lucy! I only met her on Monday.” 

This was delivered with a sheepish grin, and Bruce’s lips twitched as he wondered why he even tried so hard to understand Dick’s social situations. This was the third new friend the boy had made in the last week. 

The drive into Gotham proper was comfortable, routine, grounding. 

Robin had stared silently out the window for about ten minutes thinking, and then had spent the remaining thirteen minutes talking excitedly about the basic research Bruce had given him the day before yesterday. 

Now that Zucco was locked up tight, Bruce had been giving Dick more casework that he knew Dick would be interested in. It was good practice as Robin and it exercised his brain. Bruce had been letting him use the large computer in the cave (Dick had been calling them the batcomputer and the batcave respectively) to do more thorough research, and had gotten him a smaller PC for his room as well.

The most recent research was related to today’s case, remnants of Joe Chill’s anticlimactic rise to power in the city’s underbelly.

“Do you think Miss Caspian’s gonna be mad at us for showing up? You said she didn’t really like you much, right?” Dick was asking. “And your report from when her dad killed what-was-his-name? Joe Chill? She was maaaaddd at you.” 

Bruce was proud of him for remembering all of that. 

“She’s not going to be happy,” he agreed.

The plan had been laid out several times, but Bruce made Robin recite it once more quickly as he stopped the car in the shadow of a dumpster. He brought a finger up to flick on his voice mod.

Robin was out of the car and hovering near Bruce’s door by the time Batman was standing in the alley looking at a window six stories up. He ducked under the heavy black cape, wrapping himself around one of Batman’s legs. Perching his toes neatly on the big leather boot, he wrapped his arms around Bruce’s waist.

The grapple’s hiss was the only warning before the two were launched upward. Robin stifled his giggle in black Kevlar.

They landed noiselessly on the fire escape outside the window on the sixth floor, and Batman swiftly picked the lock, pushing the window up and stepping into the living room of the modest, comfortable apartment. 

Soft piano music filtered through the room from the kitchen, where a blonde woman in a short, dark gray robe was stirring something on the stove with her back to the living room. 

The scent of garlic and onions sautéing drifted into the air as Batman shifted closer to the kitchen. He ghosted past three open doorways, scanning two empty bedrooms and a bathroom. 

“Rachel.” 

Hot oil splattered onto the cream tile behind the stove as the woman jumped, whipping around. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She leaned hard against the counter, the hand not holding a spatula going to clutch at her chest. Onions continued to sputter and cook in the pan, lit up only by a light on the underside of the range hood and a lamp in the corner of the living room. Very convenient for him.

“I thought I said I never wanted to see you again,” she bit out, pointing the spatula at him aggressively. A strand of coiffed hair had escaped her bun in the damp heat from the stove.

“It’s dangerous for you to be back in Gotham,” Batman hissed quietly.

“You think I don’t know that?” She scoffed, turning back to the burner. She didn’t do anything besides stir the onions idly, but her spine was ramrod-straight.

Robin detached from Batman’s leg, dancing quickly out from under the cape and disappearing inside the larger bedroom. 

“It’s dangerous for anyone to be in Gotham,” Rachel Caspian said with a bitter laugh. She was shaking just a little, Batman noticed. 

“The convent didn’t work out?” He asked, curious. 

She turned back around, hand still at her chest. The look she sent him was practically venomous. Her fingers rubbed at the skin on her throat. She was thinner than before, Bruce noted, dark circles as well. He knew she wasn’t having financial problems despite the relatively humble apartment, and Rachel had always been the optimistic type. Suspicious.

“No,” she said. “It didn’t.” 

And if that wasn’t a trap, Bruce didn’t know what was. 

“What‘s your plan now?” Batman asked. 

She gave another humorless laugh. 

“Why do you care? What if I said I didn’t have one?” 

Her eyes skittered away from Batman’s mask, back to the vegetables.

“What if I said my plan has a lot to do with the gun in my closet?” 

She had not been like this when her father died. Bruce had never seen her like this. 

Robin poked his head out from the bedroom doorway a moment later, making a face at Bruce. Eyes wide under his mask with a little bit of incredulity. He clearly saw that Rachel was facing away from him, because he darted back under Bruce’s cloak. 

Hard metal slid into his glove as Robin put a gun in his hand, grip first. Beretta 9mm, standard.  He ran his fingers over it, handed it back to Robin, and made the hand sign for ‘disarm’ against Robin’s bare cheek. 

“Are you having suicidal thoughts?” He asked Rachel. He was aware that asking a suicidal person that question might be exposing and unpleasant, but he sensed that there was something else going on here.

Telling the Batman that you have a gun you’re planning on using is not the most effective way of keeping said gun. Rachel had to know that, Bruce knew she was smart. 

There were little movements near his hip as Robin stripped the bullets out of the chamber one by one, moving slowly so as not to make noise. 

Rachel had ignored his question, and was dumping cooked rice and a Tupperware of peppers and broccoli into the pan. She stirred again, leveling the stir fry out so it cooked evenly. Bruce made a note to check on the audio wire traps he had placed frequently later. Suicidal intent was not linear, if that was even what she meant.

Robin tucked the loose bullets into a pocket in Bruce’s pants. The empty magazine followed, and then the stock and barrel itself into a different pocket. 

“The convent is gone, moved to Cambodia. I’m not cut out for it anyway, no more than I’m cut out for the life of a socialite,” Rachel said eventually, after a couple minutes had passed with only the sound of food frying.

Back when marriage had still been on the table at all, that was what had caused Bruce to reluctantly agree to the engagement in the first place. Not that it had even gone far enough to be called an engagement. Rachel didn’t even know she was talking to her ex-fiancee right at that moment. 

‘Moved to Cambodia,’ she’d said. A lie, and Batman and Robin both knew it. Bludhaven’s Sisters of Mercy convent was still firmly in place, which had been clearly stated in Robin’s research for this case. 

Robin seemed to take that as his cue, crawling back out of the cape. He ignored Rachel’s horrified noise, sticking his toes between the top of Batman’s tool belt and the Kevlar beneath. A quick, twisting jump, and he was perched on one of Bruce’s shoulders.

“Lying’s illegal, you know, Miss Caspian.” He pulled a knee up, rested his chin on it.

She was staring at him, mouth open. 

“What— no it’s— who are you??”

“Robin.”

She turned her accusing glare on Batman. 

“What the hell?”

“This is Robin.”

Rachel seemed to decide all of a sudden that it was too much to handle. She turned the burner off, moved the pan to a different grate, and brushed past Batman, flicking on the bedroom light and slamming the door. Her glare cut off abruptly behind the wood.

Batman moved to lean his thigh against the counter, content to wait. The only window in that bedroom didn’t have a fire escape, and he doubted Rachel was going to risk that six story drop. If she really was that desperate, he wasn’t willing to confront her with Robin there anyway.

Robin hopped off of Bruce’s shoulder now that he had no other audience, skipping over to inspect the stir fry.

“Hey, B, do you think she’d let me try some if I asked?” He whispered.

Batman sent him a look that very clearly said don’t ask. 

He moved closer to Robin. 

“Report. Quietly.”

“Check your third pocket on the back right. Nothing else, except the blicky 3000.”

Bruce’s questing fingers made out a thumb drive in his pocket, one of his. Robin must have downloaded the information on her computer really quickly. He hadn’t noticed him slip it into his pocket either, he was improving. 

He brushed a hand over Robin’s hair in praise, pleased by the blinding smile he got in return. 

His other hand caught Robin by the wrist, stopping him from grabbing the spatula Rachel left in the stir fry. That smile was a little too hungry. He’d have to ask Alfred to increase Dick’s nutritional intake.

A couple minutes later, Rachel’s bedroom door opened again and she re-emerged, this time in sweatpants and a large hoodie. Bruce wondered if she had been cold. She put her hands on her hips and looked at Robin, who was sitting on the counter next to where Batman leaned, feet kicking gently. 

“How old are you, Robin?” She asked. 

Dick hesitated with a sharp little smile, and Bruce knew he was trying to figure out the lowest number he could get away with saying that she would believe, the fucker.

“He’s ten,” Batman said.

Dick was eleven. 

Close enough to be believable, and the difference was good for identity maintenance. 

Robin pouted over his stolen deception, but got over it a second later, leaning forward almost dangerously off the counter. 

“Why?” 

Rachel was just shaking her head, looking disturbed and upset. 

“You’ve got a ten year old kid tagging along while you beat up murderers and rapists, and you’re here threatening me to behave well?” Her voice was hard and scared. “Wait, is that even what you’re doing? You still haven’t said why you’re here.” 

Batman pushed off the counter, cloak spilling around him like oil. 

“I like to check in every now and then. I did ruin your life, after all.” 

It was a joke, but it also wasn’t. It was more real than she knew.

She almost snorted, he could tell.

“And I like to keep track of potential threats. You’ve been sending some concerning emails lately, no?”

There. She was as desperate as she’d get now, in the place in the apartment with the most potential weapons. She was standing frozen, face white, but he didn’t think she’d attack. 

Batman stepped half in front of Robin anyway, drawing to his full height.

Rachel swallowed hard. Her eyes turned up to the ceiling in an effort to blink away the glassiness in them. Her trembling, which had disappeared with her outrage over Robin’s appearance, picked up again. 

“I didn’t know what else to do. They brought my cousin’s body to the abbey, I couldn’t let anyone else die!” She said finally, quiet and fast and teary.

She was fairly sheltered up until her father’s death, Bruce knew, even at 26 years old. With her limited experience, Bruce acknowledged she had made several smart choices, withdrawing from the convent and living under the radar in the Bowery.

What she would’ve done if Batman wasn’t keeping track of her, Bruce didn’t know. 

Rachel’s breathing was picking up, and now he worried about a potential panic attack.

Robin seemed to be thinking along similar lines, vaulting himself off the counter with his arms and heels. Rachel jumped slightly, but he landed closer to the stove than to her, and he pointed at it hopefully. 

“May I try some, please?”

Bruce inhaled and exhaled manually so he didn’t sigh. 

“What did I say, Robin.”

“You didn’t say anything,” Robin emphasized with an impish grin. 

Rachel gave an incredulous laugh. 

“Yes, honey, help yourself. Why not.” 

Robin clearly accepted that as permission to hunt around on his tiptoes through her cabinets in search of a bowl, and then the drawers in search of a spoon. He climbed up on the counter to get the bowls, but he found the silverware on the first try. 

He pulled out two bowls and two spoons, filling one full and the other with just a couple bites. He put the pan back on the stove and stuck a spoon in each bowl. 

He turned around with a grin and was in front of Rachel in a flash, presenting her with the fuller bowl. When she accepted it mostly out of reflex, he darted back over to Batman, leaning into his side to eat his stir fry. 

It was getting weird, Bruce decided. They would leave when Robin was finished eating. 

The situation was stable for now, Batman would return in a day or two and move Rachel to a more secure location. It would give him time to figure out a waterproof plan for after that. Besides, he wanted to take Dick on a full patrol from the Upper East Side to the docks, and that would take at least four hours. It was already 10.

Rachel was eating almost mechanically. Her gaze was fixed on the two of them, white knuckling the spoon and bowl. 

“Don’t go to work tomorrow or the next day, put in your PTO.”

She chewed a bite, swallowed. 

“I don’t have much of that.” 

“You have enough for two days.” 

“Ok, and then what?”

Robin set his empty bowl on the counter behind him quietly. Batman clicked his tongue and Robin realized his mistake, grabbing his bowl and setting it quickly in the sink a few steps away. He lifted up onto his tiptoes to turn on the faucet, quickly rinsing his spoon and bowl. A small, green-gloved finger scrubbed at the spoon briefly, removing any potential DNA that might be left. He turned, skipping back towards Batman, and Bruce gave him a small tilt of his head in approval. 

Time to go. 

“I’ll be back in no longer than 72 hours,” Batman rasped. Small hands dug in several of the back pockets on his thighs. Robin retrieved Rachel’s magazine and bullets, sliding them quickly onto place. Another tug at a different pocket. 

"Thanks for the food Miss Caspian!" Dick chirped as he slipped back around to Bruce's front and the counter in front of them. 

He set the full clip on the tile, and then her gun next to it. 

Rachel stared at Robin for a moment, mouth open, before her eyes darted up to Batman's, red-rimmed blue meeting blank white screens. She was very pale.

He stepped back into the doorway to the living room, and Robin disappeared under the cape once more, around his other leg this time. 

“Don’t go to work," Batman growled.

“I— okay, yeah. Yeah.”

Rachel Caspian looked down at the gun laid out in two parts on her counter, and when she looked back up, Batman and Robin were gone. 

She dumped the rest of her stir fry into the Tupperware container the rice was in, appetite completely ruined.

Chapter Text

Bruce was breathless with it, the near-feral energy that overcame him when he was winning, bearing down on his opponent with ruthless determination, that blue and red fabric ripping, staining dark with blood. 

The alien was choking under him, flesh yielding for once as Bruce ripped into him, superhuman muscles unable to do more than thrash weakly beneath him. Black gloved fingers soaked in unusually dark blood forced under the alien’s ribcage, searching for the muscle of his heart, his other hand digging into the meta’s trachea. It felt wrong to see those eyes filled with tears and panic, red bubbling from his lips. 

It felt good. 

And then suddenly he couldn’t move his fingers, clawed brutally into Superman’s flesh. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t even blink. Why was he paralyzed? It wasn’t supposed to affect humans! 

The blue of the alien’s eyes turned a burning, violent red and Bruce was ripped off of him, slammed into the ground. There were cruel, bare fingers tearing through the skin and muscle of Bruce’s chest, pain lighting him up from the inside out. Brighter, arterial blood sprayed the alien’s symmetrical face, those sharp, perfectly straight teeth bared. 

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t—

Bruce awoke with a gasp and a violent jerk, fighting out of the black silk of his sheets and out onto the floor. He stumbled, disoriented and breathing hard in the cool, dark air of the bedroom. His sweatpants had rucked up around his calves, and sweat was drying cold on his chest and shoulders.

He ran a clammy hand through his hair, messily shoving it back. He was shaking, unsurprisingly. The digital clock on the mantle across the room read a steady, blinking 4:03. They’d only been back from patrol for an hour and a half.

His nightmares had taken on a different element lately, straying further from the grounded blood and brick of Gotham’s alleyways, loud gunshots and his mother’s horrified scream. No longer even the Riddler’s childish soprano pitch rising unbearably loudly in his ears as explosions wracked him, unable to do anything but watch as the sea flooded through the streets. 

Instead, his nightmares consisted of a red and yellow ‘S’ on a blue chest, burning red eyes and unshakable, unstoppable hands. They snatched Dick out of his arms with bone-cracking strength, those eyes burned through his city with a glance. In his most recent dreams, the green tinge of kryptonite did nothing to keep the alien at bay, paralyzing Bruce instead as his only contingency turned its back on him.

A sliver of warm light flooded the dark room as the heavy door behind Bruce opened a crack. 

“Bruce?” Dick was peering around the dark wood, blinking as his eyes tried to adjust. He slipped fully into the room through the crack. 

Bruce’s gut tightened painfully, fists clenching at his sides when he realized Dick was wearing those Superman pajamas Alfred had gotten for him last week. The fabric was thick and warm, good quality, which was the only reason why Bruce hadn’t thrown them out already. 

“Are you ok?” Dick asked, still blinking at Bruce. “I thought I heard something.” 

Bruce pulled himself together. 

“I’m okay, chum,” he whispered, slinking forward and squinting against the offensive brightness from the opulent hallway. “Why aren’t you in bed?” 

He pressed a hand against the wood, closing it almost completely so there was just the barest illumination casted over the little boy standing in front of him. 

Dick didn’t answer, instead raised his arms for Bruce to pick him up. Children were generally past that behavior by eleven years old, Bruce knew, but he didn’t really mind that Dick did it. God knew there were worse habits Dick could be picking up after such a turbulent period of his life. His mind flashed to the bloody mess of his own knuckles after his first few fights as a kid, in the years after his parents died. Before the calluses built up. 

Dick hadn’t gotten into any fights at school since that first one, to Bruce’s satisfaction. Having Robin as an outlet was working, despite Alfred’s warnings.

The constant contact Dick demanded through hugs and being held was a definite adjustment, but after a while Bruce found it fairly easy to just follow the kid’s lead, not usually initiating meaningless contact but allowing it freely when Dick indicated. Such trust was key to their burgeoning success as Batman and Robin in the field, and it came so effortlessly. Bruce had never experienced anything like it before.

He lifted the boy under his arms, hoisting him onto his hip. Moved back to the bed, leaning down a bit stiltedly to drag the fucked up sheets and comforter back onto the bed with one arm, the other banded around Dick to keep him from falling. Sufficiently repaired from Bruce’s thrashing, he tipped the kid onto the mattress.

Dick landed with a tiny giggle, worming his way under the comforter and wiggling to the middle of the huge California king. 

Bruce slipped silently to the side of the room, hidden in the dark, disappearing into the large walk-in closet. He was back barely two seconds later, pulling on a ratty old T-shirt and bending down briefly to fix the sweatpants around his shins.

Bruce slipped under the sheets again, stretching out on his stomach. He grunted when tiny, cold toes pressed into his side under the shirt. 

“Tell me,” he said, barely a murmur.

Dick remained silent for several minutes, long enough that Bruce was sure he had fallen asleep. Bruce kept his breathing steady and slow, trying not to let the residual fear and adrenaline seeping through his veins stain the air around him. Dick was so sensitive to the emotions of others, it was difficult to shield him from such things.

“I had a nightmare,” Dick said eventually, voice soft and sad. “You did too, huh?”

Bruce blinked in his direction. He could barely make out the boy’s features in the dim light, several feet away. He hummed.

“What was yours about?” Dick asked after a minute. “I’ll tell you what mine was about if you go first.”

Bruce tipped his face down, pressing his forehead into the pillow hard. Damnit. Well, he had to. He gathered his thoughts, deciding what exactly to divulge.

“I know you like Superman,” he started, low and hesitant, partially muffled by the fabric. He lifted his head off the pillow, supporting his upper body with his forearms. He narrowed in on Dick’s eyes in the dark, a little glint of shiny blue in the shadows.  

“But his abilities, the power he has…” Bruce trailed off, unsure how to properly articulate his fears. “I had a nightmare that the kryptonite didn’t work and he was hurting me.” 

Dick knew about the kryptonite, locked securely in a lead container in the terminal below the tower. 

Big eyes blinked, suddenly much closer as Dick tucked himself right next to him, cheek squished up against Bruce’s pillow.

“I thought you said Superman was friendly.” Dick said, pout audible. 

“He was,” Bruce replied grimly. Disconcertingly friendly, even, open and honest in a way that made Bruce clench his jaw hard enough to hurt. Either uncomfortably naive and optimistic, or faking. He couldn’t tell which, although he was leaning toward naivete.

Dick hummed, thoughtful. “I still wanna meet him. Please?”

Bruce huffed, a quiet puff of air. He lowered himself back down, trying to get more comfortable. Trying to relax, to put away the fear for later. 

“Maybe.” 

Probably unavoidable, at this point, no matter how much Bruce dreaded it. The alien was fucking insistent about this meta team idea, and Wonder Woman was much harder to reasonably say no to than Superman. Especially since Bruce knew for sure now that the Brazilian neurotoxin worked on Amazons. Bruce hadn’t even told Dick he’d talked to the princess yet, and he knew he was going to get an earful later for keeping it from him. 

A superhero team. Bruce felt trapped, almost. That wasn’t what he wanted to be, some sort of superhuman figure rising high above the rest of humanity. Yes, he had created the Batman to be vague and intimidating, a relentless force against crime, but not superior. He was just as human as the desperate, beaten criminals he put away every night.

He wasn’t any type of meta, hadn’t even known that sort of thing existed until that trafficking case a couple years ago. And even then, his interactions with metas were few and far between. That had certainly picked up in the last couple months, though, that was for sure. The impossibilities of it all weighed so heavily on Bruce’s mind, when he let himself think about it.

“What was your nightmare about?” Bruce whispered to Dick in the quiet. 

Dick shifted. “Do you think Mama and Papa would be mad at me for loving you?”

Bruce felt like he had been shot in the heart, a sharp little punch in the beating muscle.

“No,” he murmured after a pause. “Would they be mad at love?”

There was a quiet sniffle, and the next words came out wet. 

“No, but...” a cheek tucked into Bruce’s chest. “Even though I love you like I love them?”

Bruce felt helpless against his pain. He tried anyway, needing to fix even if the problem was unfixable. He slid an arm under Dick, shifting to cradle him closer against his front. 

“Even then,” he whispered. 

He hadn’t known John and Mary Grayson, but he knew they were good people. Far too good for the world they lived in and died in. He knew there was no way they’d be mad at their boy for having so much love in his heart that he couldn’t help but love Bruce like a father, even after only being in his custody for a year. 

Dick’s tears had slowed, limp in Bruce’s hold. Eventually, his breathing evened out and deepened. Bruce inhaled, exhaled, shifting minutely to stretch his legs out better.

Superman would wait. The kryptonite was a miraculous lead in an otherwise hopeless case. It would work. It had to work. Bruce couldn’t let a man with that sort of power unchecked around his Robin. 

Bruce drifted off to sleep with Dick’s warm weight against his chest, the soft light of dawn just barely filtering through the heavy drapes over the windows lining the wall of the towering bedroom.

Chapter Text

Dick got to meet Superman. 

As Robin, of course, and with a fresh new coat of lead paint and lining throughout his whole suit. Bruce had tried to line his little yellow cape with lead too, but that had made it far too heavy and it dulled the fabric enough that it no longer stood out in darkness anymore. 

That more than anything made Dick fussy with the leaded cape on, as keen on flashiness as the boy was. He’d had enough after approximately 24 hours where Dick was giving Bruce the silent treatment and one very bad patrol where Robin kept doing free-fall tricks with his grapple to try and prank Bruce into thinking the lead cape had made him plummet to his death. Bruce had gone to sleep with an incredibly sore jaw from how hard he had been gritting his teeth all night.

So the cape went back to its normal, bright yellow. Bruce trusted Dick to only draw attention when it was smart to do so, and taking away something so bright and pure from his ward made Bruce feel like the worst person on earth. The shower of hugs and kisses he got in return made it worth it, he thought.

It had taken them months to get to this point, where Batman trusted Superman enough to bring even the slightest hint of red and green around him. For three months he’d been ghosting in and out of this building, making the inconveniently long trip back and forth from Gotham and Metropolis, unraveling the idea of the Justice League until he reached it’s very core, the heart of its secrets. Turns out, despite all of his disbelief, it really was just a couple of super powered people who were trying to do something, make something that could elevate them to heights from which they could help as many people as possible. 

The sincerity there at the heart of the league made Batman feel like an interloper, guilty for his initial (and ongoing) suspicions about Superman and Wonder Woman. He’d officially accepted the invitation a month ago, realizing that while the League started with pure intentions, nothing stayed clean for very long and no one currently on the team was prepared to handle the wide variety of challenges they’d no doubt face due to their high profiles.

To be fair, Wonder Woman had done a good deal of the initial set up and was a very good ambassador for world governments, so Batman had been communicating much more with her than Superman, Green Lantern, or the Flash over the last couple months. 

Personally, Bruce found all of the heroes grating in their own ways, some more than others and he’d never been much of a team player. He was well aware that he himself was, in Alfred’s words, “a nightmare” to work with sometimes. But damn it, this team was a good idea, allies he could fall back on if any of his contingencies didn’t work, if something happened that he couldn’t handle alone. How many lives would have been saved if he’d had the League to call on when the Riddler blew up Gotham’s sea walls? When the Joker had taken that bus of children? He needed this Justice League and he hated that, but he needed them to be good, too. So his direct involvement was very necessary, even if the whole ‘team’ aspect made him want to crawl out of his skin.

Batman stood in the elevator of the Watchtower in Metropolis with Robin crouched down against his right leg under his cloak. He could feel clever little fingers skitter over his shin, gently tucking something down into his boot. Great. 

He felt somewhat stupid riding an elevator up to greet literal superheroes, but it’s not anything he hadn’t done before and he couldn’t exactly fly straight into the meeting room from the meta-friendly balcony like Superman and Wonder Woman do. 

At least the view was nice. Apparently window-backed elevators were common in Metropolis, he’d seen several here before. 

The watchtower offered an incredible view of the city, the sunset washing the rooftops in pure golden light as the fiery globe descended below the horizon. Gotham’s sunsets were rarely noteworthy, usually just a faint orange haze that lit the sky for however long it managed to struggle through the thick cover of clouds and smog. Here, every surface seemed to shine as though lit from within as well as from the last fleeting rays that glinted against metal and glass.

Batman could feel the elevator slowing as it reached the top of the building, and he looked down just once more, one last sweeping glance of dozens that ensured his suit was fully assembled and Robin was properly positioned, the duffel with sparring gear on the ground to his left.

He bent slightly, looping his hand around the straps of the bag and gently nudging the lump at his right knee.

“Up, Robin.”

The boy straightened mostly but didn’t duck out from under the material, just braced both feet on top of Batman’s boot and wrapped his arms around his waist, flattening himself as much as he could. He was almost too big to do that anymore, limbs long and boney despite the muscle packed on from training. It wasn’t that he wasn’t eating enough, he would eat just about anything you put in front of him. Alfred had assured him that Dick was just entering puberty, that Bruce had experienced the same thing when he was Dick’s age, where his limbs looked too spindly and he shot up in height like a rocket. Robin certainly had grown taller, the top of his head reached Batman’s ribs now.

Batman had been expecting Robin to be bouncing off the walls the moment they stepped inside the building, so the sudden resistance took him by surprise. Either Dick Grayson had just gotten shy or Robin had a little scheme cooking in his brain. One was much more likely than the other. 

Batman huffed gently. He adjusted his body mass accordingly, accounting for the duffel on his left side. 

The ground outside stopped getting further away, and the elevator slid to a halt with a soft ‘ding’. 

Batman turned and was facing the doors by the time they slid open. To his annoyance, the person waiting for him was neither Superman nor Wonder Woman. It was Hal fucking Jordan, eating a bowl of cereal, wearing pajamas and a very deer-in-the-headlights expression. 

Batman sighed, stepping forward out of the elevator. It closed behind him and he stopped, looking back at the Green Lantern who hadn’t stopped gawking at him with wide eyes. 

He cocked his head.

“We thought you weren’t gonna show!” The man eventually sputtered before saying “oh my fucking god, they’re gonna love this,” and darting away, practically pin-balling off the wall in his excited turn. 

Batman followed at a much more relaxed pace, treading as normally as possible with the extra weight on his right leg. 

He hadn’t actually attended a training day before, disliking the way the concept felt like forced socialization, like breaking ice with coworkers. They were all sufficiently trained, or had the abilities that it didn’t make a difference one way or another. Several pockets on his belt felt heavier at the thought and he brushed the thoughts to the back of his mind, focusing on where he was going. 

He had assumed they’d be in the gym, but he was proven wrong when they turned left instead of right at the end of the hallway. They came to a stop in an open doorway and were instantly greeted by a grinning Green Lantern and a frowning Superman. 

“See! Told you!” Lantern crowed.

Superman’s frown broke into a surprised smile, and Bruce resisted the urge to squint against the positivity radiating off of him. He felt a stirring of guilt for not coming to a training session before.

“Batman! We thought you wouldn’t be able to make it!” 

He followed sedately as Superman backed into the room, glancing up at Jordan as he passed. Did he live at the Watchtower? Why the fuck was he here, in pajamas, eating cereal at 11 pm? 

“I’m just gonna—,” the Lantern started and then with a glance at Batman, shrugged and practically scurried off. 

Nonplussed, Bruce turned back to Superman, noting the layout of the living room-like space. Two long couches stretched out before a drop down projector, with windows towering up the far wall. 

Wonder Woman was curled under a blanket on the farthest couch, completely out of uniform, in sweatpants and a big t-shirt. She smiled at Batman as he came in, her expression warmly surprised. 

“Hello, Batman.”

“Diana.”

She had told him her name and full identity the first time they met, not that he fully believed her at first. She’d proven herself quickly enough. Superman had not told Batman his identity. It didn’t matter, he’d figured it out within months of hearing about the flashy new meta running crime into the ground in Metropolis. It had only taken one fairly good image of Superman’s face and some facial recognition software he’d designed into the supercomputer. He couldn’t believe no one else had figured it out, he didn’t even try to conceal his features. But Clark Kent had never formally introduced himself to Batman, so he would keep that to himself until otherwise necessary.

Batman turned to Superman. 

“Isn’t today a training day?”

Superman only looked mildly sheepish.

“Well, yeah, but Flash didn’t show and we thought you were gonna be a no-show too, and there’s not much I can do to train. Diana trains all the time anyway, so.”

Batman was silent for a long moment, staring at these two people who he thought would be good influences on his ward. Who he was trying to impress good training habits upon currently. 

He released a deep sigh and felt Robin laugh silently into his side, still pressed around him like he was an octopus. He shifted his grip on the duffel in his left hand, bringing it up out of the shadow of his cape. 

“I’m here. Let’s train.”

Diana laughed and stood, blankets falling from her lap as she stretched, yawning. She looked incredibly human like this, Batman thought, if you didn’t look too closely. 

Superman didn’t seem put off by his brisk tone, smiling at him brightly and retreating back out of the room, leading Batman and Diana across the hall. 

Here was the gym. Unfinished still, a corner of the room was taped off with bare beams exposed, the smell of wood and painter’s tape strong in the air. He frowned. That was supposed to be done two weeks ago, last time he spoke to Wonder Woman. 

He turned to her with a raised brow, and she must have somehow gotten the gist of his expression from the lower half of his face because she smiled apologetically.

“I am sorry, but we’ve been leaving this room for last, since we haven’t had cause to use it recently.”

He resisted the urge to clench his jaw, frustrated. Something would have to change, headquarters-wise. This tower was too old, too insecure for this team. He’d have to think on that later. 

He turned, eyeing the available space in the gym. It was large, three stories with echoes bouncing off the hanging rings and training equipment clustered against the close wall away from the construction. There were several mats laid out on the floor, and a row of benches off to one side. He moved further into the room, set the duffel on the ground next to the mat. 

He turned to see that Diana had taken a seat on one of the benches, clearly content to just watch whatever they were going to do. He had no doubt of her training, he wasn’t worried about her . 

He turned his focus to the real source of his frustration, who was looking at him oddly. 

“Let’s spar,” he said. 

“Oh-okay, wait, really?” Superman sputtered, “Ok but first can I ask why- why do you have two heartbeats—?”

Bruce slipped deeper into the cloak, sealing the lead-lined fabric with a silent hand, just to fuck with Superman. He was sure the meta had heard Robin’s heartbeat, probably his breathing too, as the cape had slipped unfastened from in front of him, moving from the living area to the gym. It wasn’t like he was trying to keep Robin a secret, he wasn’t sure why the boy hadn’t introduced himself yet. 

Robin clearly heard him, because Batman was suddenly forced to shift his weight, leaning forward and planting his feet as Robin crawled straight up his back, ducking out from under the material only when he swung his legs over Batman’s shoulders. The leadened material slid back around him, a shield once more. 

“Hi! I’m Robin!”

Superman was staring at them, completely dumbfounded, mouth agape.  

Diana had stood the second Robin had started moving, approaching to stand closer to the two. 

“Hello, Robin,” she said warmly, smiling. “My name is Diana.” 

“You’re Wonder Woman!” 

Diana laughed. 

“Yes, but not right now,” she sat back down, on the closest bench this time, still regarding Robin with delight and amusement. She lowered her voice conspiratorially, cupping her hand so her whisper would carry theatrically “I needed a vacation.” 

Robin giggled, practically wiggling on Batman’s shoulders. He pulled one leg up, tucking his heel securely against the armor. 

“Hi Robin,” Superman finally managed to choke out, gaze going up and down really quickly from Robin to Batman’s face. 

“Where did he come from? Were you just carrying him around under there that whole time?” He was half laughing now, and Batman shifted awkwardly. 

He looked up to Robin for an explanation, but the boy just gave him an impish little grin and shrugged, using the foot he had planted to straighten. Bruce felt the brief increase of pressure as Robin put all of his body weight on that point, the armor distributing it across his shoulders and sending it down his spine. Robin’s other foot hovered near Batman’s head in a wordless request, and Batman lifted his arms obligingly, eyeing the set of bars and rings that he was sure was Robin’s target. He cupped his right hand with his left, Robin’s small foot settling, putting pressure as he tested his weight. 

There was a moment’s pause, where Robin coiled like a spring and Superman continued to watch with that stupid expression on his face, and then Batman shoved up with his shoulders, pushing the movement through his arms right as Robin launched himself into the air, easily catching the dangling rings. He quickly climbed hand over hand up the ring’s chain before reaching out and catching onto a nearby exposed rafter, draping himself over it like a big cat.

Okay, well that kept him nicely out of the way for the time being. 

Bruce brought his hands down, one going to his belt, and turned his attention back to Superman.

“Alright, let’s spar.”

-

Clark couldn’t believe it. 

Any of it, really, especially the entire child that Batman had somehow managed to sneak in under his cloak. The kid was dressed in reds and greens with bright yellow throughout, a domino-style mask disguising most of his features, even to Clark’s eyes. Lead-lined, he realized with a stab of sadness. The kid- Robin was up in the rafters now, stretching out and grinning down at them.

“Alright, let’s spar,” Batman broke the stunned silence with indifferent ease.

“Really?” He repeated, incredulous and still half distracted. Guess he’d ask questions later. “Because no offense, but—“

Tall, pointed ears tipped sideways, cutting him off. A gloved hand came up to his belt, slipping into a pocket that opened with a small vertical zipper. 

“One condition, you have to wear this,” Batman held out a chain, looked like silver, with a tiny, glowing green pendant on the end.

Clark stumbled, both in recognition and in discomfort as his world shrunk in an instant from an overwhelming sphere of noise and smells and scents to a smaller globe, encompassing most of the building. He couldn’t hear anything outside the building anymore, his range greatly limited, and when he tried to use his x-ray vision it was fuzzy and difficult to access, like a forgotten word on the tip of your tongue. 

He took a big step back, heart racing. That was Kryptonite. Batman had Kryptonite. 

That compartment in his belt must be extremely heavy with thick lead walls, for Clark not to have felt it already.

“Where did you get that?

“Lex Luthor.”

“Lex Luthor? You’ve been talking to Lex Luthor? ” Clark drew back with visible hurt on his face, betrayed.

Diana shifted slightly too, on the bench behind him. The tiny green pendant seemed even more ominous now; sentient, almost, dangling from Batman’s gloved fist.

“I have not been talking to Lex Luthor.”

“Yeah!” Robin piped up from up in the rafters. “He stole that!”

What?

“What the fu— freak?” Clark exclaimed, incredulous, casting an awkward upward glance at the kid. “Why couldn’t you have done that years ago?”

“I didn’t you existed until 18 months ago, Superman. And my focus has always been on Gotham, not some overpowered meta in Metropolis.”

Well, damn. Clark couldn’t help the frown that was stuck on his face. Probably true, but did he have to be so rude about it?

He hesitantly reached forward, taking the chain from Batman’s hand. The pendant swung closer to him, and the muffling sensation increased, until he could barely hear Diana’s heartbeat, just a dozen feet away.

He felt stifled, repressed, but he noticed that the nausea and pain that usually came with Lex Luthor’s Kryptonite wasn’t present, he didn’t feel like he was about to pass out. 

“And you want me to fight you with this thing on?” Clark asked nervously.

“What’s your range right now?” Batman asked clinically, ignoring his question. “How far can you hear and see?”

“Uhh… I can hear.. Robin’s heartbeat if I strain,” Clark answered honestly, distracted. He shifted on his feet, feeling out the reduced strength. “Feel weak, not nauseous yet though.” 

“Strength?” Batman questioned, sharp. “Compared to human baseline.” 

“Uh…” how was he supposed to know that? The last time he had felt close to a normal human was when he was a child. “Close, yeah.”

Stronger, actually, he realized as he tested his weight on the balls of his feet. He wasn’t quite sure by how much, though. He felt bad about lying to Batman, he also didn’t want to be fully vulnerable around the prickly hero, no matter how badly they needed him on the League. 

The bat vigilante had agreed to join the team simply out of nowhere after months of asking, receiving no answer or very cryptic and threatening responses. It would’ve probably been way easier for Clark to fly over to Gotham and simply sniff Batman out and then figure out who he was, but Clark wanted to work with the guy, gain his trust, not fight with him. 

He had finally made the trip out of desperation, but just as Clark Kent, reporter of the Daily Planet. Working on a story about public opinion regarding the bat vigilante throughout the course of his… career? Is that what you would call that? Regardless, it was an interesting cover story, but it really was just a cover story. 

He had stayed in an old hotel on Theater Row that he was 95% sure was haunted and spent most of his time out exploring, asking people what they thought of their local vigilante. The responses he got were unsurprisingly hostile, wary of him, defensive. But despite their distrust for press, or Metropolis, or optimists with big smiles, whatever it was that made them clam up around Clark, most of them couldn’t help but praise the Batman. 

There was a general sentiment of “no one else is doing it, and he’s doing it” combined with a fierce sort of admiration. 

During the night he was there he stood on top of the Clocktower, a beautiful, impressive old building, fully outfitted as Superman, and waited.

It surprised the hell out of him when Batman one; showed up, and two; basically accepted the invitation to the League and then told him to get out and never come back.

He’d seen him a handful of times since, enough to get the sense that the guy was kind of just like that, it wasn’t necessarily a personal thing. Batman seemed kind of angry at everything all the time apparently.

Anyway, no way could he trust him one hundred percent, especially now that Batman had revealed himself to be terrifying and kind of an asshole. Most of the others had been very open and welcoming towards the man, and they had received only vitriol and paranoia in response. But more importantly, they received structure almost immediately.

He slid the chain over his neck, the pendant settling against his chest, over his uniform. He could feel it through the material of his suit, icy-cold and burning all at once. Not quite painful, but he did not want to touch the thing with his bare skin. 

He turned his attention back up to Batman, nearly jumping when he was not where he had been just a half second ago. Clark turned, finding the man lazily circling Clark on the mat, a slow, gliding arc. His cloak swayed around his ankles with each step, head staying fixedly on Clark despite his body’s movement. 

“Does it hurt?” The question was uncomfortably layered, for how simple it was. There was a distortion to it too, an unearthly hiss that Clark distantly realized was probably his voice mod, working on Clark’s overpowered ears for the first time. The white holes where Batman’s eyes were bored into Clark’s. He felt decently hunted, at this point, weak from the kryptonite. Jesus, no wonder Gotham’s criminals were scared shitless.

“Uh,” Clark said distractedly, trying to concentrate on the pendant instead of Batman. “No. Uncomfortable though, feels really hot and really cold at the same time. Hey, are you gonna fight me when I’m human level with—“ Clark gestured at Batman’s overall presence. “All that?”

A quiet scoff, and Batman turned his back on Clark, stepping off the mat casually. 

“Human level,” Batman mockingly hissed under his breath, low enough that an actual human probably shouldn’t have been able to make it out. He crouched over the duffel he had brought, and Clark exchanged wide eyed gazes with Diana over his bowed head and shoulders. 

Although Clark’s had a lot more fear in them and Diana’s had a lot more amusement. 

“Yes!” Came a sudden gleeful shout from above, stealing his attention. 

Robin had migrated all the way to the other side of the ceiling and was crouched on a piece of scaffolding where the wall wasn’t fully finished. “B, I thought you were joking! You’re actually gonna?”

Batman didn’t answer, and his large frame had curled further into his cape, head bowing and his gloved hands coming up. The smooth quick movements drew Clark’s eyes back down to the man, and he couldn’t help the way his jaw dropped. 

Batman had taken off his cowl. He’d replaced it in the time that Clark and Diana were looking  up at Robin with what looked to be a simple black balaclava. His hands came back up, deftly unclipping and unbuckling at his shoulders and back. His cape fell to the floor, dropping like a stone and pooling like oil. Clark wondered what it was made of, besides lead. Just leather? Seemed too slick.

He straightened, standing fully. He was facing Diana like this, mostly, hands never still as they unbuckled his chest plate and pauldrons, dropping them on top of his cape. He kicked something, barely, and Clark’s eyes darted down to discover he had taken his boots off, now in basic black socks. 

Robin giggled from up above.

Clark was startled to see bright green leaves scattered across the ground and the black leather boot. 

Batman just gave a barely audible sigh, ignoring the leaves, and continued like that until the top of his body was more or less stripped of armor except for two thin black leather guards on his forearms. His undershirt was padded against the metal in some places; in other places Clark could almost see the pulse of his veins through the thin material. 

No, he definitely could, if he concentrated. The undershirt wasn’t lined with lead. He tested what remained of his blurred vision, just barely, on the balaclava. Nothing, there was lead in it, then. Not that much trust on Batman’s part yet either, apparently, although he wasn’t shy in displaying that anyway.

But now Batman was turning to face him, eyes locking like a snake, having discarded the last of his armor, the braces on his legs. His gloves were still on. He looked military, almost, with the balaclava. 

Clark felt like he was intruding, caught red-handed, by witnessing Batman here like this, even though he was still almost fully covered and he had stripped off his suit entirely of his own accord. 

A thin line of paper-white skin at the base of Batman’s throat between his undershirt and the balaclava was the only thing he had revealed by taking his suit off, even the skin around his eyes and the bridge of his nose was  still shaded with greasepaint. It had run a bit, where the cowl had rubbed, faded, but had held up decently. 

Well enough that Batman’s eyes were the only thing that stood out from all that black, shockingly normal in appearance. Clark didn’t know what he had been expecting, black maybe, foolishly, but they seemed like normal human eyes, a startling bluish gray but dark, pupils expanded. Low, angry, even though Clark hadn’t even had a chance to do anything yet. He couldn’t help the stab of hurt that jolted him when their eyes met, looking away immediately.

Although bulky, Batman was slightly less muscular than Clark had assumed, although he guessed he should’ve expected that given how damn strong that armor was. He had to be built to carry that like it was nothing though,  and he had the type of frame one got from unrelenting exercise. Purposefully sculpted muscles born from resolute, hard training, and he was also quite tall, with broad shoulders and quads. 

Clark suddenly wondered if he had overestimated Batman’s age. He looked like he was still fully filling out his frame, early thirties, maybe. Packing it with as much muscle as humanly possible, clearly. That didn’t make sense though, because how the fuck was Batman so sure of himself, so experienced, if he wasn’t all that much older than Clark?

Batman stepped back onto the mat and didn’t stop moving, no less graceful than before, circling Clark again. Startlingly white sclera stood out from the greasepaint, his gaze low and suspicious as he watched for even the minutest of Clark’s responses. 

Clark had felt out of his depth for a very long time, but this was certainly a new low. 

-

Batman completed a full circuit around Superman, watching him closely, solidifying the feeling of moving without his suit. 

He felt free, unprotected. Vulnerable, though, especially since he knew Superman was still much stronger than he was, even with the kryptonite. It was exhilarating, the thrill rushing through his blood at the thought of fighting this threat, this opponent who was better than him.

He was far from a stranger from sparring with other highly trained individuals, but he’d never faced this before. 

A challenge. Fighting like this, with no gear, no weapons, just bare fists and grappling was intensely gratifying in a testosterone-heavy kind of way, the kind that he needed to test both his and Superman’s limits. He could lose, easily, but he wanted to at least get a handful of hits in.

And psychologically, the alien scared the shit out of him. He wanted to fight him. 

Superman didn’t seem like he knew what to do, standing there in the middle of Batman’s lazy circle so he jabbed a quick heel out, aiming for the back of his knee. Superman dodged, barely, lifting his leg up and stumbling a couple steps away, blue eyes big with surprise. 

“Well?” Batman asked, low and unyielding, the gravel in his tone cutting through the air. “Are you going to fight me or just stand there?”

Frustration— there it was— sparked in the alien’s eyes, and he scowled, readjusted his stance into a very sloppy fighting position. He was eyeing Batman differently now, finally seeking out weaknesses like an opponent rather than observing him curiously like a goddamn kindergartner. 

He clearly discovered that he had the ultimate advantage in size because he lunged, quick and sudden, trying to take Batman to the floor in a grapple. He was disorganized and sloppy but still fast, damn it. Batman managed to mostly dodge, but Superman’s shoulder clipped him heavily in the  jaw and mouth. 

He spun with the hit as the alien stumbled without the expected collision, both regaining balance. 

Robin whooped from up above. 

Batman took two quick steps to the side, reassessing the situation as Superman blinked, bewildered for some reason, and shifted into a slightly more correct defensive position. Huge fists faltered slightly, and his eyes shifted down to Batman’s chest, bright blue filling with a bit of horror. 

Refusing to look away from the meta, Bruce brought a quick hand up, seeking out whatever had caught his attention, his fingers met the neckline of his undershirt, skin, and… Oh. His fingers came away wet and scarlet. 

He was bleeding from the nose and mouth. Superficial, cut lip and broken blood vessels in his nose. Didn’t feel broken. That’s what was causing all the blood that kept dripping down his throat and chin. 

He looked up at Superman, eyes low, angry. What, had the meta never seen blood before? Impossible.

There was a shocked, almost hurt look in the meta’s eyes considering he was the one who had charged Batman as he rubbed his shoulder. He was watching Bruce with a hell of a lot more wariness now, rather than the confused determination from before.

“Human level? ” Batman hissed, pointedly accusatory this time as he called out the meta’s lie.

“Nearly,” Superman said. 

Batman scoffed again, kicking out again, harder, at the meta’s knee, lightning fast. Superman dodged it again just like Bruce predicted he would, flinching back, and Bruce used the feint’s momentum to swing with his left fist, wound up beside his body away from Superman’s view. He slammed his knuckles straight into the meta’s face, still distracted from the feint. 

He felt the impact up his arm, rattling the bones in his knuckles and arm, traveling up to his shoulder. Superman’s head snapped back and there was an audible cracking noise from somewhere in his jaw. He took a step back and Batman pressed his advantage, stepping close and following up with a sharp jab to the solar plexus that Superman tried and failed to block. The meta choked as the breath was forced out of his lungs, instinctively swinging a haymaker as Batman hooked a heel around the back of his knee and yanked.

He danced backwards as Superman hit the mat hard, the alien’s wild swing connecting in a low, glancing blow into Bruce’s gut. He resisted the urge to grunt. Definitely not human baseline strength. 

Superman laid flat on his back, stunned, blinking up at Batman. 

Robin started clapping and the little crows and gasps he’d been actively commentating with turned to full laughter, childish giggles raining down on them from above. Diana joined in the applause after a moment with equally bright laughter.

“Did you ever learn to fight at all? ” Batman asked incredulously.

“Yes!” The meta exclaimed indignantly, before wide eyes turned sheepish. “Well, kind of. Hard to learn properly when you can crush pure steel with two fingers.”

Bruce granted him that, but he was still surprised that Superman hadn’t found another way to negate his powers. Probably scared him, being so defenseless, comparatively. Speaking of which, sparring like this— if he was supposed to teach Superman how to fight— wouldn’t work unless they were both at the same baseline level. He’d add a couple slivers of kryptonite to the pendant, then, and they’d retry, until Superman was somewhat proficient in hand to hand. Wonder Woman could possibly help with that too. 

He stepped back off the mat, kneeling next to the duffel and reattaching his armor with steady fingers.

“Is that it?” Superman asked from the mat, where he had sat up, a confused look on his face. He was still wearing the pendant, surprisingly. 

“I need to increase the pendant’s strength so you’re actually at a human baseline level. Then we’ll train.”

-

“Oh,” Clark said, slightly disappointed. He wasn’t sure why. The pendant, while not painful, was still unpleasantly stifling, and the thought of increasing its strength made him twitchy. 

“The pendant, please.” It wasn’t a request, but it wasn’t as grating as it could’ve been. Clark gladly took the necklace off, watching the tiny green stone glow as it was encapsulated by Batman’s dark glove. It went back into that pocket with the vertical zipper on his belt.

Clark worked his jaw, overwhelmed by the influx of noise and other senses.

“Robin,” Batman called, startlingly loud in his ears, but quite low in reality, tilting his head to look up into the rafters. 

Clark’s disappointment gained another dimension at the thought of them leaving, and he didn’t quite understand it. 

“You’re leaving already?” He asked, and no, he was not pouting. 

“Hey, that's my line,” Robin dropped down out of nowhere, dramatically collapsing in a little pile of traffic light colors. “Kinda."  

He turned to Batman expectantly. "We’re leaving already? See, that's my line,” he said sideways to Clark.

He looked up once again. “Well?” 

Batman, who had once again changed masks while they were distracted with Robin, finished clipping his cloak to his shoulders, packing the balaclava back into the duffel. Clark couldn’t see what else was in there and he felt uncomfortable using his x-ray vision for that. It felt too invasive, too personal. Same reason he didn’t just hunt Batman down and find him as a civilian.

There was drying blood all over the vigilante's chin and jaw from a split lip, and Clark shifted his weight uncomfortably, half guilty for being the cause of the injury and half proud of the evidence that he wasn't quite as useless as the bat was acting like he was. He was glad the injury was superficial though, seeing that blood earlier had been jarring and unpleasant.

“Robin,” the bat vigilante murmured, bending and hoisting Robin off the floor, depositing him upright with his feet under him. 

“Okay, okay,” the kid muttered. He turned and climbed right back onto Batman’s shoulders. Batman somehow precisely conveyed his exasperation through the mask, sighing and bending at the knee to pick up the bag. 

Clark snorted, he couldn’t help it, and he only felt mildly guilty about the annoyed glance he got in return as they left the gym, heading back through the halls towards the entrances. They paused when they reached the elevator. Clark felt awkward, all of a sudden, instead of just confused.

“It was lovely to see you, Batman, and to meet you Robin,” Diana said, smiling at each of them. 

“It was nice to meet you too!! Hey, can we be friends? It would be so cool to be friends with Wonder Woman,” Robin said seriously.

“Of course, Robin,” the princess granted, matching his seriousness. “We are already friends, any friend of Batman is a friend of mine.”

“Awesome!” Robin exclaimed, kicking his feet excitedly under Batman’s arms. “How about you, Superman? Can we be friends?” 

Clark was suddenly at the center of all of that energy, that attention, and he blinked, off-kilter yet again. He didn’t think he was ever on-kilter anymore, if that ever existed in the first place. 

“Yeah, buddy, we can be friends,” he said, smiling up at the boy on Batman’s shoulders. He smiled back, sweet and sharp and toothy. 

The elevator dinged. The doors opened and Robin unhooked his legs from Batman’s arms, slipping down his back and landing lightly on his feet. They entered the elevator, and Batman reached for the board of buttons, but Robin beat him to it, happily tapping away at the panel. 

Clark put a hand over his mouth to try and hide his laugh when he realized the kid was pressing every button he could, meaning lots of stops on the way down. 

The doors started to close, and the last thing they heard was, “Robin, don’t— don’t do that. Hey,” before the doors slid shut fully and the elevator started its descent, carrying Batman and his— son? Clark still had no idea— back down to ground level. One floor at a time. 

He turned to Diana, speechless. She took one look at his face and burst out laughing. 

Chapter Text

Sadie had grown up in Gotham, had heard her whole life how dangerous and crime-riddled the city was. She’d seen it herself, mostly from afar, of course, remembered watching the bombing of the downtown seawalls when she was five, just tall enough to stand on her tiptoes and look through the tall window in her father’s cluttered, cozy office. 

There was always something shocking and tragic on the news, echoing in the brownstone apartment’s living room, the TV’s light playing over dark surfaces like sunlight through water, a rainbow of mottled illumination. She often felt like a creature in an aquarium when she was all alone at home with the TV on, stuck somewhere in a surreal halfway place. Somewhere in the planes between where everyone else existed and where no one existed at all. A dreamscape, like what they were supposed to be painting in art class.

The nights where both her parents were working had turned into almost every night this past month. Their rent went up a couple months ago, mom had said, and her father had started doing double shifts at the hospital. Her mother had started flying out again for business and law meetings. Sadie had vehemently denied the need for a babysitter, despite her mother’s clear concern. After all, eleven years old was definitely old enough to stay home by herself, most of her friends did it, and besides she’d done it plenty of times during the day when she’d had to take the bus home from school, when her parents couldn’t make it to pick her up. That had become an everyday thing this last week, with her mother away in New York City for half the month.

Regardless, her parents were gone for the night again, Sadie was all alone, and there was a weird feeling in her stomach. She couldn’t sleep again. She’d been staying up later and later each night, even if she tried to go to bed earlier. Like each night set her internal clock back another hour that she would have to suffer the next night. She wondered if she should bring up her sleeping issues to her dad. He was a doctor after all, and he would know how to fix her. But he had so much to worry about right now, and she barely saw him anymore anyway. 

She had tried to calm herself down by double and triple checking the locks before she went to bed, shutting all the blinds tight when the dim Gotham sunset faded into twilight, but something still felt wrong. She tossed and turned in her silky blue, bunny-patterned sheets, trying desperately to find a comfortable spot.

By 11:54 Sadie was on the verge of tears. Any sleepiness she had felt earlier had dissipated, leaving just her racing thoughts to distract her from the scratchy feeling of her normally-soft sheets, the itchiness of her hair sticking to the back of her neck. She sat upright, all of a sudden unable to bear it any longer, blankets falling down to her lap. She slid out of bed and stood, deciding to get a glass of water and walk around for a little while and then try again. 

She shivered slightly as she stepped into the hallway, descending the tile steps into the living area again, cold seeping through the material of her socks. The TV was playing old cartoon reruns now, dramatic crashes, laughter, and yelling spilling out into the rest of the home. It was much more muted in the kitchen, Sadie noted with relief as she approached the dark sink. She liked the background noise though, when she was home alone at night.

Bang. 

The house shook gently, pictures rattling in their frames on the walls. 

Sadie froze for a moment, waiting for another explosion. That one had been far enough away that she wasn’t hyperventilating just yet, but more than one explosion in Gotham usually meant a rogue attack. And while it was far enough away, it also sounded closer than she’d like.

Thankfully the minutes ticked by loudly, and it was only when the grandfather clock in the entryway began to dong for midnight did she jolt back into herself and shake off whatever that first bang had been. She couldn’t hear anything else, at least. She should go text her mom about that, though, that sounded pretty close.

Sadie found a glass by the light from the flickering screen in the living room and filled it. She drained the cup by the time the 12th dong rang out and then refilled it, heading back out of the kitchen and up the stairs again, the cartoonish sounds from the TV fading into obscurity as she entered her bedroom once again. 

She was just about to push the door all the way closed and lock it when she suddenly heard something. A small scraping sound, outside her window. 

She froze again, but this time it felt like ice was shooting through her veins. Her drapes blocked all of the streetlight from outside, she couldn’t see a single thing beyond the folded blue fabric, but that had really, really sounded like the creak of the fire escape outside her window. The noise came again, louder, and Sadie crept forward on silent feet, glass of water forgotten in her hand despite the white knuckle grip she had on it. 

It was probably nothing, she reasoned, a stray cat if anything. She should definitely, one hundred percent not peek outside, should walk her butt straight back to bed and hope no more noises come, but now she was curious. What if it really was a stray cat? What if it was injured? Her mom was allergic to cats, but her mom would be gone for another week at least, surely if there was an injured cat outside she wouldn’t mind Sadie bringing it in just for the night, just to get it better, right? She recalled with sudden clarity the scrawny little gray kitten that had been hanging out on the sidewalk outside for a couple days, and her worry increased tenfold. It really had been pretty skinny. 

She moved forward a bit more confidently now,  slipping across the room and pushing back the blinds just enough to peek out. 

The glass of water dropped from her hand, the sudden shattering of glass intertwining with the sharp scream she let out.

Right outside, literally inches from her on the other side of the glass was an upside-down face, split nearly in half with a wide grin and glowing white eyes. Dark wings draped from shadowed shoulders, trailing down with gravity towards the metal of the escape.

She stumbled back, losing hold of the curtains and her footing on the wet hardwood. Glass cut through her socks as she slipped, and she cried out, palms screaming with agony as she fell back on fresh shards. 

Distantly, through the pain and fear, she heard an “oh shit” outside the window, and then there was a soft click as her window unlocked , creaking open. Fresh fear coursed through her and she scrambled backwards, barely even feeling the glass anymore. 

She watched with wide, terrified eyes as the blue drapes fluttered with a gust of wind, then were swept to one side. She stared, frozen and terrified, at the…boy? (He was older than her, that was for sure, but probably just by a couple years, she thought) crouched on her windowsill, backlit by the orange haze from the streetlight down below. 

Ohmygod, her brain supplied, that’s Robin. 

Her friends were going to absolutely freak out when she tells them about this. 

Red and green armor, black and yellow cape that mantled him like actual wings, a black mask covering part of his face. His eyes had white screens over them. Somehow his concerned expression was visible through the mask, brows furrowed and mouth pouting. 

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you that bad,” Robin said, scratching the back of his neck with a green gloved hand, the other gesturing urgently down at Sadie. His expression was so earnest, Sadie couldn’t help but believe him. He somehow still managed to balance effortlessly in a squat on the inch-wide ledge.

“Are you hurt bad? I heard something break.” he hopped down from his crouch, landing delicately between shards of glass. He tilted his head to the side, “Hey, B, I’ll be right back.” His finger came up to his ear and flicked something. 

He grimaced a little bit as he examined the scene in front of him.

“Oh shoot, you dropped a glass of water, huh. Sorry. And you’re cut all over. Damnit. I mean, dang it.”  

She almost giggled at that, hysterical maybe. 

His gaze flickered back to the window, and suddenly Sadie’s paralysis lifted all at once. The sharp pain in her feet and palms came roaring back, and she hissed as she sat up further, still staring awe-struck at the near myth in front of her. 

“I’m Robin,” Robin continued, that sharp grin briefly rekindling as he stepped forward, palms up non-threateningly. “What’s your name? Can I take a look at where you’re hurt? Also I have a question but it can wait. I think,” he rattled off, the last two words barely audible, crouching slowly in front of Sadie despite the speed of his words. 

“Ummm,” Sadie’s mouth finally began working again, albeit not well. “…I’m Sadie. You’re Robin? You’re Robin. I’m— yes you can take a look— but what— why were you hanging upside down right outside my window? You scared me!” Her voice went embarrassingly high at the end.

“Well I was gonna break in, I’m not going to lie to you, but I really wasn’t expecting you to peep out at me so this is actually much more handy. I was breaking in to see if you guys have any triple A batteries.”

Sadie stared at him some more, mouth agape. She struggled to get her brain back on its rails.

“I thought Batman saved people from home intruders, I didn’t think he was the one to break in.”

“Do I look like Batman to you?” Robin asked playfully, masked face full of mock offense, as he lifted Sadie’s right ankle gently, then her left, peeling off her bloody socks. He frowned at the cuts, inspecting the soles of both of her feet before shifting forward on the hardwood, brushing glass aside with his gloved hand. He reached forward, palm up, and after moment Sadie realized he wanted to look at the cuts in her hands. She hesitantly steadied herself, shifting forward and putting her right hand in his because it hurt more than her left. 

“Ouchie,” Robin pouted, bringing her bloody hand close to his eyes and twisting to look all over her hand. He gently let go and gestured for her other one. The same thing happened with that one, Sadie hissing again when the cuts stretched. Robin made an unhappy noise and before she knew it he had gracefully risen to his feet and was scooping her off the ground. 

She gasped, eyes even wider than before, if that was possible, clutching in panic at Robin’s cape and shoulders before the shooting pain in her hands made her yelp and let go. Robin giggled, hoisting her up and across the room, boots crunching in glass as he stepped through the mess. He deposited her on top of her mangled blankets, taking a step back and regarding her with a thoughtful frown. She felt a fiery blush overtake the white shock on her face, brain finally catching up to the last few minutes. Robin was really handsome, she was noticing. His smooth black curls looked straight out of a movie, and his features were really very sharp. 

The frown intensified when his head cocked to the side, hand coming up idly to his ear. 

“Yes , B, I copy, just ran into a… an interruption. Gimme like two minutes, I’ll be right back, promise.” 

Turning his attention back to Sadie, away from the actual freaking Batman, he asked “does it hurt really bad? Because I can patch you up and everything but I really have to ask, do you have any triple A batteries? Batman is gonna start crawling up my ass.”

Sadie decided all at once that this was the most exciting thing to ever happen to her. 

“They’re— no, they’re ok. Kind of. We have batteries, but they’re downstairs. I could show you, but…” she trailed off, looking at her still-bleeding feet. 

Robin’s face split into that massive grin again, the one that had startled Sadie so badly just minutes earlier. He turned around and dropped onto one padded green knee, turning that grin back around over his shoulder. 

“Hop on!”

Why not? Sadie wondered, half-delirious. She shimmied forward, wrapping her arms around Robin’s neck and trying her best to hold on with her legs without hurting her feet. Robin seemed to notice her hesitation, because as he rose to his feet and headed out into the dark hallway he gently tugged under her knees, supporting her weight and moving her more comfortably against his back. The fabric of his cape was smooth, slicker than she had expected.

“Anyone else home?” Robin whispered, not sounding particularly stressed about the answer. 

“No, my parents are working. Why do you need triple A batteries?” Sadie finally had the sense to ask as they descended the stairs. 

“Because Batman forgot his,” Robin explained, like that made sense. 

“Does he normally carry them around?” Sadie asked. 

“Nope! That’s my job usually,” Robin responded cheerfully. Sadie frowned. 

“Doesn’t that mean you’re the one who forgot them?” She found the voice to tease, trailing off as she realized that Robin, despite managing to go from terrifying to trustworthy in mere moments, was actually still very intimidating. But he just giggled once more and took the last two steps at a skip. 

“Maybe. Ok, where to?”

Oh yeah, batteries. 

“Kitchen, through the doorway over there,” Sadie directed, pointing and wincing when the movement made her cuts strain. When they entered the kitchen Sadie pointed him to the drawer her family kept batteries in. 

“Holy junk drawer, Batman,” Robin muttered, letting go of one of Sadie’s legs and leaning over the drawer as he rifled through the admittedly disastrous catch-all drawer. Eventually he managed to pluck out however many AAA batteries he needed, tucking them into a pouch on his belt. 

“Perfect!” Robin exclaimed. “Just enough. Sorry we cleaned you out, I don’t think there’s any more left. It’s possible though, it’s like an I Spy book in there.”

“It’s fine,” Sadie giggled, grateful when Robin’s hand came back up to support her right leg. He moved out of the kitchen and back up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He jogged down the hallway to Sadie’s room, pushing the ajar door fully open. Twisting at the core, he switched his grip on her right leg to his left hand and gripped Sadie’s upper arm instead. He leveraged her off of his back in one smooth motion and she landed back on the messy sheets. She felt the flush from before rekindling.

Robin turned around in a flash and fixed Sadie with a look that somehow managed to convey his seriousness through his mask. 

“I’ll be back in ten minutes, okay? Don’t move.” He pointed a finger at her threateningly. 

Suddenly Sadie felt like she was about to cry again. 

“You’re leaving?” She asked, half panicked and half dismayed.

“No longer than ten minutes, I gotta go give this to Batman,” Robin soothed, patting his belt where he’d tucked the batteries. “I’ll be back.”

Sadie knew it was immature, that she was making herself seem like even more of an incompetent kid, but she couldn’t stop her lip from trembling just slightly, the stinging in her hands and feet seeming to double. 

“Promise?” She asked, looking up at Robin through watery eyes.

He smiled again, not wicked or mischievous this time, but genuinely sweet. 

“Promise.”

And then he was crossing the room, opening Sadie’s blue curtains while tiptoeing around the glass on the floor. He vaulted over the open windowsill, landing with a small creak on the fire escape outside.

And then he was gone.

Seven minutes later, her curtains fluttered again, the open window sending occasional chilly gusts through her room. She squinted out the window, hoping Robin was back. Without any distractions the cuts were really starting to hurt bad and Sadie couldn’t look at the blood coating her palms and feet for very long without feeling dizzy. She wondered if she should lay down. 

The streetlight’s glow disappeared from her bedroom, and Sadie’s head whipped back up. 

She froze. Something was blocking all of her window, like an inky black void. 

That was not Robin. The fear from before returned almost instantly, lying thick in her throat. 

A muffled, familiar voice reached her ears, out from beyond the void. She couldn’t tell what Robin was saying, but that was definitely him. The fear lessened, slightly. And then the void was spilling into her room, a massive shadow materializing from a phantom to a man right in front of her eyes. 

She blinked, mouth open yet again as she stared at the Batman, standing next to her window, her blue curtains. His head tilted as he scanned her and then the room before looking down as his boot crunched a bit of the glass still on the floor. His cloak swung in heavy circles around his ankles, like liquid lead with raggedy edges.

“See!” Robin exclaimed, the streetlight cutting out briefly once again as he launched himself through the window behind Batman. 

“She’s okay, mostly! Right, Sadie?”

Sadie barely had time to close her mouth and open it again to even try and respond when suddenly Robin was right in front of her again, face set in clear worry. He flicked on the lamp next to her bed and crouched in front of her, dumping a handful of things onto the blanket next to Sadie. She recognized bandaids and ointment, at least, but there were a couple of small packets and a roll of something that she couldn’t name.

She felt Batman’s presence grow more than she really heard him come closer and her head snapped up, away from Robin. The man stopped when her gaze landed on him, white eyes boring into her own. 

“Relax, B, she’s fine. You’re freaking her out,” Robin said without even lifting his head, focused on her right hand. He had moved it, and had opened one of those packets and she hadn’t even realized. 

He took a moment to grin up at her, and she realized his genuine smile was very sharp, had an unusual amount of teeth. No wonder he had scared her so bad looking in through the window. 

“He’s a big softie, you know. He tries to act all tough and scary and it fools people but he’s just kind of a weirdo. So don’t let him scare you. Besides, he told me that scared kids’ blood tastes worse than calm kids’ blood so you should definitely stay calm.”

Batman had given an audible sigh at Robin’s words, turning and disappearing into the shadows of the hallway. Okay, so Batman was exploring her house while Robin patched up her cuts and (hopefully) joked around with her. What had the night turned into, actually? Maybe she had actually fallen asleep a long time ago, and this was all just one very surreal dream. 

But the pain in her hands and feet disagreed with her, especially when those little packets turned out to be alcohol wipes and Robin wiped her cuts clean as gently as he could while she grimaced against the sting. Her feet went similarly, if not worse because Robin had to pick out a couple shards of glass with tweezers he pulled out of nowhere. But then he was squeezing antibiotic ointment onto the bandaids and gently smoothing them onto her palms and the soles of her feet, and suddenly it really didn’t hurt that bad. 

She startled when she realized Batman was in the room once again, and wondered when he had entered. He had been kneeling in front of her window, and rose to full height as she turned to look at him. He cocked his head at Robin. 

“Done?”

His voice sent shudders like icy water down Sadie’s back, rough and deep and grinding. She definitely liked Robin more, she decided. 

“Mhm,” Robin hummed, patting her bandaged hands twice and collecting everything he didn’t use with a quick swipe across her bed. He stood up, looking down at her, his smile bashful.

“I really am sorry Sadie, I didn’t mean to scare you like that. Or get you hurt at all. Thanks for the batteries!”

“If the cuts start hurting more or look strange, go to the doctor,” Batman’s gravely voice cut in before Sadie could answer. 

“If you do not want to do that, you can call this number or go to this location. Ask for Leslie.” He glided across the room, handing a slip of paper to Sadie. She looked down at it, noting the number and address scrawled in neat script. When she looked back up, Batman was at her window again. 

Robin clicked the lamp off, settling her room into familiar darkness again. Batman disappeared through her window, and the light from the street once again filtered into her room as her eyes adjusted. Robin crossed the room as well, bracing a hand on the windowsill as he vaulted over. He landed on the other side and shot her another wicked grin. 

“Wait,” she said, suddenly breathless. He paused, tilting his head in a manner that was a lot like Batman.

“Thank you, Robin,” she whispered, the sound carrying across the room like a secret whispered in a silent classroom.

“You’re welcome, Sadie,” with that, and another sweet smile, the window slid back down, and he was gone too. 

Sadie looked at the clock on her desk, squinting against the blue glow of the numbers. 

12:46 am. She sighed, sliding back down into her sheets. She was going to have a crazy headache tomorrow, she just knew it. She always did after laying awake for hours on nights like these. 

As she finally drifted off, orange streetlight filtering hazily into her room, her eyes wandered across her room and caught on something. The floor under her window was clear. The glass was gone. 

Sadie felt her heart stop, her mind attempting to force the sleep out again. What if it was all just a dream?

But her hands and feet still stung. The pressure of the bandaids remained, and she knew she had been awake that whole time. She knew it. She smiled into her bunny-patterned pillow as she thought about how she was going to tell her friends about what happened tomorrow. 

Her smile slowly faded, but only as her face relaxed when she finally fell into sleep’s waiting embrace.

Chapter Text

There was a new serial killer on Gordon’s radar

Now, serial killers in Gotham were like finding fish in a lake, but recently one had started making headlines because of his bizarre and brutal MO. Each case brought a new wave of horror, as the casualties grew and it was clear he was partially targeting children. There had been five previous casualties from two separate incidents, and it was always a mother and one of her children that were DOA.

The first case was a wealthy family in the diamond district, twin 14 year old girls and their mother, Leida Kozak. Leida and one of the twins, Nadia, were shot execution-style in the head, all three of them tied to chairs in the high-rise apartment’s lavish dining room. The perpetrator left the other girl, Anika, alive, physically untouched. Poor girl had been found hours after her mother and sister were shot dead in front of her, still bound to the chair and catatonic. Even after two days of recovery in the hospital she wouldn’t talk more than a word or two at a time. The only thing she offered was the phrase “but she chose me,” over and over and over again. 

Gordon had visited her personally, but she wouldn’t talk to him any more than she would the other officers or hospital staff. She just stared at him, sunken eyes glazed and devastated. She’d said “this wasn’t supposed to happen, she chose me,” and that was all that Gordon got out of her. 

The day after that, she hanged herself in the hospital room with a bedsheet while the nurses were distracted with a different emergency. So they were left with a whole family dead and no leads, beyond what clues were left in the high rise.

Unbelievably frustrating and tragic, even more so when the scene was repeated a week later in a brownstone in uptown. This time the casualties included a six year old boy, Simon, and his mother. Simon’s four year old brother, Leo, had been left alive, all three victims bound  and separated on the floor of the living room. 

The boy was obviously traumatized to all hell, but due to his age had not properly processed the situation and offered a lot more details than Anika Kozak had. From Leo’s account, Gordon was able to nail down certain details, such as: it was just one man with some sort of partial facial disfigurement, he had two guns but only used one of them on Leo’s brother and mother, and he had spoken quite a bit to all three of them. Very well-spoken.

Apparently he’d broken in and held Leo hostage with a gun to the head while making his mother tie him and his brother up. The man had tied her up after that, and had asked her which of her children was her favorite. When she wouldn’t answer, confused and horrified, he pressed harder, saying things Leo didn’t understand and couldn’t repeat and telling her one of her children would die that night, it was up to her to decide which one. Which one is more disposable, he’d asked. Leo’s mother had screamed and begged and cried, offered herself as an alternative, but when the man announced that if she didn’t make a decision he would simply flip a coin and decide himself, she’d broken down in sobs and pointed at Leo. 

“Mommy was crying really hard and she pointed at me, but she didn’t even look at me,” Leo had whispered to Gordon, big brown eyes full of tears. “And then the bad man shot Simon. And Mommy wouldn’t stop screaming and the bad man went up to her and flipped a coin onto her lap and she wouldn’t stop screaming so he shot her too. Then he just left.” 

Leo understood enough to know that his mother and brother been shot right in front of him, but kids that young often struggle to understand death, the finality of it. Gordon was glad that he also didn’t seem to fully grasp the twisted game the perpetrator was playing. 

A rough case file was put together for their killer. The description Leo gave was inputed, along with what likely transpired after breaking down Leo’s account. It seems like this man was targeting sibling duos close in age and their mothers, forcing the mothers to make the horrific decision of which child they’d rather spare. And then the man would execute the sibling that wasn’t chosen before killing the mother, decided by a coin toss. A sick and twisted mind game that was impossible to win.

Gordon knew it was only a matter of time before the boy understood that his mother had chosen him to die, and she and Simon died in his place. Gordon guessed that the perpetrator got pleasure or satisfaction from killing the wrong child, the one the mother didn’t pick. Leaving the chosen child to forever live with the trauma and the knowledge that their mother picked their sibling to live over them. 

Leo had kept asking Gordon if his mommy and Simon were better again, and Gordon had to make a quick stop in the bathroom on his way out of the hospital, leaning against the sink and trying not to vomit. 

A week later, it happened again. Similar enough that Gordon knew it was the same guy. 

Gordon grimaced as he stepped into the ratty Tricorner apartment, crawling with yellow tape and quietly horrified police. The surviving victim— eight years old this time, Jesus Christ— had already been rushed off to Wayne Memorial Hospital by ambulance, leaving his dead mother and identical twin brother to be photographed and packed into body bags. 

Gordon scanned the sparse, pale-faced officers for any sign of the Bat. He’d turned the light on and sent the address 25 minutes ago, for God’s sake. Batman had never been this late to one of these crime scenes before, usually he was already there by the time Gordon arrived. 

He approached one of the officers he knew. Silas was photographing the bodies, kneeling to focus on the gore-stained bullet wounds that were most likely the cause of death. The boy had been shot once in the side of the head, and the mother had been shot twice in the chest, one of the bullets striking her heart and killing her instantly. Blood pooled in dark, congealing red and brown stains around the bodies, soaking into the worn out carpet

“Batman here yet?” He murmured as he stopped next to Silas, careful of the blood pooling on the floor

“No but Carly swears she saw that other vigilante, that new one from Bludhaven when she got here. She was first on the scene, too.” 

Gordon’s hackles rose. It was one thing when Batman or even Robin interfered with cases, he trusted them, but this new guy was an unknown. And unknowns were dangerous, especially testosterone-filled idiots who think they could be Gotham’s next Dark Knight. They popped up more often than you’d think, usually immediately suppressed by Batman himself. The man was territorial. He wondered if Batman knew the new guy was in Gotham, and if he did why he was allowing it.

“Great. The kid say anything before they put him in the ambulance?”

“No,” Silas started, rising from his crouch to face Gordon. “Well nothing understandable anyway, he was fully hysteric—“ 

His eyes locked on something behind Gordon’s right shoulder and widened to the size of dinner plates. Gordon spun around, hand going for his holster. He froze with the Glock halfway out, staring speechlessly at the window behind him.

The new vigilante was, in fact, there. Perched on the windowsill like he had just flown in, the boy— no, young man— was leveling a smirk at Gordon. The stylized blue V on his chest flowed down his arms, matching small details in the tall, black leather boots that connected seamlessly with the rest of his sleek, black-armored suit. The V had a slight bat-like shape to it, making Gordon question and re-examine his Batman wannabe theory.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said softly, still with that wry little smile. It was oddly familiar.

“You are,” Gordon bit out, stepping forward, hand still on his gun. “You’re the new one?”

“Depends on who’s asking,” the vigilante’s smirk widened. Gordon didn’t know what to do with that answer. 

“Holy shit,” Silas’s voice broke in, and Gordon could have strangled him for the awe and admiration in his voice. “You’re Nightwing?”

“Well, I’m not Batman, thank God,” he replied, smiling disarmingly. “One of him is more than enough, wouldn’t you say, Commissioner?”

Nightwing cocked his head, black hair shifting to the side with the movement, messy despite the half bun it was tucked into. His voice sounded familiar too, and the way he moved gave Gordon the willies. Gordon’s eyes narrowed at him. 

Without giving Gordon the chance to respond, the guy jumped noiselessly to the floor and started trailing the perimeter of the room, running sharp black and blue fingertips across the grungy kitchen counter. His gloves looked to be clawed at the ends, the blue stripes running down his arms ending in sharpened points on his middle and ring fingers.

Gordon should be demanding that he leave, had a hand on his gun still, but… he took a closer look at the V on Nightwing’s chest. It did look a hell of a lot like a simpler version of Batman’s symbol. 

“Batman know you’re here?” Gordon asked, eyes narrowed as he followed the vigilante through the apartment, prowling in a circle around the bodies in the middle of the living room. Silas and the two other officers in the room stumbled backwards, wide-eyed and silent. 

Nightwing laughed softly, a mocking note to it. 

“Why should he, Commissioner?”

He knelt next to the dead boy, named Benji, any humor in his expression vanishing as he scanned the brutality of the wounds. 

“I know you,” Gordon accused, half certain, brain still whirling. 

Nightwing looked up, holding his gaze for a long moment before deliberately turning back to the body.

“I don’t think you do.” 

There was a note of warning underneath the careful friendliness. Gordon’s narrowed eyes sharpened further, the seed of suspicion growing, stretching, encompassing. 

He had a hunch… but Silas and the others were still in the room, and Gordon decided to let the matter go for now. As soon as he managed to get alone with one of the vigilantes they were gonna get talked to, however. 

You see, there had been a conspicuous lack of Robin with Batman over the last half year or so, and Gordon had been wondering if the bird had flown the nest, so to speak. And now a new, bird themed vigilante popping up not 60 miles away, with a bat-like tweak to his suit? 

Come on now. Gordon was born at night, but it wasn’t last night.

Bludhaven’s newly acquired vigilante was dipping his toes into Gotham’s decaying flood water now, and more importantly, Batman was letting him. Prior to now, the only other vigilantes Batman allowed within the city districts were Batgirl, when she patrolled, and Robin, of course. The only metahumans Batman allowed were Superman— albeit only twice that Gordon was aware of— and Hawkgirl for whatever reason. She seemed to be friends with Batgirl. Recently Batgirl had been patrolling more than Robin was, which was an annoyance and a concern. 

He knew Robin, even if he hadn’t seen him in a while and didn’t actually know the kid, but he did not know Batgirl. It wasn’t like she was the most outgoing vigilante when it came to law enforcement. Christ, she gave Batman himself a run for his money with how many times she’d slipped away right as Gordon had shown up to a scene. 

In any case, he knew enough of Robin’s mannerisms to see how similar he and Nightwing acted.

“Okay…” 

Gordon moved closer to where Nightwing was examining the mother’s body. The vigilante gently released the mother’s stiff arm where he had been looking at ligature marks, letting it rest on her bloody chest. A beat passed as he looked down at her, grief visible on his face.

“He’s busy,” this was said with a wry little twist to his lips, a dangerous joke sitting just out of Gordon’s reach. It was all he needed to confirm his suspicion.

“Doing what?”

Nightwing’s head came up again, shooting Gordon a familiar pout.

“What am I, chopped liver?” 

The sigh Gordon heaved came from the depths of his soul. If Nightwing was Robin, then Gordon felt better about letting him roam the crime scene. He wasn’t about to try and explain that to the other officers though, so he shook his head in defeated resignation. 

“Well, have you done anything useful? Other than distract my officers and contaminate the scene?”

“Mmm, I noticed two knives were missing from the block on the counter over there,” Nightwing  hummed, waving a graceful twist of sharpened fingers in the general direction. “You want to bet that they’re gonna show up at the next one? I’ve only got like ten dollars in cash on me right now.”

“No I don’t, you’re not gonna weasel money out of me,” Gordon added “again” under his breath.

“Who peed in your cornflakes this morning, Commissioner?”—Silas let out a strangled laugh from across the room— “You’re not normally this cranky.”

“I’ll be less cranky when you and the bat tell me what the hell is going on, kid.”

Nightwing rose gracefully from his crouch, expression sobering.

“It’s Two-Face.” 

“What? ”

“The killer,” Nightwing clarified as if that was what Gordon was confused about. “Impossible decisions with two outcomes, partial facial disfigurement. Batman wasn’t sure until last time, but the coin flip solidified it.” 

“Yeah? Why’s he so sure? Plenty of people flip coins to decide things, why is he so certain this is Dent? I mean, we thought the man was dead , for Christ’s sake!”

“We didn’t, you did. Batman even told you Dent had probably just gone underground.”

“You weren’t even around at the time, smartass,” Gordon grumbled, “With the amount of blood he lost I was sure he was a goner. And that doesn’t answer my question.”

In response, Nightwing held his right hand out, a quarter sitting on his palm. It glistened in the shitty overhead lighting where it wasn’t crusted with dried blood.

“This was in her hand,” he nodded down at the woman’s body. “Wanna make another bet?”

“No.”

Nightwing ignored him. “I’ll bet the blood on this is from one of the last two victims. Too old to be from these two.”

He flipped his hand over, the coin briefly disappearing before dancing lightly across the top of blue and black knuckles.

“Will you put that in evidence if I tell you to?” Gordon asked, already resigned to the answer. The look Nightwing sent him in return told him exactly what he expected; absolutely not. 

The coin danced once more from pointer to pinky and then disappeared from the vigilante’s knuckles like it was never there. 

At this, Silas finally found his balls and took a hesitant step forward.

“Wait, you can’t just— Jim, is he allowed to do that?” His voice pitched incredulously.

“No,” Gordon grunted, finally turning away from Bludhaven’s vigilante. “If you want to try and get it from him, be my guest.”

Silas eyed Nightwing nervously. He got a blinding, sharp-toothed smile in return. Gordon watched in real time as Silas flushed beet red. The man tried real hard to look angry.

Nightwing planted one gloved hand on the disheveled side table and effortlessly vaulted diagonally over it and the couch, neatly avoiding the puddles of blood and potential evidence. He landed uncomfortably close to a towering showcase of soccer trophies, staring intently at them, silent. Jack and Benji had both really been into the sport, apparently, judging by the sheer amount of them.

“Did you ever play soccer, Gordon?” His voice was jarringly quiet. 

Gordon sighed. “Yeah. You?”

“No, I was more into higher risk activities.”

“Uh huh.”

“These boys were great at it,” Nightwing said, crouching down to presumably squint at one of the bigger trophies’ placards. Gordon’s chest hurt a little bit. Barbara had gone through a pretty intense soccer phase in her preteens and had a few small trophies from it. He averted his eyes from the bloody forms on the floor, actively being covered with sheets and positioned in order to move them.

When he looked back up at Nightwing, the vigilante was already staring back at him, white lenses unblinking and intense. 

“I’m going to fuck Dent up when we find him, Commissioner.”

Gordon ignored the uneasy reaction that triggered in his nervous system and scowled. 

“Language,” he bit out, quickly adding “You can’t say things like that, moron. Bad press and all that.” 

“Ah yes,” Nightwing was already over to the window, gripping the top of the frame and leveraging his entire lower body up and forward, flipping neatly onto the fire escape outside. “All that.” 

Gordon wandered over to the window after him, trying to rub the headache out of his temples with the backs of his gloved hands. He gave up and tore them off, shoving them in a pocket and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Hey,” he called after the kid, who spun in a perfect 180. “Remind Batman he has my number and can inform me of any new developments at any point in the future. Preferably before he ends up sending a creepy fuckin’ third party weirdo to communicate indirectly.”

Nightwing gasped with outrage, hand clutching metaphorical pearls. “Language, hypocrite! And I thought I was doing an excellent job of directly communicating, especially for our first meeting. You don’t agree with me, Commissioner?”

Gordon couldn’t even begin to break down that response in the time he was given, scowling helplessly at the shit-eating grin the vigilante shot him, before he turned and back flipped off the ledge. Gordon’s heart dropped to his ass for a moment, but then a smear of black and blue was arching back up in a graceful crescent, blurring into the velvety darkness of nighttime. 

Gordon wondered if it was possible to heave a sigh so big it killed you. He certainly was making an attempt at it. 

He turned, stepping back into the living room, where the bodies no longer laid and was now teeming with forensics officers. He made eye contact with Silas, whose mouth probably hadn’t closed once the entire time and grimaced. 

He shook his head when the guy started towards him, seemingly broken out of the shock he was in. He had no idea how to answer the goddamn questions he was going to get.

Two weeks later and Gordon was running on absolute fumes. Batman still hadn’t showed, although Nightwing had made another brief appearance at the batsignal when Gordon turned it on a week ago to let the bats know that Two-Face had been captured on CCTV footage at the latest crime scene, proving the bats’ theory correct. Gordon’s task force had been doing everything they could to find the man before he struck again, but Dent seemed to always be two steps ahead of them and one step ahead of Batman. 

Maybe Batman had caught up, Gordon was hoping for a major breakthrough since there were now at least seven dead children and five dead mothers scattered across the city. The scene the night before last had been an anomaly, apparently the quarter had landed on tails and the perp had spared the mother’s life. He’d been riding a grudging wave of hope since the batlight was turned on about a half hour ago.

Gordon ambled out of the construction elevator and toward the edge of the building overlooking the city. 

The sun was almost set, dimly lighting the horizon with a faint burning orange glow behind the rooftops. Early for bats to be out, Gordon thought. 

Heavy wisps of clouds lingered from the rain that had been coming down hard all day. It had stopped a couple hours ago, and now puddles were all that remained, reflecting the incandescent smears of streetlights and headlights. The early November chill blanketed the streets, creating white mist each time he exhaled. 

Batman and Nightwing were both waiting for him tonight, thank his lucky stars. He took the opportunity he was given to finally study the visible differences and similarities between the two. Batman was standing stock still, wrapped in his cape, and Nightwing was lounging on the bat signal, stretched out against the barrel of the great spotlight. It did not look comfortable whatsoever— he was practically bent backwards in a semicircle— but he appeared totally relaxed, arms behind his head. His suit was made of much thinner leather and significantly less armor than Batman’s, Gordon had noticed, despite presumably wintertime additions of an extra layer and heavier armored guards going up the length of his forearms that Robin used to wear as well. 

Gordon knew the Bats were well trained for the cold, wet weather, but he still wondered if Nightwing was chilly pressed up against the metal like that. It didn’t snow in Gotham until around Christmas, but when it did Robin would always get yet another layer, fit almost unnoticeably over his suit. Nightwing would too, if Gordon’s hunch was correct. And he was certain it was.

The blanket of pure white that fell over the city was always quickly churned into dirty gray slush and brown-tinged icicles within a day, so camouflage in the snow wasn’t much of an issue. When the Bats didn’t want to be noticed, they wouldn’t be, anyway.

Nightwing shot an upside-down familiar grin at Gordon as he approached, teeth sharp and shockingly white against his dusky skin, matching the bandage wrapped around his upper left arm and armpit. The cloth stood out against the black and blue Kevlar padding that reinforced his chest and shoulders. 

“Guess what, Commissioner?”

“How are you already injured? It’s 7 o’clock,” Gordon responded. 

“Hey, that’s what I said!” Batman’s cloak rustled and Robin’s face popped out from the seam. 

Gordon’s jaw dropped, and he took a step back in pure disbelief.

He had stopped being startled by that particular stunt after a couple years. 

But. 

It had been years since then that Robin had done that, nestled so close to Batman in the folds of his cloak. And Robin had grown, Gordon was just about willing to bet his entire retirement savings that Robin was actually lounging several yards away on the batsignal in blue and black and bandages. 

What the fuck?

He stared at the kid grinning back at him, distantly noting differences between this Robin and the first Robin. Broader jaw, skin slightly darker brown. Curlier, wild hair. Also, this kid’s smile wasn’t quite as razor-sharp as Robin number one’s, but had an overtly wolf-like quality to it that Robin number one’s lacked. It was a jagged sort of sharp, whereas the first’s had been sharp like lightning.

His gaze shifted upwards to the man holding this new, crazy little kid. 

“Batman.”

“Gordon.”

“Who is that?” He bit out, “What did I say about keeping me informed?!”

“I’m right here, you know,” the kid broke in with a scowl, breath turning into a gust of white frost in the air. His expression shifted frighteningly quickly back into a spiteful grin. “I’m Robin. I would say it’s nice to meet you, commish, but the pleasure’s all yours. I usually only associate with cops after they’ve been arrested.” 

He had a fairly well toned-down Crime Alley drawl hiding behind his words.

Gordon couldn’t help but let out a long, wearied breath. He had known Batman for a long time, yet the man never failed to absolutely fuck with Gordon’s sense of reality. 

“Even one that plays puppet for an overly violent man dressed like a bat?” He asked, pinching the bridge of his nose with cold fingers.

“Jury’s still out,” this new Robin declared, theatrically tilting his head to the side in dismissive scan of Gordon’s person. 

“This is Robin, Gordon,” Batman finally broke in. “Whatever you’re thinking right now, I don’t care. Nightwing is helping us on this case and then he will return to patrolling Bludhaven.”

Ok, Jesus. Message received. Don’t ask. That’s how Batman operated, really. Gordon resigned himself to dealing with this new development.

“Guess what?” Nightwing insisted. 

“What,” Gordon sighed.

“No, you have to guess,” Robin said, and Gordon wondered if they were actually related. He’d often wondered if Batman was Robin’s father or uncle, or some other relative. Why else would he have the kid out on school nights? He tried not to think about it too hard. For all he knew, Batman could just be nabbing random children and turning them into weapons. That would probably be a problem, and problems mean paperwork.

Gordon grumbled, but he had played the ‘guess what?’ game with Robin before and it only ended one way. Gordon was required to actually guess. Batman even waited and didn’t step in sometimes, the instigating shithead. 

With luck it was an update on the Two Face case, but Batman had also been working on that antidote formula for the new Joker toxin. Or maybe it was an update on that weird new meta that’s been causing all the problems with the electronics in the southwestern quadrant of Midtown. Or a million different things that were ongoing developments.

Batman clearly grew impatient with waiting. Thank God.

“Punchline is back in action.” 

“You’re kidding,” Gordon groaned. "She dropped those bodies?” 

“Only the ones in the Yards and the one on Paris Island. Robinson park wasn’t her. That one was Dent.”

“That’s what she said, at least,” Robin added, squirming in Batman’s grasp. 

Batman dropped him and he landed lightly on his feet, jostling Batman’s cloak as he pushed past it in a scramble towards the batsignal, trying to shove Nightwing off of it. 

“She said that?”

“Nightwing thinks she’s lying.” 

“Stop it, I’m comfortable here,” the older boy complained, shoving back at Robin’s shoulders. “You think she’s lying too! She wanted us out. Why else would she have set the mattress on fire?”

“‘Cause she wants to diddle Batman,” Robin explained as if speaking to a particularly stupid individual, giving up on pushing Nightwing off the light and hoisting his body up over top of him instead, using lots of unnecessary knees and elbows to sit up straight on Nightwing’s abdomen.

“Ow— fuck. Don’t ever say those two words in the same sentence again,” Nightwing said, horrified. “And no she doesn’t! How would setting the mattress on fire help her do that? Get your knee off of my hipbone immediately, you nasty little—”

Robin number two’s cackle cut him off, raspier and louder than Robin number one’s.

“Enough,” Batman growled, and Gordon turned toward him, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing despite himself. “What Punchline does or doesn’t want is irrelevant. She’s killing innocent people.”

Gordon had known the Bats long enough at this point that he could tell Nightwing was rolling his eyes without even looking at him.

“Yeah, yeah. We went to talk to her in her apartment and she lit the whole bed on fire, Gordon! And then detonated a bomb in the basement.” 

So that had been the explosion in Newtown yesterday.

“Anyone get hurt?” He asked in mild concern. He hadn’t heard any casualties over the radio chatter, but you never knew.

“No casualties,” Batman confirmed. “Fire alarm went off with the mattress and the fire department arrived in three minutes.”

Gordon hummed, pleased despite his inner turmoil.

“New record for that area.”

Gordon watched as Batman pressed a button on his vambrace. A keyboard appeared on the small dark screen. Batman typed something in, but the angle was too bad and he did it too fast for Gordon to follow.

Gordon could hear Nightwing and Robin talking in whispers behind him. 

“You do know Punchline wasn’t actually trying  to sleep with B, right? Right? It’s important to me that you know that.”

“Well she acted kind of like Dr. Quinzel does when she’s off her meds, but she seemed much more serious. Maybe it was the open can of gasoline.” 

Jesus, this one’d already met Harley Quinn? How long had Batman been hauling him around under that cloak??

“Yeah, it was probably that,” Nightwing agreed. “But Dr. Quinzel doesn’t want to sleep with B either.” 

“I know that,” Robin hissed back. “I’m not stupid.” 

“Could’ve fooled me— ack!” 

There was a scuffle, and then Batman cut a glance up at them and silence fell for a moment. 

“Dr. Quinzel never talks like that when we’re there.” 

Gordon grimaced. He remembered the way Alexis Kaye talked to Batman the first time around. The kid was around 12, had seen shit that would make grown men nauseous, but even Harley fucking Quinn toned it down around Robin a bit. Surely this new Robin had gotten the birds and the bees talk by now. He tried to imagine Batman finding the words for that and came up short.

“I didn’t just turn the light on for that. Punchline got away last night, and we might have a problem. I have credible information that she’s been fitting out the old sewer pipelines under Otisburg and the Stadium.”

Gordon’s heart dropped, all considerations of the bats’ interpersonal dynamics disappearing as he stared at Batman in angry horror.

“What? That’s a huge bioterrorism risk!”

“Preaching to the choir, big G,” Nightwing chirped. “Our girl’s a bit too freehanded with the Joker toxin.”

“Shit, okay.” Gordon paused for a moment, trying to wrap his head around the whiplash from the energy change. “Alright, I’ll call the chief and get a squadron over to the stadium to check those pipes ASAP.” 

“We’ll go in first, this is emergent,” Batman rasped, and Gordon felt his heart drop further. He felt irritation flare, familiar and burning.

“What aren’t you telling me, man? Because from where I’m standing, this is bad but not that bad yet.”

And Batman had decided to bring his second… kid? Son? Regardless the change was enough to throw Gordon for a loop 

“How long has she been doing this??”

“At least four days, but she’s picked up speed since we talked. If she introduces toxin to the sewer water in the stadium during a high-traffic event we’re going to have serious problems. Sewer water still shows traces of toxin after the treatment process and it will severely contaminate the pipes for decades,” Batman clenched his jaw. “And theres a Knights game at the stadium tonight.

“Depending on time of day, the toxin she puts in could get into the city’s water table. There are leaks where the freshwater lines bleed into the city’s main aqueduct,” he paused. “And I have significant reason to believe Punchline is working with Two-Face.”

The situation could always get worse, it seemed.

“Which is bad,” Robin added helpfully from his perch on top of Nightwing.

“Yeah…”

Potentially catastrophic, not just bad. A drop of Joker toxin in the human system could cause uncontrollable laughing fits and seizures. Gordon couldn’t imagine the fallout if Punchline dumps a shit ton of that new strain in the pipes, especially if she has Dent talking into her ear.

“You got anything on the new antidote formula?” He asked Batman.

“Still processing. Here. The stadium’s blueprints,” a gloved hand came out of the cape, offering a thumb drive. Gordon stepped a couple feet closer, taking the drive.

“Let’s move.” Batman was already in motion, crossing the roof. “Meet us in the stadium with your backup in fifteen, sit tight until I give the word.“

“Copy.”

Gordon stepped back towards the elevator  and pulled his phone out of his pocket, finding his supervisor’s contact.

“On me,” he heard lowly from behind him.

Gordon turned as he pushed open the metal grating and stepped into the elevator, facing out into the cold, dark Gotham night. The sky was a deep indigo color now, just the barest hint of daylight left. He pressed the shifty looking button for the garage.

Robin darted over to Batman, jumping and  latching onto his back like a barnacle the way Nightwing used to do when he was smaller, in the earlier years of his… career as Robin.

Nightwing gave a wave that was altogether too cheery for the situation and then flung himself off the edge of the roof with a quick running start. 

Batman reached up and back, rearranging the kid until he was tucked flat against his spine between his shoulder blades, arms around his neck. Silent and intense, he moved to the edge of the building where Nightwing had disappeared.

“See ya, commish!”

“Bye kid.”

The elevator jolted and started down, and Gordon’s view of the two was blocked. He heaved a sigh and tapped Bock’s contact. 

“Yeah chief, it’s Gordon. Hey, we’ve got a situation down in Otisburg.”

Punchline was, in fact, working with Two-Face. 

Batman had called Gordon, the usual unsaved number flashing on his screen as he tried to organize his men quickly and quietly outside the Stadium’s rear entrance. The rain had picked back up, and everyone was already drenched and miserable.

“Hey,” he answered, stepping away from the officer he was talking to. 

“Tell your men to stay put and get down to the lower levels. They’re both down here, I’m holding position for now. We’re waiting on a room to clear and I need another spotter.”

“Alright…” Gordon glanced back at his men through the curtain of rain with a grimace. “I’ll be there in a couple minutes.”

He informed his men of the situation to the best of his ability and then slipped through the stadium’s side entrance, used by staff and typically locked shut. It was unlocked and ajar, and according to Batman’s thumb drive was the bats’ point of entry. He could hear the roar of the crowd way up overhead as the pattering rain’s noises cut out, swelling and dimming with the game’s plays. It was a home game, of course; the stands would be absolutely packed with Gothamites cheering on their favorite football players.

He jogged laboriously down several flights of concrete and metal stairs, carefully pushing the steel door at the bottom open. He unholstered his gun and drew his flashlight as he looked into the abnormally dark hallway, shining the light over graffiti stained walls. Even frequently used buildings in Gotham were spattered with street art and tags, especially in poorly lit, low traffic areas like this winding labyrinth of maintenance tunnels.

Gordon grimaced as he picked his way carefully through the hallway, stepping over twisted rebar and broken glass. Christ, had this place not been cleaned out since 2022? It looked like the Riddler’s flood had occurred in the last several months, rather than nearly seven years ago. There were puddles of nasty water in areas where the concrete floor was cracked or worn away. 

He approached the battered double doors at the end, holding his gun in front of him as he turned to make sure no one was coming down the hall behind him. One of the doors was locked and wouldn’t budge, but the other opened with a soft creak. 

The landing on the other side was small and even darker than the hallway, ominously leading down a narrow set of concrete steps. He could hear faint, fanatic giggling floating up from the level below. He let the door shut gently behind him and then took a rapid step back as his eyes adjusted. 

He’d been expecting Batman to be lurking, of course, but that didn’t make the man’s sudden silent presence less startling in a tense situation. Batman stepped forward out of the corner of the landing, allowing Gordon to see his hand come up in a shushing gesture. Jim hadn’t even been making noise, the asshole. 

Nightwing and the new Robin were nowhere to be seen.

Gordon shot Batman an annoyed look before focusing back on the stairwell. The light coming from the level below was filtered green against the peeling, water damaged walls and barely illuminated the outline of the man in front of him. Gordon leaned closer, trying to make out any conversation. The giggles had died down, and now a woman’s vaguely familiar voice rang out, echoing across the concrete. 

“Aren’t you excited? I’m so excited,” she was saying to someone, high pitched and insistent. There was no answer. 

“This is my favorite flavor too, the people of Gotham really should be thanking us,” probably-Punchline giggled. 

Batman’s form shifted in front of him and a second later Robin was barreling very quietly up the steps. He made a couple of signs at Batman before waving with (probably) friendly aggression at Gordon. Batman crouched smoothly and the two exchanged a couple of nearly inaudible words.

A second later Batman straightened and Robin disappeared into the shadows behind him. Gordon stepped closer and raised his eyebrows. 

“Dent and Kaye are both down there. Kaye has the badge of an Arkham guard, explains how she got out,” Batman breathed, barely a whisper. 

Robin popped his head back out to exaggerate a circle with his finger by his temple. Cuckoo, he mouthed at Gordon before pointing down the stairs. 

Punchline had been humming faintly, but she interrupted herself with “Hey, Harvey darling, are you hiding something from me?” Her voice was saccharine, sweeter than honey. It grew a bit fainter as she spoke, and when Dent’s gruff voice finally echoed up from below it was further away than Punchline had been before. Batman turned, practically breathing down Gordon’s neck. 

“I need you to cover Robin at the bottom of the stairs. Stay out of sight unless absolutely necessary.”

Made sense. Gordon nodded once, and Batman was already halfway down the steps, flowing like oil down into the watery green illumination. Robin followed right behind him, inconspicuous and silent. Gordon started after them, thumbing the safety off of his Glock.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and the two vigilantes didn’t hesitate, moving swiftly into the room and crossing over to where this room and the next connected, a series of industrial storage chambers. Batman’s pointy ears nearly brushed the low ceiling, probably would have if most of it wasn’t chipped and collapsing, leaving the bare bones of the ducting and pipes above. 

There were two cheap folding tables in the room, covered in lab equipment, weapons, bobby pins… and purple ribbons. Gordon had forgotten Punchline was partial to those.

Batman had stopped at the doorway, remaining out of view of anyone in the other room. From Gordon’s position peering around the corner of the stairwell he couldn’t see into the far room, could only see that the double doors between the two were wide open, practically blown off their hinges.

Gordon could hear Punchline humming to herself much clearer now, before Harvey Dent’s voice cut her off.

“Will you stop? You’re making more noise than progress.”

“Awww, Harvey,” Punchline crooned in response, “What did I say about respect, hmm?”

“I don’t think I could be more respectful if I tried.” The voice came from a table half blocked from Gordon’s sight, the only part of the man visible to him was the shiny black loafers propped up on the rickety table, crossed at the ankles.

“How did you ever get a girlfriend, let alone a wife?” She giggled. “You have the sex appeal of Oswald Cobb. You’re lucky my standards are so low.”

Tense silence followed, and Punchline prowled into view, a glass tube filled with vivid green-yellow joker toxin flipping casually from sharp-nailed hand to sharp-nailed hand. Her outfit was much less put together than it had been last time she was out of Arkham; her bangs were grown out and a bit wild, and the purple mesh pantyhose she used on her arms and legs was ripped excessively. The poor lighting cast her features in sharp contrast and she smiled coyly in Two-Face’s direction, daring him to rise to her bait. He stayed silent for another minute until she turned and started humming again, and then he scoffed quietly.

“My wife deserved my respect. You’re a fucking joke.”

“Ugh,” Punchline exclaimed, whirling back around. “I’m the punchline, not the joke. That’s literally my whole thing! Your schtick could use work, by the way, have I told you that?”

“Yes,” Dent bit out. 

“I’m just saying, your whole no-nonsense bullshit is really uninvit—“

The greenish lightbulbs flickered once and then shut off completely, plunging the space below into sudden darkness. There was a large crash from the table’s direction, and Punchline squealed, half laughing. 

“What the hell, Harvey? Did you just break my fucking vials?” Her voice giggled dangerously through the darkness.

“Shh! ”

“What?” 

“God damn it, shut up. Do you have a light?”

A moment later dim white light was cast over the space from Kaye’s phone flashlight. Broken glass and yellow-green toxin glittered from where glasses lay shattered in front of Two-Face’s table and the man had put his feet down, leaning forward with frantic intensity. 

“Fucker!” She shrieked. “You did break my vials!”

She pointed the light directly at Two-Face, and Gordon shifted carefully to the right in the cover of darkness, getting a better view of the man. The light cast deep shadows over his face, enhancing the twisted scars and divots on the burned side and reflecting feverishly in his mismatched eyes. He squinted hard against the flash, scowling as he frantically scanned the dark room. Gordon noticed with a cold shock that Batman’s silhouette was gone from where it had been when the lights shut off. 

“Stop pointing it at me, you idiot! Batman is here,” Dent hissed, jolting up and snatching something off the table in front of him. He scrambled sideways, backing up against the large metal cylinder taking up a quarter of the room. 

Punchline pointed her light around the room now and Gordon ducked almost all the way back behind the wall.  

“I wish! I don’t see him anywhere,” Kaye giggled, although now it had an undertone of shrill nervousness. “He’s AWOL, I’m telling you. The lights have gone out before, remember? This city’s electrical is shit.”

“The game is starting right now,” Dent whispered aggressively. “The city wouldn’t risk that on a game night. Too much money to lose.”

Gordon was so focused on the quick, angry whispering in the relative darkness that he nearly shat himself when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He’s sure he jumped a foot in the air, spinning and whipping his gun up only to see Nightwing’s face no further than a foot away in the dark, a clawed finger pressed to his lips.

He let out a silent, heavy breath, sending the kid the nastiest look he could manage. He got a blinding smile in return, and then the vigilante was slipping past him, gracefully dodging the beam of Punchline’s flashlight as he made his way to the doorway between spaces. 

Gordon looked around, straining his eyes for any sign of the bat. He was supposed to be covering him and Robin, goddamnit, how was he supposed to do that when he didn’t know where they were? He focused back on Nightwing, watching as he hovered just out of sight away from the beam of light, seemingly waiting for something. 

“Well, get your phone out too, dumbass,” Punchline said into the darkness, swiping her phone around in annoyance. “Why am I the only one— oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding me! “

The beam of her flashlight had returned to a steady position, falling on the sudden presence of Robin not three feet in front of her, between her and Two-Face. Both rogues reacted at the same time, reaching for weapons, and Robin barreled forward with a yell, hands coming up to grapple with Punchline’s as she drew a knife with the hand not holding her phone. The light flashed up to the ceiling, illuminating a flash of blue over by the table and then cut out, falling to the floor screen side up. There was a humongous crash, glass shattered, and Kaye shrieked.

Gordon’s heart felt like it was in his throat, what the fuck was the kid doing? Where the hell was Batman? Two-Face hadn’t said anything, the only sounds were angry, feminine growls and yells, heavy breathing, and the sound of fists meeting flesh. 

He stepped forward, leaving the safety of the stairwell to crouch-run halfway across the room, mostly blind. He barely remembered to go around the open trap door. Fuck, he did not like this. Could the bats see in the fucking dark? Honestly, he wasn’t even surprised, but now Gordon was effectively… what was the phrase? Blind as a bat? Right. Great spotter he was supposed to be, Batman. 

He reached for his flashlight as the kid let out an angry yelp, thinking fuck it He was getting increasingly concerned about Dent. Primarily where was he and what the hell was he doing? 

Just as he got the light positioned under his gun, feeling for the button to turn it on, the lights came flickering back on with a buzz. He ducked behind the destroyed doorway, trying to find something to aim at in the now-illuminated room. 

It looked like a bomb had gone off. Broken glass and metal piping littered the floor, the table was upended, Dent was sweating and panting against the metal of the reservoir, and Nightwing was perched on the edge of the sideways table, two crackling black and blue sticks held out to his sides for balance. Gordon noticed a bolas wire secured sloppily just above Two-Face’s loafers, loose enough that the man hadn’t noticed it.

Robin had Punchline mostly pinned, using his knee to grind down on her wrist, forcing her to release the blade in her hand. She screamed in fury and he laughed in her face, kicking at the knife as she surged up against him. It went clattering along the dirty concrete, but she managed to get her other hand free, clawing viciously at Robin’s throat. 

“Fuck! Get the fuck off of—“

Robin slammed his head forward, smashing his forehead against her face. Gordon heard bone crack. Punchline fell back against the concrete, listless. 

Two-Face was watching the scene with a visible mixture of fear, disdain, and excitement, clutching hard at the handle sticking out of the reservoir’s simplistic control panel beside him. Fuck, that had to be the valve that released to the main water line. How much fear toxin was already in there?

He turned his gun on Dent, trying to watch both rogues at the same time. Where the fuck was Batman? 

Robin pushed himself off of Punchline’s unconscious form, turning around to look at Dent. Nightwing finally hopped down from his perch on the table, sliding behind Robin. He flipped Punchline over, cuffing her arms behind her back in less than two seconds.

“Hi Two-Face,” Robin laughed, baring bloody teeth. 

Two-Face was unarmed except for the valve switch in his hand, and the confusion and fear on his face had almost completely disappeared, replaced by a seething kind of mirth. 

“Well, well. The new little Robin,” he sneered, relaxing marginally in his three piece suit against the tank. Sweat was shining on his face and he looked feverish. 

“What happened to the first one, hmm? Did he get his wings clipped?” Two-Face asked in faux concern. “Tch. Batman doesn’t learn, does he?”

“Come over here and find out, shithead,” Robin challenged, settling into a defensive position. 

“No, I think you know why I can’t do that. That’s why you’re not charging me, isn’t it?” Two-Face sneered, repositioning and tightening his hand on the switch. Punchline groaned, shifting at Nightwing’s boots and the vigilante roughly hauled her up, dragging her against a section of exposed plumbing and latching another set of cuffs around her wrists, binding her to the wall. 

“You wouldn’t want to risk poisoning half of Gotham, would you? Batman would blame you, of course, since you chose to act so recklessly tonight.”

Robin angrily opened his mouth to reply when he was cut off by a low voice; 

“No, he wouldn’t.”

Gordon jumped yet again, Batman’s voice coming from behind him. He whipped around, fully ducking out of sight behind the frame and locked his eyes on the man stepping into the watery greenish light. The shadows seemed magnetized to him, clinging to his cloak and pooling at his ankles as he broke away from them. He came to a stop behind Robin, looming over him.

“Give up, Dent. It’s already over.” 

Dent laughed, manic and breathless. His face was getting paler and paler, the glint in his eyes madder and madder.

“It hasn’t even started,” he swore.

“Flipping that switch would do nothing but expedite the beating you’re about to get, Harveykins,” came Nightwing’s uncomfortably cheerful voice from across the small room. 

“Wrong,” Two-Face sneered, “You know exactly what flipping this switch would do. All those little families? Test runs! We’re about to find out exactly what Gotham chooses.” 

He said the word like it was an entity, not a city. 

“It wouldn’t be a choice, Dent,” Batman said, drifting ever so slowly closer to the man. 

“We can let fate decide, if you’d prefer,” the villain offered, revealing a glistening quarter in his right palm. A flick of his fingers and it was tumbling through the air, up and back down. Two-Face tsked as he looked down at the top side.

“You don’t understand, do you,” he whispered, the grin on his face splitting, showing teeth. “The power this city has.” 

“I understand Gotham well enough.” 

“Hundreds of thousands of people will have to choose, poisoning their children or letting them wither away from thirst.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Batman said with quiet certainty.

Punchline suddenly surged up, drawing Gordon’s eyes as she kicked out at Nightwing with heeled boots and narrowly missed him as he danced away with an annoyed “Hey!”

Batman struck simultaneously, hurling a batarang with surgical precision. It struck the control panel with a crunch before falling to the floor with a loud metallic clatter.

Two-Face started laughing, hand still on the flip. He turned it 90 degrees to the left. 

Nothing happened, no sound emitted from the reservoir. 

Dent’s laughter died in horrified realization and he reached for the control panel desperately, coin falling from his fingers onto the concrete. 

“No!” he screamed, face contorted.

Batman was on him before he even touched it, slamming a heavy fist directly into the damaged side of Dent’s face. The man howled in pain, stumbling back hard, tripped up on the bola wire. Robin laughed, loud and clear from the side of the room. 

Dent fell on his ass, smacking his head on the concrete when he landed. 

Just like that, it was over. The man remained limp, heavily dazed. He tried to put up a token struggle when Batman yanked him half up, cuffing his arms behind his back roughly, but his eyes were practically looking in two different directions and the words were slurring coming out of his mouth. 

Gordon felt like he was deflating, all of the air in his lungs coming out at once. He straightened, feeling the ache in his neck and back all of a sudden. Jesus Christ. 

He stepped out from the doorway, looking askance at Batman as he clicked his Glock’s safety back on. 

“Thanks for the help, G-man!” Nightwing chirped from where he was intently focused on dismantling the water tank’s control panel. Robin had taken over guarding Punchline, and he watched in amusement as the woman tried to yank her hands away from the wall.

“Looks like you had it handled the whole time,” Gordon couldn’t repress the bitterness in his voice, feeling useless and slightly played.

“I know another thing you could handle, Batsy,” Punchline chimed in, even more bitter than Gordon. 

“Quiet.”

“So why the hell did you bring me along, man?”

Batman looked at him like he was stupid, fully pausing his movements where he had been securely locking Two-Face down, ignoring his muttered curses and weak attempts to break free.

“I needed a credible witness.”

Gordon turned away, pinching at his nose and praying for patience.

He reached for his radio with resignation. Clean up time. 

“Alright boys, come on down. Batman has them packaged up real neat for us.”

Batman ignored the venom in his tone, but Robin snorted.

“Aw, don’t pout,” he grinned, looking up from Punchline. “I’m sure you’ll find someone to shoot later tonight.” 

Gordon ignored the accusation that he was pouting, scowling at the second part.

“I rarely shoot anyone, kid, the hell?”

“You’re a cop,” Robin shrugged, sending him a duh expression.

Gordon opened his mouth to respond but Batman’s head shot up at the sound of footsteps and voices above. The metal door leading to the platform creaked open and a couple of Gordon’s men ventured down the stairs, wary expressions turning into disbelief at the scene in front of them. Martinez was the second officer in, with Gordon’s luck, and he whistled lowly.

“Goddamn, freak. Boss wasn’t kidding when he said they were all packed up.”

Batman paid him no attention whatsoever, shoving Dent up and forward. The rogue collapsed in a tied up heap in front of the first officer, Taylor, her last name was.

She processed the situation impressively quickly, shoving Two-Face onto his stomach and making sure the cuffs were secure. Another couple of officers had taken over for Robin with Punchline, and Gordon watched as the bats detached from the scene, pulling back near the stairs. Gordon was not about to let them slip away completely without statements. 

He ambled over, arms crossed. 

“I’ll send you our reports,” Batman said without even looking at him, still focused on the scene in the other room. 

He sighed. That would have to do. That’s more than he usually got, anyway. 

“Alright. Hey, kid,” he addressed Robin, who raised his eyebrows under his domino. “What the hell were you thinking? That was unbelievably reckless, what you did.” 

White screens narrowed in offense. 

“I had it handled!” His words were not very comforting when he had blood covering part of his face, dripping down from his temple. Punchline’s teeth must have clipped him when he head-butted her. Gordon noticed Batman send Robin a look.

“C’mom, it’s bedtime for bats with little wings,” Nightwing remarked, hoisting Robin up in front of him by his armpits. The kid was listing just slightly to the side

“Fuck you, Dickwing,” the kid replied, kicking out, “Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.”

“Language,” Batman sighed. Gordon closed his mouth with a decent amount of horror, the same word sitting on the tip of his tongue. Jesus. He’s got to stop interacting with this man.

Nightwing hauled a protesting Robin up the crumbling stairs, disappearing into the dark of the landing. Gordon turned back to Batman, but of course there was absolutely no sign of him. 

Gordon just shook his head, walking back over to his officers, trying to get back into a leadership headspace after that mindfuck.