Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Belfry, I.. appear to have crashed into a crime scene.”

There was silence for half a beat. Then, Jason spoke up.

“You.. what?”

You respond, chipper despite currently bashing the head of a mobster off of the floor, “I crashed into a crime scene.”

“You mean that figuratively. Right?” 

That was Dick’s voice. Unfortunately for him, you did not, and you tell him as much. Many overlapping groans echo from the belfry’s side of the comms just as you spartan kick the last goon into the wall, knocking them out.

“You crashed the Batcycle again?” Barbara asked, putting emphasis on ‘again’ because you? you are a disaster on wheels. How you manage to get anywhere without the bike bursting into flame or dying is beyond their comprehension.

“I crashed the Batcycle again!” You answered, even nodding despite the fact they couldn’t see you do it. You’ve grappled up to a rooftop and decided to lay there for a moment. Yes, lay. You did not come out of the crash unscathed, despite how cool it must have looked for you to literally slide into battle.

“Are you injured?” Alfred asked calmly, with a hint of concern. Mentally, you do a wellness check. 

Concussion? no. Broken bones? no. Bruising? likely some on your back, one on your arm, probably a nasty one on your thigh. Are you nauseous? absolutely.

Alfred calls your name with considerably more urgency than before.

“I’m okay!” you answer, hoping it sounds better than you feel. Seriously, your stomach is playing carousel with your dinner and it is not benefiting you right now.

“Do you need one of us to come pick you up?” Jason asked, as brotherly and pleasant as ever.

“The circle of life..” you mumbled under your breath — the conversation started and now technically ended with Jason — before you could stop yourself. Jason, on the other end, makes a confused noise. You focus on the raindrops that shower down from the angry grey clouds, the weight of your suit, and the very comforting sound of Jason in your ear.

“That’s it, stay there. I’m coming.” He huffed, followed by the sounds of heavy footfall retreating to the left, followed by a litany of other noises that implied he had left the Belfry. You don’t argue: it would be pointless anyway.

“You really gotta work on your driving,” Dick teased, and you only mustered up a half-hearted groan in response. Your head felt too heavy and the inside felt too light, and all of this was to say you felt sick and dizzy.

Distantly, you acknowledge the sound of the Batcycle roaring away, which means Jason called it and it’s auto-pathing to his location. Presently, you’ve rolled onto your side because you feel like you’re going to pass out and vomit.

How awful.

At least you have the rain. And the sirens. And also the smell of oil. God, Gotham fucking sucks.

The others are talking over comms, likely bantering or trying to keep you conscious, or both, but you drown them out easily. Too easily. Your vision’s getting fuzzy, and weak. There’s too much saliva in your mouth. Maybe you’re dying. Is this what it feels like to die?

“Why can’t I move my mouth? Is this an internal dialogue..? why can’t I see the end of the horizon?” you mutter to yourself. Your tongue feels too heavy and thick and foreign in your mouth and it’s all you can do to keep from hurling. 

“..what?” Tim asked, deeply baffled. This is the first time you’ve heard him speak on this call, surprisingly. You expected maybe even just a little tease about installing new safety features on the Batcycle or something, which wouldn’t be out of place given how recklessly you drive. 

Actually, you do everything recklessly. Maybe they’re just used to it at this point. Why worry about someone who’s always in trouble?

“The real ones would get it..” your mumbled back. There’s the Batcycle’s roar again, then the sound of a grapple. Silent, almost unnoticeable footsteps approach. You complete your earlier quote with a weak gasp and a cry of “Hatsune Miku?!” as a strong pair of arms scoop you up.

Jason, above you, groans quietly. At least he got the reference.

“Shut it. You’re probably concussed or something.” he grumbled. You laugh under your breath, nod, and then immediately regret it because it makes you feel even sicker.

“Blegh.. I’m gonna vomit on you..” you mumbled. Your vision has cleared somewhat and your head is pounding. You assume adrenaline is what carried you from the crash and through the fight, which is just as well because without it, you would definitely be dead.

“Don’t even.” Jason huffed back, but with the kind of fondness that an older brother coule have. The kind that says ‘I wouldn’t mind you vomiting on me if it made you feel better in the long run’. Jason’s a good older brother. You should say that more; he definitely deserves to hear it. 

Not right now, though.

Right now, you’re basking in the in-between state of consciousness and unconsciousness, even as Jason leaps from building to building with you cradled in his arms like you’re an overgrown baby.

Jason must’ve looked down at you, because he scoffed quietly. Gently, he squeezed you.

“Rest. I got you.” he said quietly, and you closed your eyes and let the darkness take you.

Chapter Text

You wake up inside the belfry approximately three hours later. The sun is just beginning to rise and the belfry is cast in a twilight hue, the in-between state between slumber and wakefulness. As if Gotham itself is indecisive. 

The second thing you notice is the distinct rumble of rain pelting the windows, shaking the old things in their frames.

The third is that you had a very good opportunity to use the Hamilton line “I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory” when you believed you were dying, and more of the Bats would’ve gotten it. A missed opportunity to be sure, but you’re certain that it’ll be used later down the line. When the moment’s right, naturally, or the joke’ll fall flat.

The fourth and final thing you notice is that you’ve been laid on the couch, a pillow under your head and a blanket over your sprawled limbs, with a sick bucket to the side of you. The other Bats have scrounged up blankets, pillows, and anything comfortable so they could all sleep on the floor. 

Dick and Jason are sleeping lengthways, their heads resting toward the mounted TV and their feet nearer to the couch. Tim and Barbara are sleeping sideways, perpendicular to the couch. They fit together like some horrible, uncomfortable game of Tetris that no one asked for.

Alfred.

You perk up immediately, craning your head in the direction of Alfred’s armchair that sits tucked in the corner of this upper loft. His hands are in his lap and he’s sleeping upright.

Yowch. That can’t be comfortable. None of their positions can. Then again, no one can install a bedroom into the belfry, and since a majority of the Bats are mostly living here, they have to get used to the ache of sore sleeping positions.

Floor, one. Bats, nil.

You guys’ll score eventually. Maybe. Hopefully.

As quietly as possible to avoid waking the sleeping Bats, you get up from the couch and sneak off downstairs. Though it is tempting, you do not sing the Mission Impossible theme under your breath: you’d wake at least one Bat, unfortunately.

However, Alfred’s caretaking abilities must be strong, as you only step one foot in the designated Kitchen Corner(TM) before the older man’s voice echoed across the belfry.

“I do hope you weren’t planning to cook.” he said, intercepting you with long, graceful strides. While Alfred didn’t coddle anyone, he also knew your habit to be a bit of a klutz and he’d rather not risk an accident involving fire.

You smile placatingly and slip into a chair at the dining table instead, watching Alfred cook.

“How are you feeling? Truly.” he asked. You dip your head to the table, tracing circles around the grain. 

Your head is throbbing, although thankfully the sensation is dulled. An annoyance, but not an issue. The places you were sure would bruise now definitely have, if the aching is anything to go by, but it’s nothing major, life threatening, or even that annoying.

“Fine.” you answered, nodding once as if to secure the message. Alfred turns his back to you, but he can’t hide the worried sigh that escapes his lips.

You’ve always been reckless. However, there’s been a noticeable uptick in just how often you get into situations like this since Bruce died.

If asked, you’ll deny it.

Deny, deny, deny.

You shove it down, boxed and locked and shipped to the furthest corner of your mind where you’ll never, ever touch it because you don’t need to. You’ve made it this far without acknowledging a lot of things.

They worry about you. They wish you’d worry for yourself.

You smile anyway.

“What about the Batcycle?” you asked. “Is it damaged? scuffed?”

Alfred turns back to you with a cup of tea and sets it in front of you.

“Nothing Master Jason can’t fix.” Alfred assured quietly. 

Your breakfast is ready shortly after, refusing to look Alfred in the eye as you downright scoff your food — you’ve been so hungry — and then guzzle your tea.

You’re sleepy again. Alfred helps you to your feet, walks you back up to the loft, and tucks you back in on the couch.

“Sleep well,” he says, running a polite, grandfatherly hand over your hair before stepping away, letting you sink down, down, into the cushions and into dreamland with a full stomach and a fuller heart.

Chapter Text

Wowie. They sure did fuck up sending you to rescue Penguin, huh? (or, rather, you were suited up and out of the belfry the minute Cobblepot croaked about ‘needing help’ before anyone could stop you.)

(....which then also turned out to be a trap.)

Now you’re here. In some.. maze. Your head is fuzzy, your limbs just a little heavy, and maybe.. maybe a little scared. Which is justified. You were drugged and kidnapped.

It’s the Court. You know that. The Court’s trying to get in your head.

They’re trying to get in your head.

It repeats like a broken record, or maybe a gunshot.

They’re trying to get in your head.

Everything they’ve thrown at you so far; these big, open rooms, full of stuff that is designed to make you doubt. At least, you think that’s their aim here?

But your will is strong. Or maybe you’re just delusional.

It won’t get you. It won’t, and it hasn’t. They’re using tech to mimic Bruce’s voice, probably, but when you read between the lines, it’s generic nonsense.

“I never should have recruited you” this, and “You’re useless to me” that. As if you don’t already know that you’re a burden onto the lives of the people you care about.

That’s the thing, though. You care about these people, and purely to spite someone — other people, maybe, or yourself. You’re never sure — you continue to spend time with them.

The Court can’t get in your head unless you let them, and by golly, you are not going to.

You let spite carry you, wobbly and raw, through the many trials of the rooms. You know this maze can’t be a dream, or just smoke and mirrors. No. It’s..

You brace a hand on the nearest, intentionally grimed-up wall beside you, catching your breath.

It’s a game. With a giant robot. In the second game, there’s a smaller robot. A... a sphere — no, core. In that game, both the first and second, there were shifting plates. Rotating rooms.

Portal.

Yes.

The Court must have taken inspiration from Portal and made giant shifting rooms. They definitely had the funds for it, the space, and the tech.

Pleased with your deduction, you pushed on.

The Court won’t break you. No one will. No one will ever break you again.

Your feet carry you forward. At the next room, this time with Bruce’s grave, you laugh.

It’s low, and wrong, but you’ve been struggling to taste real joy since Bruce died. It’s your laugh now, and you let it out. You angle your head up at the shadowed nothingness of the ceiling.

“Is this what you think I’m scared of?!” you holler. Your voice echoes. Let it, a bitter part of you snarls. A wounded dog in the corner of your mind, bitter and mean. You keep it on a tight leash for the sake of your Family, who have never deserved that kind of anger.

The Court blocked comms, though. The Court want to get in your head.

They want to get in your head.

You’re delirious, and you’re dazed, and you miss home very, very much. Somehow, despite the deadly traps, you never die if you hit one. Just get sent back to some place, on some stone bed, and the moment is framed. It’s what clued you into the maze not being a dream: you’d tried willing a lot of this place a way and nothing happened.

“You’re pathetic!” you continue. Is it wrong to provoke the guys with feral Talons while you’re out of sorts? probably. You don’t care. Let them learn not to take you from your family ever again.

There’s no answer. You’re not sure you wanted one. Instead, you hold up your middle finger and shamble to the right.

A door!

You’re shaken from your daze at the sight of it, ignoring the “I thought you could be useful.. maybe use you as cannon fodder.. but you couldn’t even do that right!” of Not-Bruce’s voice in the background, running toward their exit.

(The Court is clearly not as all-knowing as they pretend to be. If they were, they’d know how desperately Bruce fought to keep you from willingly using yourself as cannon fodder. You’d have been dead a while back if it wasn’t for spite and your family keeping you alive.)

You theory — shifting rooms — is proven right by the way the door is pulled away from your direction, a crooning “No escape..!” from a pre-recorded Court Member going unnoticed. 

You will get out of here. You will go home to the belfry. They will not get in your head.