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ellesthots · 12 days ago

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Fateful Beginnings

XXXVII. “Luminol”

parts: previous / next

plot: the Batman investigates a string of murders. Bruce gets protective attending the first rally for Gotham’s mayoral election.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, blood, description of injury (crime scene stuff), anxiety, rumination, sexual content

words: 14k

a/n: a chapter entirely Bruce’s perspective 🤭 y’all are gonna like this one 👀 getting to dive into his mind was so fun 🦇

His body lit up like a string of lights. His body, your hands. Up his stomach to his chest, down his shoulder and arm…

He couldn’t shake the look in your eyes when you’d grabbed his hand, panicked, searching him for comfort. God, he was used to people seeking him out for solace, safety; he was used to being made into a symbol of reassurance, even hope. But when you looked at him that same way, it was different. Like somehow the weight of the world rested in it.

You texted him a picture of frozen carrots, joking about the additional vitamins. He responded with a joke about peas being more effective, before blinking back into his environment and staring at his phone in disbelief. This was what was taking up his time? He was still on patrol. Not only that, but he was half in the suit, in public.

He clicked his armor back in and donned the cowl. The rest of the night was spent in near-total isolation, with Gordon unable to be contacted besides the brief run-in at the subway station. He wondered how he had time to respond to a call like that, but not to return his messages. Must’ve already been in the area.

All he had to do was drive in the area near vandalists for them to buckle. He never found much joy in things like that—it felt routine. Droplets of rain peppered his windshield, giving him more attention than anyone in Gotham the entire night. It was like the city was asleep. Not right. He drove, and drove, and tried to contact anyone on the GCPD to no avail. Something really wasn’t right; they hated to hear from Batman, that was evident, but they never declined a late-night call, just as desperate to get their hands dirty.

What started as a usual patrol dissolved into a hunt for any officer. Just as the first streams of dawn were peeking behind the clouds, he spotted a patrol car in front of a diner. An officer was fishing something out of their vehicle, and he squinted at the incoming headlights, throwing a hand over his eyes. He didn’t recognize the man; he looked young, a new hire. GCPD hadn’t hired anyone new in ages. The last time had been right after the flooding.

Once he realized the Batman was approaching, the man choked on something, knocking his chest to catch his breath. He made his voice gravelly, a movement so instinctual he never thought about it; when he entered the suit, he entered the voice—until you came around, apparently.

“Where’s Gordon?”

The man’s eyes flashed, and he swallowed back the last of his spit. His eyes were red, strained. He’d been up all night. Not unusual for new hires, a sort of hazing. He shook his head, his shoulders slumping. He wouldn’t make eye contact, staring at the bat’s leather boots.

“Haven’t met him yet, I don’t know. I can ca—”

He growled under his breath, turning on his heel to return to his car. He slammed into the driver’s side and jammed on the gas, ripping past the officer. He’d already cleared the area near the subway, trying to uncover any cleverly disguised patrol cars, had the scanner blasting through the speakers, but nothing revealed itself. It didn’t track, leaving him drowning in an unsettled, ruffled headspace. Were they intentionally hiding something from him?

When he arrived back at Wayne Tower, he was wired and unsatisfied. He worked through the morning, searching every index, newspaper, and engine for leads. Whatever this was, it was under wraps.

But if it was big, why wouldn’t he be clued in? Gordon never failed to elicit his support for a gruesome, intense, or mysterious case. It had to be one of those, because menial crimes didn’t have all hands on deck like this.

Nothing.

He got up to put on his hoodie and jacket again, head to the station, bike around town, but Alfred had a sixth sense; already walking out of the elevator with a mug of tea that spread the scent of lavender about the basement. Bruce smelt him before hearing the clip of his cane.

“You need some shuteye.” The soft slurp of the drink eviscerated his eardrums, irritability coating him like flaking skin.

“I’m fine.”

“You’ll focus better.”

Bruce pressed on, the pit in his stomach sinking deeper. His brain was crowded, but empty. Filled with nothing real, nothing tangible. Exhausted from scrolling, searching, driving, looking, with no information to chew on. He wouldn’t rest until he got an answer on why the GCPD was freezing him out.

“You need to take care of yourself.”

Need this, need that. He hid his balled fists in the baggy clumps of his jacket, grabbing the scarf from the bench with a snap. He wasn’t halfway through wrapping it when Alfred cleared his throat. Bruce wasn’t looking back, instead rolling his eyes to the ceiling. They’d have another argument if the old man kept this up. He wasn’t a child, and the events of the past week hadn’t changed that.

“Bruce.”

He still refused to look, tying the scarf at the back and flipping up his hood. The weather today would be cloudy, the cloudiest it’d been in months. He finally had the backdrop to get work done during the day. Something to busy him—shit. He cast his eyes down and slammed past Alfred, all but punching the button to the foyer. Trying hard not to think about it, he rushed to the cabinet closest to the sink and took his meds, lowering his head to drink straight from the spout. As the water glided the olanzapine into his stomach, he thought how the only reason he was taking it was to alleviate your suffering. It hadn’t been pleasant having the hallucinations, but every pill taken felt like a deeper acceptance of his decaying mind. He did his best to force dissociation.

He grabbed an apple off the table and was met with Alfred blocking the elevator doors.

“If you don’t let me go, I’ll take the stairs.”

“Look at yourself, boy. You’re worn thin.” Bruce’s frame was turned in, shoulders slumped, bags under his eyes. His voice was thick with exhaustion, frayed. Red flag after red flag. Alfred wouldn’t let the boy be so careless without a fight, if that was what this came to.

He needed to keep moving; every moment of stillness, of silence, felt like nails scraping his skull. He took a hard right and walked through the kitchen hallway, frustrated to hear footsteps following. “Alfred, that’s enough.” He tried to keep his tone leveled, not tip off just how frustrated he was, how close he was to turning and ripping Alfred a new one, or breaking down into tears. The feeling of grief hadn’t left him since the cemetery, save the fleeting blip of time where you’d careened into the alley, panicked. He wanted to stop thinking about that, too.

Alfred called after him. The man was fast when he wanted to be, and he heard him pick up speed. He said something else Bruce ignored, shoving through the door to the staircase, rushing down flight after flight, his chest starting to burn as he got closer to the ground, dozens of stairs slipping under the sole of his boots every few seconds. He tripped on the last stair and fell out the door, grating his palms against the cement. The stairs led to a side exit not viewable from the front or back, with a cloak of trees lining his escape.

Thankfully, he thought ahead for circumstances like these. In case the tunnels ever flooded, or the ceiling collapsed, or Alfred was being particularly obtrusive, he kept a car and motorbike stowed a quarter mile away. Every step made the tower less loud, creating space for him to prioritize, hone in on the mission. Figure out what the hell’s going on. What’s keeping the GCPD locked up.

The bike took a second to start, requiring some finicky tinkering before it would do more than rev up and die. Soon enough he was speeding into downtown, wanting to stake out the station in the central city. Gordon’s office resided there, though he often vacillated between there and the east side. If his personal car wasn’t parked in the garage, he’d ride east.

And there it was. Good as gold. A beat-up old Honda. Ice had crusted over the windshield from the chill the night before. Pulled an all-nighter. He rarely did that on weekends, opting to spend it with his family unless… Christ, what the hell was going on?

He didn’t expect Gordon to walk out right then, and cursed himself for not having the suit. Gordon got in the police car closest to the building doors, Martinez trailing behind looking beat. He held a lidless paper cup of black coffee in his left hand, his badge stretching out the pocket on his jacket. Might’ve even been the second, or third day on patrol. Running on fumes. The lip on Martinez’s coffee was worn and soaked, the paper uncurling and soggy. Far from his first cup.

Waiting a few seconds after they pulled out, Bruce dallied in front of the police doors on his bike, pretending it wouldn’t start to take a quick peek through the windows. It was empty, save the security and receptionist. He sped off a few seconds later, following the glow of the taillights through the fog.

Tailing cops was easy, tailing Gordon wasn’t. He had to stay further back than he wanted, take turns only to turn back, cut the lights, either far enough removed to turn a street before, or close enough to their bumper he had to keep on past when they stopped. This drive was quick and dirty. Not long, very specific. Turns he didn’t think he would take, every time.

They landed at a house that looked like it was still recovering from the flood—the beige paint had faded into a peely pink, shingles broken off the roof, windows patched together with duct tape. He watched as Gordon and Martinez entered, the door opening off only one hinge. A small child was in the doorway holding a raggedy stuffed bear, and someone who looked like their sibling stood above them, holding their shoulders. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pair of binoculars, seeing on the zoom that their faces were blotchy and red, eyes puffy. Someone had died there.

That was when he noticed a flash of yellow tape in the kitchen, before the older child pulled the door shut. Unable to see through the taped-up front windows and no more being visible on the bottom floor, he pulled out his phone and searched the residence. Current renter was Raina Altruss, who appeared to be a lunch lady at the elementary school nearby. No arrest records, not even a speeding ticket. It couldn’t have been anyone else, unless she was so moved by grief that she’d let her small children open the door for the officers. Why weren’t they being taken to the station? Was a social worker already on the way, or were they letting that slip, too?

Murders took a decent chunk of time to investigate, even in the acute phase. Especially so if she’d had an abusive partner, less if it was a suicide, but that wasn’t typical for single mothers here; too attached to their children and desperate to protect in a city so dangerous, but who knew. Certainly he didn’t.

There wasn’t much he could get done outside of the suit, and he couldn’t very well get into it during the day… and he didn’t know how much longer Gordon would be on shift. His gait was dragging across the mangled porch, eyelids heavy. She was listed as having two children, now orphaned. He hated the thought of going back home so soon, but saw no way around it. He needed to get working on the emergency planning, nap, and have a bite before heading out tonight. Days that were this uneventful meant trouble would soon follow, and going to a murder scene in broad daylight wasn’t an option. Restless, kinetic energy climbed through the trees on his drive home.

He slept down in the basement, not wanting Alfred to know he’d arrived. He kept a makeshift cot tucked under the desk; whenever Alfred noticed it was out, he complained that Bruce would ‘break his back’ on it, but he was tired enough between patrols to not notice. This time was no different, drifting off the second he’d set his alarm.

He slept hard, without dreams.

Only a few hours of sleep later, he was back to prepping. No more info came up about Altruss, or much else for that matter. He was left staring at the emergency planning document with weary, tired eyes, mind blank. He tackled what he assumed was the easiest one first, but he couldn’t come up with an orienting item. He looked around the basement, felt the weightiness of different tools, pens, and other miscellaneous items, but nothing felt tethering. Only after working through the dusty bottoms of old cardboard boxes did he find one: his old cufflinks, the W loud and proud. The surface just smooth enough, just rough enough. It felt significant in his fingers, cold, heavy, hollow.

As he rolled it between his finger and thumb, heat pricked his eyelids, and his breathing shallowed before he could register it. Memories of his father’s first campaign rally, the bend of his knee as he crouched to hand Bruce a small package with a blue velvet bow. His mom was putting in earrings by the door with one hand, the other wrestling on her heels. She always had trouble getting them over the heel of her left foot, and he never knew why. His dad helped him attach the cuffs to the wrist of his jacket, and ruffled his hair as he stood. He clinked Bruce’s wrist with his own pair, and Bruce grinned, pulling his smile into the one he’d rehearsed in the mirror that morning. “Your father’s going to be on TV, honey. We all have to look our best.” She’d pulled a tight smile in the mirror, and he mimicked it.

As he was pulled back to the gray concrete around him, he thought miserably that his orienting item could be the throbbing ache in his chest. His eyes swept around the room, and he swore he could hear the echo of his breathing in the emptiness. His stomach began to clench and twist, the sensation that never failed to precede a guttural cry and blurry, fragmented vision. He pocketed the cufflinks and walked back to the computer to check it off the list. His mouse squeaked against the metal as his fingers slipped to the edge of the desk, head hung as he winced, feeling like he was breathing through a straw.

In a tinny blur, he shoved his weight into his elbows to push him upright. Ignoring the cues in his body to slow down, to sit, to feel, he grabbed the ear of his cowl.

It was still light, so he found refuge in the watchtower. He sent a message to Gordon about being available, and needing to discuss something urgent, intentionally keeping it vague. The suit felt heavier tonight, as the wind whizzed around the edges of his towering frame, staring down the interweaving streets. Every time a thought threatened to form, he focused on another pedestrian, another street. In secret, trying to hide from the parts of him with a screaming conscience, he begged for violence. Someone to throw a punch at someone smaller, someone vulnerable. An arsonist to light a house so he could run inside, grab the kids, usher out the parents, feel the weight of the held door on his hip, let his mind quiet.

His prayer was answered with the rattle of the elevator’s ascent. Gordon walked through with a rush, his shoulders slumped more than before, his footing unsteady. “Hey man, sorry. Had to book it from the subway last night. Been swamped.”

“Too swamped to return a call?”

Gordon sighed, the end of it hoarse, depleted. “I only have a minute, thought to tip you off.” His glasses were smudged and fogged. “String of murders, same as the John Doe. Strung up by knives.” He made a face and pulled his glasses off, cleaning them on the bottom of his jacket. When he put them on, they weren’t much better.

Batman had to clench his fists, slam his tongue to the roof of his mouth, as his thoughts flew to the handles. Gordon motioned for him to come over, pulling a folded packet out of his breast pocket. He held his gaze at the ground a second longer, thoughts spiraling over if they’d have the owl insignia. Gordon was already beginning to fold them up as quickly as he took them out, so he was forced to glance over—

—empty, undisturbed handles on the same knives. He let out a breath as Gordon walked over to the elevator, motioning for him to follow. “Headed to another right now, last stop for the night. Only a few blocks.”

Consumed by more crushing confirmation that he’d lost his mind, he was grateful Gordon was barely standing, without reserve to perceive him. There’d never been marks on the knives. His mind had put them there. The creature hadn’t attacked him, he’d been alone. He stared at some graffiti by the CALL button, ruminating on its outline to create more distance between him and his thoughts.

He paid attention to the puddles of light from the streetlights on the short drive. Would’ve counted the cracks in the windows he passed if he’d been going any slower. This house wasn’t as dilapidated as the last one, but still disheveled. Another vehicle had already arrived with the officer from the diner. He felt the weight of his cape tugging on his neck with each thudding step.

Walking into the scene, the first thing he noticed was the victim strung up in the same fashion as the John Doe. Knives peppering the outer edges of the body, outlining the frame with throwing knives. The handles were smooth and unaffected. The Batman stepped closer, moving his breathing from his nose to his mouth. He sidestepped the forensics team beginning to work across the kitchen, moving to see the areas of impact on the victim’s body.

Everything was clean but the puncture areas, and their blood fallout. On immediate notice, his eyes followed the passive pattern of the stains across the victim’s body–whoever had done this had done it fast enough that the stains were strictly linear, undisturbed. He overheard Gordon talking to the lead, murmuring something about the victim ‘strung up like a dartboard’. “If it weren’t for the blood stain in the corner, it’s almost like the assailant stuck him there in space.”

His gaze analyzed the drip pattern in the stains down the victim’s body–they fell behind the woman toward the wall, though she was upright. She was on her back when it happened. Blood in a steady, linear stream. On the ground long enough for it to dry. His eyes trailed down to her ankles, where the blood was moving backwards, curved and zigzagged against her brown skin. She was lifted up by her ankles. The blood was darker and more clotted than the stains on her shoulders. Those wounds happened first. He leaned his head down to peek at her fingernails–clean, manicured. Hadn’t put up a fight–at least hadn’t gotten a hand on them, or anything else.

His eyes caught next on a hoodie placed on the dining table to her right. The table was clean, at least without visible stains. His gloved fingers picked up the hoodie. Static stain. Even, circular edges. He flipped the hoodie over–no transfer to the textile. Whoever did this stuck around a while.

A soft movement of air from his left side, an analyst approached with a ruler, donned in a white coverall and mask. After she snapped a few photos with her camera, her gloved hands lined the ruler through the brown dots on the glass countertop. Long axis. He squinted. Four millimeters. He waited for her to move to the width. Two millimeters. She grabbed her pencil beside her and jotted the measurements down. Four over two: point five. Arcsin of point five is thirty. “Thirty degrees.” He kept his voice low, but she still startled. He repeated himself. “Convergence is thirty.”

He stared down at the ruled lines as she double-checked his work herself. His eyes roughly mapped the distance from the edge of the stain to the convergence. Twenty-two. Tangent of twenty-two… “Origin’s fourteen point four two.” Whoever the perp was, they wanted to experience it. Close to the victim. Possibly personal. Possible bludgeoning.

Just below the tabletop, he noted a small cluster of droplets pooled on the wood floor. Spiny outer ring, pooled closest to dining room door. Drag marks faint toward the wall. She’d been dragged up to it after being attacked by the dining table. The analyst finished writing down the same number as he had, stowing her calculator in the front pocket of the coverall.

He stepped a few feet back from the body to see if any stains dripped to the floor, but found nothing. A tingle shot up his spine. Numerous knives jammed through the perimeter of victim’s flesh. Some blood trailed down around the punctures. Nothing on the ground underneath. On the quick sweep of the room, he didn’t notice anyone else calculating splatters. Nothing appeared on the ceiling, either.

Not enough blood for the stabbings to have finished it.

Gordon wandered over with his notebook, noticing the rapid movement of Batman’s eyes across the room, waiting until it lingered on the floor in front of him before speaking. “What do you think?” Gordon noticed the sweatshirt placed alongside the blood splatter, having watched him remove it a minute earlier. “Not very smart. Thinking someone wouldn’t check underneath the hoodie.”

He grunted. “It’s no amateur.” Gordon followed as he did a sweep around the room, nothing catching his naked eye. He wondered if they’d do Luminol on this one, or if they didn’t think a layperson important enough. The only discernible bloodstains were on the table, just underneath, and painting the skin of the victim. Strange. “Killer knew just where to hit. Avoided major vessels. That many knives, it’s purposeful.” He walked to the victim and the table again, keeping his eyes wide with slow, sweeping looks to further analyze once he got home. He paused with Gordon on his way to the rest of the house. “Wanted us to discount them. Cheapened their work.”

“You think they placed the sweatshirt there on purpose?”

“Look at the blood patterns on the victim. Stains on the ground. She was dragged by her feet, strung up after. Shoulder wounds happened on the ground. No signs of struggle or aspiration. Tell the team to use Luminol. Swab and test it.”

The lead had heard Batman, looking at him apprehensively before rustling through a bag at the entryway. He followed Gordon’s step back for the analyst to compute the convergence and origin of the ground stain, and another assistant to snap photos, grab samples. A few minutes later the liquid was being sprayed, the analyst moving to dim the lights.

Absolutely nothing.

He felt a chill underneath his suit, his heart rate quickening. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck, excitement stretching from his core to the tips of his fingers. Interesting. Either they’d died from blood loss and the killer was a professional, or they’d died from less visible, traceable means, and this was some kind of performance art. Whatever it was, it was intentional, and they knew what they were doing.

“Victim needs a full internal exam. Not enough blood loss, likely killed by something else.” He looked to see a window cracked in the far corner of the adjoining living area. Open floor plan. Carbon monoxide? But a cracked window would give the method away. He looked to the oven, seeing no brown or yellow stains. Likely coming from a water heater, furnace, or dryer. He walked through the living room to the window, his gaze lingering at the sill, the same analyst following in tow. She pulled out a duster and black powder, and started searching for prints.

He walked through the hallway to the laundry room, where he found nothing. He followed the door it went through to the garage, but there was no car. He checked the heater, but nothing was out of order. Clean, well-maintained, no scent anywhere in the house besides the copper sting of blood around the victim. If it was poisoning, must’ve brought in a generator.

He passed through to the windowsill again, the black powder picking up a single half-print on the left-corner of the sill. Unusual gripping point to lift. Half, but clear–left like a gift for even the most novice crime-scene investigator. Suspicious.

A remote was placed underneath the sill; after the assistant came to photograph the analyst’s work, the Batman grabbed the remote, flicking on the television.

Channel 5 news. Looked live. Nothing of note, talking about the weather. Nothing on the chyron at the bottom of the screen. Volume set to five. The five on the keypad was worn-in. Could be coincidence. Popular news channel, especially living on the east side. Volume kept low. Or maybe they heard an intruder coming and lowered the volume. He held the remote out to look for any marks, and sure enough, there were faint oils from a fingerprint on the VOLUME DOWN arrow. He handed the analyst the remote, gesturing with his eyeline to her duster, and made his way out the front door.

Walking the perimeter of the house gave nothing away. No tracks outside the window where anything was laid or rolled, and no visible impressions in the front, sides, or back yard grass to establish any sort of intrusion. The killer entered through the front, and left the same. Everything itched all the right–and wrong–spots in his brain, feeling the gears in his head begin to turn. It could take days for the print’s results to come back, the same for the coroner’s report.

He walked back in and surveyed the living area again. Nothing out of the ordinary outside of the haphazardly placed remote, placed just so that it could have fallen off the arm of the couch—if the investigators were idealists. Batman wasn’t.

He did a last look around the kitchen, noting everything in place. Not a single item or square foot in the house glared back at him. The killer didn’t mess around. In and out, but long enough for the blood to dry. Disturbing nothing save what they wanted to—the window, the table, and the body.

As the forensics team cleaned up, a medical examiner walked in with trainees in tow. Their eyes were wide and bright, and they fiddled with their gloves and masks like they were worried they weren’t on correctly. Lot of newbies today. Didn’t sit right, not at all.

He followed Gordon out, and stood between their respective vehicles to give report. “Same as the last three.”

Three? “Why wasn’t I called to them?”

“It’s been a long night, man. It was either call you, or eat.” He flipped through his spiral again, flipping past the front pages where Bruce had given his statement earlier. He wanted to push him harder, make it known he needed to be called into these crimes. Did they not realize he’d pieced together more for the GCPD in the past year than the decade they’d been left to their own devices? Gordon didn’t leave space for him to push. “Same situation. Victims strung up by knives, little evidence otherwise. First time we recovered a print, though.”

“None on the knife handle?”

Gordon shook his head. “We’ll get the print looked at ASAP. Should only be a coupla hours, but don’t get your hopes up.”

Batman tucked into an adjacent street and accessed his computer via phone. The hum of the police scanner in the background tugged at the outskirts of his attention as he pored over the victim’s names of the past few days. Gordon had given him the names of the victims, in order.

Ulysses Ecuatorro

Bradley Yates

Raina Altruss

Elizabeth Weiss

Hours of searching later, he couldn’t pin a golden thread between them. None in related fields, no glaring convictions. Yates had a speeding ticket, Ecuatorro a DUII three years earlier. They spanned age groups, and were scattered across town in a way he couldn’t find a pattern in. That in and of itself was a pattern. An observation.

Altruss was a lunch lady; looking at her social media, news of her death had already reached friends and family. Messages of love poured in, with varying other Altruss’ family members commenting on how great they would take care of her children, ‘in her honor’. He moved away from Altruss quickly.

Weiss had a kid too—he blinked, typing that into a different tab. Each person had children, that was a common thread. How had he overlooked that? Weiss was recently divorced, with a daughter who’d just celebrated her tenth birthday not two weeks earlier. One of the comments stuck out to him: Many blessings, Lizzie. Babygirl is in good hands. Could be a normal message, could not. According to her socials, the divorce process was speedy; in the span of two months, she’d filed, and it’d been completed. Her name had been changed the next day. Desperate to escape him? Most of her posts regarded ‘mental health awareness’. Gaslit her? Manipulated her? Abused her? Records showed joint custody. No big halts on either party’s end. Seemed to be in agreement. If it had been that easy to agree, why’d they get divorced at all? The man was an ex-cop. Propensity to violence. Marvin O’Lander. Graduate of GU. Degree in business. Failed business venture? Took it out on his family? Police work appeared to be a second-choice—such celebration at graduating, plans of a business, then… nothing. Bruised ego. Lots of opportunity in that. Then why the appreciative comment from his side of the family? Was it appreciative? Threatening? They were mutual friends on socials. An ally? Double-crosser? All of the kids were under the age of ten, but no further discernible pattern. Varied income levels. Varied neighborhoods. Varied cultural backgrounds. Varied ages at time of death. Varied relationship status. Varied interests. Varied social presence. Though… everyone was being mourned in droves. Ecuatorro, Yates, Altruss, Weiss. Valued community members. Engaged in their communities. Serving others in some fashion. His eyes fuzzed staring fixedly at the small screen, his shoulders, back, body tense. Where’s the tension stemming? Stomach? Chest? Throat? Stomach. Cinch in stomach. Tight, coiled, like a spring ready to bounce. Tingles again, up arm and shoulders. Altruss. Ecuatorro. Yates. Weiss. Yates, Ecuatorro, Altruss, Weiss. Weiss, Altruss, Ecuatorro, Yates. Any pattern in the names? Order of their deaths? Ecuatorro. Yates. Altruss. Weiss. Raina, Elizabeth, Bradley, Ulysses. Four victims so far. Channel five. Volume five. Five victims? One left to be found? Did the names—

Gordon rang. “Print’s back. Tech said it was one of the clearest they’ve ever run.” Prints never came back that fast, no matter how clear.

With calculated speed, he arrived to the residence of Cecilia Natividad, a woman who lived as far North as the city stretched. He got there before any officers, cutting through back streets and jamming the gas with what was perceived as reckless abandon; in reality, he noticed the color of every tree that passed, the name of every street corner, could re-identify each pedestrian that (rarely) appeared with a nearly photographic accuracy. He felt electric, alive.

The residence was quaint, single-story. A cat peeked up from the porch, blinking sleepily while they stretched. The door was already open. He pressed his back to it as he slunk in, the cat slipping behind him, making a beeline to a closed door to the left of the kitchen doorway. The TV was off, the house silent. He opened his palm, making sure the taser was accessible on a fast grab. He held his breath, his chest puffing, as he peered around the corner… to an empty kitchen. The house was smaller than it looked on the outside; one bedroom to the left, with a closed door, and one to the right, wide open. The cat was lingering by the closed one, going so far as to meow for him to pay attention. He ignored the animal, and crept into the open bedroom first.

Nothing. Undisturbed bedroom, undisturbed bathroom outside of it in the mini hallway. He felt his shoulders squeeze in as his eyes scanned the entirety of the space. Not much room to walk, low ceilings, stuffy carpet. The carpet held heavy track lines from the front door to the couch, the couch to the kitchen, and the kitchen to the far bedroom. The person who lived here liked routine; whatever child he assumed they had was either too small to walk.. no, no baby toys. No toys at all. The bedroom looked neutral, nondescript. The child was old enough to be done with fairytale and spontaneity. Old enough to be out of the house for the time being. Another divorcee? Joint custody? Full custody? His hand hovered above the doorknob; the putrid stench of thick, fresh blood revealed itself as a mural on the wall with two letters: C N, with an exclamation point. The C was separate to the N, which was almost flush to the exclamation. His eyes hung there, the sensation of dreadful realization washing over him before his mind caught up.

C _ _ _ _ _ N_!

The woman was stamped to the wall in the same way. No blood pooling beneath, blood spills across her skin in the same pattern. This was the same killer, beyond the shadow of a doubt. He walked closer to the mural, noting the indent in the blood on the dot of the punctuation mark. He spun around to the click of a gun, Martinez and Gordon the first to enter the house. He scowled, never failing to be frustrated at their attachment to lethal means. They tucked their guns into their holsters with a disheartened sigh, Martinez containing his eyes to the floor, swallowing back what he assumed was bile. His nose scrunched to confirm his evaluation.

“Jesus.” Gordon adjusted his glasses and drew a breath, his cheeks expanding as he held it to walk closer. “Same damn thing…”

”Prints in the exclamation point. Have the investigators pull there.” The Batman huffed, his mind suddenly foggy. Her initials, not a next victim… He mapped the spaces between the letters by the width of those already there, and judged the word’s length. C_ _ _ _ _ N_!

Martinez squinted as his eyes adjusted to the room’s bright lighting. “CN? Her name’s on the house. Identifiable.”

C……….N…….

A pattern. In the names. Cecilia Natividad. Bradley Yates. He envisioned a game of hangman, dropping letters into the air. BY. UE. RA. EW. CN.

Bruce Wayne. Fuck.

He bolted out to his car as forcefully as was possible without drawing too much attention. The letters were placed too transparently. It was too obvious. Writing the letters out like that. Too obvious when everything else wasn’t. Hiding in plain sight. The killer wanted to send a message to Bruce Wayne, an unmissable one. He careened back to Wayne Tower while he furiously rung Alfred. Miserable flashbacks hit him like bombs as he shouted for him to answer, voice going hoarse. He picked up, and Bruce had never been so grateful to not hear Dory’s voice.

“Bruce?—”

”Are you okay?” He couldn’t cover the strain in his voice, or the crack at the end of it, or the tears forming in his tear ducts in the milliseconds between his question and Alfred’s answer.

“Yes,”

“There’s another serial killer. I’m his next target. Don’t let anybody, or anything in or out. Tighten security.”

Alfred agreed, and the few minutes between hanging up and driving into the basement felt like purgatory. He resisted the urge to compulsively call Alfred every fifteen seconds, his counting never going past that. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Pulling onto the wide road into downtown from the industrial district, he fixed his attention to the top of Wayne Tower. Searching for fumes, fire, anything. At one point a cloud had moved to obscure the top levels, and he felt like he might faint.

He could’ve dry-heaved with relief when Alfred stood at his desk with another mug of tea in hand, moving out of the way as he parked the car at his work station. “Killer targeting you? I read your notes after alerting security.” Bruce pulled off his cowl and sank onto the bench, dragging a towel across his face and hair to soak up the sweat before it rendered him sightless. “Why?”

“There’s a theme. Everyone murdered was a single parent. Only victim with a partner on record is Weiss. Orphaned. Under the age of ten. Initials spell out my name. In full.”

“Do the police know about this?”

“Not yet. Unless someone put the pieces together.” And judging by the level of sheer exhaustion in every officer… unlikely. He got to work straightaway, sending a message first to Gordon about getting that print out of the blood as soon as possible. Would it be a print of his? Someone else? The number ‘five’ swirled in his head. If the killer was declaring another victim, wouldn’t it be six?

Second-guessing himself, feeling his gears turn but doubting his judgment more than ever, he wrote out the names and their initials, plugging in the contacts and pulling up the blood mural on the wall. He motioned for Alfred to come closer. “What do you make of it?”

“Appears to spell out your name. Pretty exactly.”

So he wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t paranoid. Not everything was in his head.

The electrum tab jolted back into view as he revved up his computer for the night ahead. He sent another message to Gordon, who hadn’t yet responded, about checking the victim’s mouth for metal. Alfred hummed behind, wanting to convince the boy to rest his mind while knowing it was a fruitless endeavor, a task that would only strain. Bruce didn’t even hear him leave.

He didn’t know how long it had been, but he knew the smell of Alfred’s afternoon tea. “You’ve been up all night? It’s midday, Bruce.”

Sunday. Midday. Almost time to ready the car, don the suit. He clicked around the various documents littering his screen, his mind on the same loop as before, with no new information. It was grating him. Gordon had responded an hour after the fact, letting him know he checked, and no such luck. No visible fillings or caps, nothing except dead mouth. The autopsy would be given priority due to the sheer scale of the situation and its ongoing nature, but not fast enough. If they were any less invasive, he’d learn how to do them himself and sneak into the coroner’s office to perform them. Couldn’t be that hard, right? At minimum he needed toxicology. What was in each of their systems? What had killed them? He had a few theories, none of which seemed particularly promising. He had such a feeling that this would become more unusual as time went on. How much could he trust that feeling? Could he trust any of his instincts now? How would the medication affect them? Was he useless? Could he attune to his intuition no longer? Was this threat empty, or was it dense, packed, full, stuffed, overflowing, waiting for the one lead that would take him there, the one thing he was overlooking, the piece that was the rug to pull; the diagram-exposing, secret-message encoded video before the bombs went off, that he was too late to catch, what if he was too late now, what if there were more being murdered as he thought this? He needed to call Gordon again, needed to get someone to patch him in—

“Bruce.”

His strained eyes felt like sandpaper with every blink, his eyelid sticking to his inflamed, bruised eyes. He’d made the text of the documents larger, easier to see. Still nothing on electrum. Really? Nothing? Must not be finding it. Looked in all the papers Alfred has, the entire archive of papers from the Gazette and the Times… but only searched until the hundredth page of results. Could search more. Haven’t seen them all. Need to. Three hours ‘til sundown. Might be able to get that done. Need to stake out the residences. Check on Weiss’ husband. Everyone’s so unusually normal. Nothing stands out. Only things that stand out are relevant to the Wayne family, to their murder. Everything had been so uniform. He blinked as he pulled up the images from his contacts and the faxed photos from Gordon of each of their bodies, right next to each other. Placed at the same height against the wall. Same placement on their bodies. Same dragging puncture wounds on their calves—up. Stains down everywhere else. No sign of aspiration. No sign of struggle. If only Gordon got better pictures of their hands. Had any of them struggled? No signs of it. No signs of anything now matter how long he looked at them, no matter how close he got to the screen, how much he zoomed in, out, left, right—

“Bruce!”

What the hell was it? What had killed them? Why hadn’t they hit a single artery? Why no signs of struggle? No fight? No one home at time of death. Able to stick around long enough to wait for blood to dry, just how they wanted it to. Luminol wasn’t foolproof though. Could’ve been a professional; again, which professional? He’d scoured the lists of forensic analysts in the state, students studying forensics, history of discharges at different government agencies around town. Who wanted to threaten him? They couldn’t know he was Batman, right? That thing that attacked, it felt so real… that was something adept at fighting. Knowing their enemy. But that wasn’t real. It wasn’t. Was it related to his parents? The Riddler? He’d already ruled that out. He was still in Arkham, rotting where he belonged. He’d checked. Everything was in place. Nothing had changed, but this. He’d had to confirm with Gordon that the letters had been correct. That the mural was there. Even confirming with Alfred, he was worried his infected mind was contagious, that Alfred and him were living in some sort of surreal state, that the walls of the, maybe the walls, the walls of the building, maybe they had mold. He needed to follow up on that. Mold poisoning, that fucks with people. That kills people. Maybe the appliances were leaking something. Alfred could check that. Would he check it well enough? He needed to check it himself, and pulled out a notepad to add to the to-do list.

His pen dragged a jagged line on the yellowed paper when Alfred placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. He jumped, cricking his neck with the turn toward him. “What?” He looked down at the list, thinking he might be able to get them all tidied up by tonight. Tonight’s patrol would be busy, and hopefully not boring. Hopefully there was something. Anything. A crumb. A whisper. Something fake to follow, even. No. That would distract from the real lead he needed to uncover; why couldn’t he see it? Why was every direction leading nowhere? He’d had more stuff on the Riddler, Joker, Penguin, even Annika and Selina. On the Falcones. Maronis. He always had somewhere to go. But this had absolutely fucking nothing.

“If you won’t sleep, eat. I made an early dinner.”

“I don’t have time for that.”

“You need rest, and you need food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten all weekend.”

“I had an apple.”

“It’s not funny. Come.”

As much as he didn’t want to follow him up, he needed to take his meds. He needed to bring them down to the basement, keep them handy on his desk. Replenish his snack drawer so he didn’t have to leave. Maybe he could install a toilet down there, or get an outhouse. His mind didn’t quiet down as the elevator rose, or he walked to the kitchen; not when he took his medication, or when he forced himself to sit in the chair for precisely one minute while he slammed a bowl of soup, or when it burnt the roof of his mouth, felt the heat sliding down his chest. Alfred had barely sat down before Bruce put his bowl in the sink and descended the elevator, going this time right to his suit.

He’d programmed a button on the hidden screen in his sleeve in bright yellow—bright red was already taken, the color of blood, impossible to miss. Yellow was annoying, much as he felt about needing to even do something like this. If he ever felt supremely distressed, he’d press it. If he was dizzy, he’d press it. If his heart was beating much too fast, he’d press it. He sent a message to Alfred about picking up those calls with urgency, programmed to be received as DISTRESS - CHECK IN, different from the DISTRESS call that let the man know he was in physical peril.

If anything was awry, he needed to press it. No ego. Ego could cost him this whole endeavor, the entire mission. In the message to Alfred, he’d let him know the protocol was shifted from the previous distress call: in this one, he’d answer the call, and triage if he needed support. He hoped, agonizingly aware of how naive it was, that most of the time he’d only need a breather. Alfred would see if he was oriented to person, place, and time, and decide from there if he needed to be rescued. That was all he was doing tonight, outside of pocketing the cufflinks in his tactical pants after pulling them on.

The first stop he made was to Ecuatorro. The house was surrounded in caution tape, but the door was clear. He slipped inside, getting a peek around. Living room’s normal. Kitchen. Bedrooms. Bathroom. He looked at the toilet paper roll—almost unused. Only a few squares removed. He hadn’t planned on dying. The same was true in the kitchen, where all the dirty dishes were in the wash, and a day-old smoothie was just starting to turn in the fridge. There was an outfit folded on the dresser of the man’s bedroom. Keycard beside it for a gym nearby. Who plans to go to the gym if they suspect they’re in trouble?

He couldn’t linger too long in one place. After doing the same across the next four houses, finding nothing, he swore he could feel the top layers of his teeth shedding from being ground so hard. Nothing tying them to him, nothing tying them to each other, no traces, nothing. His black light picked up nothing, he checked every corner, perimeters of each house and every room, what channel the televisions were on (all channel five; again, why not six?), but nothing besides. Channel five. What if that was a clue? His mom had worn it—it was still sitting on top of her dresser in their bedroom. Chanel number five. How would they know that? Couldn’t be related to the perfume. Nonsense. He was thinking nonsense, mind swirling, circling, full. His brain was looking at every thought that passed, inspecting it for a holy realization, some divine intervention. Nothing!

He had to wait for the results of the print to come back, or the autopsy. Waiting was miserable. While he was here, his mind was partially at home, panic treading just below the surface thinking about Alfred being blown to smithereens. Any second could be his last. Any minute, any breath he took, could be one breath more than Alfred. Between each house he circled back to a road with a view of the tower, searching for smoke again, for tendrils, for bright lights, even S.O.S. painted on a window. It never changed. Nothing.

He went back to the watchtower after staking out the houses of each of their known family members. He had a list stuck in his pocket with their names, affiliation, and addresses. No one was coming out at this hour; that was why he’d developed the drifter. He’d decided: at the end of the night, he was going back out. When daybreak hit, and the world shed Batman, he’d see what they were truly up to; he’d find something. Something existed, it had to. Murders didn’t happen without a trace. Or the only trace being a single print muddled with blood. God they were good.

Sunlight streamed through the clouds. It stung his eyes. His mouth matched them now, his saliva abandoning him as his body begged for water, yowling to be taken care of. He trudged back to the basement with bleary eyes, grabbing a stale bottle of water from weeks ago on his desk and wetting his mouth before passing out on his cot, his breathing ragged and deep. Only for an hour. Or less. Need to get back out there. They need help. The city needs help. City needs. Needs. Help. Saving…

“Finally got some rest. Good.”

Bruce gasped awake, springing to his feet. All the blood left his head and he staggered to his desk, his fingers cold on the metal. Alfred was in a new outfit again. He clicked on his monitor and could’ve collapsed; his tone was biting, sharp, almost a scream. “Eleven PM?!” He rushed to his suit, thankful he’d slept in his padding, desperate to get out. So much wasted time, could’ve been out for hours already—

“Slept all day and all night.”

Bruce’s face fell. What? What?!

Alfred watched him scramble along the desk, patting his pockets, likely looking for his phone. His face was contorted tight, scrunched. “Like I’ve told you. If you don’t let yourself rest, your body will force it. You’ve hardly slept in weeks.”

He found his phone, nearly dead, his heart slamming into the ground below his feet. Tuesday. Fucking TUESDAY? “You didn’t wake me—”

“If you’re too exhausted to set an alarm, I won’t interrupt it. Your body needs to recover.”

Bruce struggled to ignore the implications of that, feeling like he’d unknowingly been sentenced to time-out for twenty-seven hours. Twenty-seven hours? TWENTY-SEVEN HOURS? He turned to berate Alfred more, but he’d already zipped up the elevator by the time he formed a thought callous enough to get his point across, but not unnecessarily cruel. He checked his messages for any updates but was rendered empty handed.

Until one popped up right under his thumb.

Report back on the prints. Suspect in custody, just left interrogation. Lookout tonight, nine.

Shit. Already? With those muddied prints? How sure were they?

Alfred sent him a text.

Lieutenant’s here. Says it’s related to the murders.

So they had figured out the letters spelled ‘Bruce Wayne’. He didn’t like sitting across the table from Gordon, but it was easier with his crowded head. Left no space for unrelated thoughts to form. Left no space for him to be passive aggressive over what had happened the last time they’d sat there—the nights, the days, they all rolled together when things got heated. When they didn’t, too. Martinez looked more awake. They both did. He assumed he did, too. The goddamn coma-level nap needed to be worth something. Fuck, how had he let that slip? Why couldn’t Alfred ever see the importance of sharing his priorities? Someone could’ve been killed. Maybe Gordon was about to say so. Maybe he was about to say that the entire city was in flames, Martial Law was put into effect, FEMA was back. Maybe another flood had happened. Maybe—

“Mr. Wayne.” Gordon cleared his throat. Martinez stifled a yawn. He fiddled with papers sliding on the tabletop. “It has come to our attention that a credible threat was made against your life. Last week, a string of murders occurred across the city, details of which we don’t need to engage with at this time. Fingerprints found at the scene matched the profile of Matthew Risou. Does that name ring any bells?”

Risou. Matthew. “None.” MR. Did that stand for anything? Could that shift the meaning of the others? Was that a pseudonym, like the Riddler had gone by? Hidden meaning? He’d scramble up the letters later and dig into it the second Gordon left.

“It appears he was a big fan of yours.”

Martinez laughed under his breath, rolling his eyes. His hand tightened on his belt loop. “Had whole social pages dedicated to you.”

Gordon continued, giving a sideways glance to Martinez. “Yes. Very preoccupied, disturbed. Found a letter at his residence detailing the plans. Thought if he killed people with your initials,” he peered out over his glasses, and Bruce kept his face concerned enough, cloaking the confusion soaring through him. The killer admitted it? Admitted the initials? Thought what? “You might ‘manifest’ into his life.” He shrugged, his pen clicking to the table with a clink.

“Where’d he get that idea?”

“Risou underwent a psychological evaluation after intake. Psychiatrist believes he was hallucinating. He’s enroute to Arkham Asylum as we speak.”

Arkham. So many roads leading there—need to answer them. Can’t be suspicious. Need to be scared, but not too scared. Need to think Bruce Wayne is untouchable. That Risou is below. “Wow…” He shook his head, performing a full sigh. He swallowed a glob of spit for good measure. “How long will he be there? Do I need to worry? I’ll be at a lot of public events the next few months.” Good. Focusing on public image, perception, some level of safety concern. So Gordon didn’t think he was even more suspicious.

The officers shook their heads in unison. “No need to worry about that, Mr. Wayne. Confession on file, prints at the scene, at minimum he’ll be inpatient. Long-term. At least a few months.”

“And you’ll be the first to know if anything changes.” Martinez nodded strongly at him. What is he gonna do next, salute? “Technically, the second, because we would, uh.” He trailed off, moving his hands to awkwardly adjust his hat. Gordon got up from his chair and pushed it flush to the table’s edge.

“Bottom line is: you’re safe. Wanted to let you know.” Gordon nodded at Bruce, then Alfred, then Martinez, and Alfred showed them to the door once more. Deja-vu.

He didn’t like how simple this was, how straightforward. Had the victims really been murdered due to their initials? Had that been the depth? Is that why when Bruce slammed into the deep end, scoured the internet, excavated his mind to poke and prod and measure each passing thought, he continuously came up empty?

Risou had worked in forensics in his youth, which explained why the scene was so clean. His social platforms were loosely related to Bruce, tweeting a few times a week about how much he wished Bruce would be his friend, tagging Wayne Enterprises in dinner invites, but outside of that—he retweeted extremely normal things; memes that were a half-decade expired, even he knew that much. Photos of animals, political content unrelated to Gotham and not otherwise fringe. Must’ve been a delusion.

He thought of how Martinez scoffed, laughing under his breath, all but outright mocking the man for being deluded. It felt like a bruise. The delusions weren’t the problem, the violence was. Nothing about the situation was laughable, or worth something as cheap and dismissive as an eye-roll. He needed help. He needed help before he became a murderer, before the parents were taken from their children, before he’d be subjected to a life sentence at Arkham, confined to the stale walls, harsh lighting, rehearsed smiles, cutting restraints, spoon-fed applesauce, having to request sips of water, have people staring at him through windows, assessing his risk, his safety, his body, his mind, what if he would eventually be a danger to people around him? What if he already was, but too deluded to know it?

He forced his eyes to the motorbike by the tunnel entrance. He wasn’t about to sympathize with a murderer. He wasn’t about to think about his time in Arkham. He hadn’t hurt anyone yet. He wouldn’t. This was the bullshit that started happening when he slept too much. He knew his thoughts tended toward the ruminative, and that it wasn’t a problem if he was working.

“Dory’s heading out for the evening.” Alfred startled Bruce again. “Wants to know if you need anything pressed for tonight.”

Tonight? His eyes widened. The rally. “Uh,” Didn’t even have time to research March. If Alfred hadn’t let him sleep so much, he could’ve gotten everything done. This falling through the cracks… unacceptable. What are the people of Gotham supposed to think if their vigilante can’t follow through on meager research? What was he even doing at the meeting tonight? He needed to work on the case. Who had declared Risou mentally unstable? The prints were ‘the clearest they’d ever run’? For someone likely unfit to stand trial? Sure, he was in forensics, but—

“Bruce?”

“Whatever, I’ll find something.” This was what happened when he didn’t have time for his responsibilities. This was what happened when he let his body get the better of him. Why hadn’t he set an alarm? Shake it off. Dory was leaving, meaning it was five. Rally started at six. He needed to get ready now so he could arrive with fifteen minutes to spare; he needed a shower. That would take five minutes if he hurried. Find an outfit, do his hair, find the watch. Warm up the sports car. Would Alfred have let him sleep right through the rally, too, if the prints hadn’t surfaced?

All Bruce could think about as he handed his keys to the valet was that he hoped the rally didn’t run long. He’d stowed his suit in the trunk, hidden behind a cleverly-placed bag of Alfred’s old golf clubs.

His clothes felt too tight on his body. The sweater was itchy round his neck, scraping on a scab on the small of his back. Sweat tickled the skin under his chest, creating a terrible grating feeling against the shirt. The cameras were too intrusive; flashing bright, white lights to disorient him, making him have to watch each step he took. The watch caught on the hair of his forearm, his cologne was giving him a headache, and god, he just wanted to go home.

March walked straight to him when he entered, though it wasn’t a far walk; he’d positioned himself far enough from the entryway to be polite, close enough to greet people on arrival with warmth. Bruce stomached a grimace as the chandeliers exacerbated the pounding in his skull. He had to blink a few times before he could read the politician’s face. March wasn’t… eager. Looks afraid. Nervous. No, sorrowful. Concerned? His eyes traced the slope of March’s, the downturned angle on his mouth, the way he held his hands clasped in front of him rather than going for another hug. “Bruce! Didn’t know if you’d show tonight.”

“I’ll be attending as many campaign events as possible.” Force a grin, force a grin…

March’s brow furrowed, then relaxed, and he laughed. Was he going to bring up the accident? Hadn’t he heard the speech he made at the beginning of the meeting last week? He was sure it made some paper somewhere; at the very least, people had gotten pictures of him arriving. March gave his arm a reassuring slap. What? “Trying to show the masses you won’t be bullied into submission?”

“I’m unsure what you’re referring to.” Seriously, what? He glanced over March’s shoulder and noticed everyone was looking at him, occasionally shuffling closer. Some looked away when he noticed them staring, some waved, but regardless, his presence was noticed beyond anticipation.

He laughed like Bruce was making a joke. “That’s an informed angle to take. Serial killers like to be known, heralded. Not giving them power.”

Christ, it went public? He remained measured, hyperaware of all the eyes on him, and how illuminated he was in this obscenely well-lit room. The meetings weren’t this well-lit, were they? At this point, people might’ve started thinking he was cursed. The accident, then the ‘scandalous’ interview, now a superfan-turned-serial killer was attached to his name. Speak—he needed to respond. He needed to get it through his head that this was his life now. Of course it went public. “I feel tremendously sorry for the victims.” He didn’t have to act saying that, as he felt the guilt seep into his bones, gnawing him to gummy shreds. A thought pierced through him, one that was familiar, but sharp as ever; the guilt of being alive. If he hadn’t survived the attempt, Risou would’ve had no one to manifest. Ecuatorro, Yates, Altruss, Weiss, Natividad… they could be at a park with their children right now. Part of him knew his mind was simply running with anything it could get, that it wasn’t true that X followed Y; he knew that things happened without purpose, unfolded without special fanfare, but it didn’t make his nausea any more palatable. Just gave it a different shape.

March nodded. “Glad he’s getting the support he needs. Support he needed before.” He sighed. “Donating a portion of the funds tonight to the victim’s families.”

In truth, Bruce had forgotten that was an option, and wrote a mental note. Send a check to each of the families. He hoped it would stick in the middle of the spirally muck that was his crowded, guilt-laden mind. Had that guy truly been the killer? Said he worked in forensics, but his name hadn’t come up in any of the databases, past or present, for the entire state of New Jersey. Forensics was one of the few careers people moved to Gotham to pursue—did he commute out of state? Why? Did he move here after his career ended? Why? Would Gordon have anything new to add tonight? If crime was slow, he needed to check if there were other Risous, people so obsessed with celebrity they’d be driven to violence. Was he a celebrity? Was this what celebrity felt like? Like ants crawling over his skin? Like the entire world was analyzing him, staring at him, poking, prodding, pushing… could he get out of this room? Pretend the GCPD were wanting him down at the station? If he would’ve known he’d had an out…

“Welcome! Press are clustered left of the stage, but feel free to break from the herd if you so please.”

He spun around at the tenor of your voice before he was consciously aware of it. Your hair was down tonight, and you had on pants and a sweater rather than your usual dress. Shockingly fitting. Your eyes flit to his for a brief moment, but didn’t linger. In the mess of the weekend, he’d forgotten you’d be here. Thank god for the prints.

“Reminds me: need to make an announcement to the press. I won’t be accepting press questions until the last half hour. I want to give priority to people who aren’t paid to be here.” March winked at you before striding across the room, and Bruce’s gut tightened.

“I hope you and Alfred were able to stay safe this weekend.”

When he looked at you next, he saw your eyes skimming his exposed skin. Looking for injury. Each time it felt less and less painful. Swore he could feel a touch in every glance. Whatever eye makeup you were wearing had the slightest shimmer, the light hitting it in such a way his eyes kept coming back to it. Oh, SPEAK! He opened his mouth to reassure you they’d been fine, but he had no air in his lungs. He’d forgotten to breathe; when he did, your perfume took up all the space, and his thoughts left him again. Completely, entirely empty.

Your waiting is so patient. He managed a nod only when he looked to the ground, the words tumbling out without particular attention paid to them, or even awareness of which ones his lips might form. “Never got in contact. Wish I would’ve known sooner, maybe some of them could’ve been saved. Probably would’ve.”

You shook your head with such seriousness it consumed him, gave him no leeway to berate himself. “It’s not your fault, if that’s what you’re taking from it.” He held a strange feeling in his body, like talking to you was going to confession. Like you had the authority to release him.

His eyes caught on the glimmer again. It made your eyes brighter than they already were. Your hair framed your face so softly. His stomach lurched when he noticed a glint by your ear, but it was just earrings. Matched the necklace hanging down your sweater, and the ring on the pointer finger of your left hand. The fingers that dragged along his torso were being fiddled with hard enough they left a blush of lightness whenever you shifted your touch. He put his hand in his pocket to keep it from grabbing yours.

March tapped on the mic, causing a bleating sound to screech from the speakers. An interesting choice to hold it in the foyer—until he looked away from you and noticed a sizeable crowd had formed. The occupancy had tripled in just the few minutes he stood with you. At least he thought it’d only been a few minutes. Could’ve been an hour, or only a second. He followed your eyes over to the throng of press, and nodded. As if you needed permission from him to do anything. “I’m good. Join ‘em.”

You grinned, and he felt a bubble of air expand in his chest. “Trying to get rid of me?”

It popped, immediately. “No, I didn’t mean—no.” He felt himself turn scarlet. He swallowed hard, and almost choked on his spit, now taking up far too much space in his mouth. “I meant I’m fine, I’m,”

“I’m teasing.” Your grin spread to the other side, revealing your teeth. His limbs felt tingly. You looked… you looked so…

“Welcome, everyone. It’s about five minutes to six, and there’s lots to cover tonight, so we’ll be starting on the dot. Feel free to take a quick trip to the restroom, or check out our caterers: Mr. and Mrs. Lindel from Lindel’s Bakery on the east side. Thank you.” March gave a small wave, then stepped back from the podium.

“I’d better get situated.” You sighed. Your breath smelled minty. “Skating on pretty thin ice.” You pulled out the recorder from the small bag on your hip. “Glad you’re good.” With that as your salutation, you walked through the crowd toward the stage side.

All the air left his lungs in one enormous huff. He’d been holding his breath, and hadn’t even known it. In the same fashion, he felt a decayed throb from his stomach, suddenly screaming at him. He was starving.

The ham and cheese croissant was stunning, and a needed distraction from the incessant pull he felt to engage you, but it wasn’t enough. He scooped up a plate of rolls and doughnuts to tide him over, but by the time he’d walked to the gathering area of the stage, he’d finished it all. He was hungry, a bit exhausted, and his brain felt like it’d gone through the wash. None of which he’d been the least aware of prior to your conversation. Hmm. You felt grounding. Tethering.

When he walked to the trash he was intercepted by Gavenstein, accompanied by all his cronies. Ugh. “Wayne!” God, his voice is aggravating. “Couldn’t help but notice you playing favorites.” The men around him snickered. Bruce had about two seconds to fix his face after discarding his plate. His voice was light with mischief, and a piss-poor attempt at humor. “Is she someone you’d recommend?”

Whatever cloud you’d left him on was gone in an instant. He straightened his spine and flexed his shoulders wide, his mind running away with what to say—more specifically what not to. He kept to the least of it, not wanting to put more heat on you. “Not a good look to talk about journalists that way.”

Gavenstein scoffed, a slick smile turning up his eyes. “I’m not talking about journalists, I’m talking about that one.” The man nearest to him, McKinley—a name he only knew from the first day’s introduction—thought he had any right to chime in, sneaking a comment under his breath to the men beside him. “The broad no one’d give a second glance if it weren’t for Wayne.”

Don’t react. Bruce’s throat caught on fire, he was sure of it. Goosebumps peppered his skin, his abdomen tensing, crunching down on the words he couldn’t say. Don’t react… but they kept chuckling. They think this is funny? Fuck. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

Gavenstein laughed again, performing a stage whisper to the gaggle of men strung to his hip. “Wants to keep it for himself.”

Oooh… he wanted to get you OUT of this room; away from the harassing, invasive, disgusting, FUCK! “Did you not hear my speech last week at city hall?” He didn’t hear any of the men’s responses, too busy imprinting the precise shade of Gavenstein’s rolling, dismissive eyes to memory. For later. “Or were you too busy flirting with every woman but your wife to notice?”

His eyes flashed, and he released a short puff of air. “You’re pushing it, Wayne. Know your limits.”

Bruce was already tightening his hands into fists, choreographing how he’d slam him by the collar of his shirt into the edge of the wall. “I do. Do you?”

“Alright folks, it is six on the dot and we are ready to get started! Thank you all for showing up this evening.”

Bruce stepped forward in the crowd, knowing if he stayed back there he’d disrupt the entire event. The walls were closing in on him again. Too many people. Too many lights. Too many reporters. Everyone was touching him as he walked through; a tug on the shoulder, caress on the arm, a touch on his hip. Low, sultry whispers echoed on the same trail, but he couldn’t have cared less if he tried.

Maybe he wanted to disrupt it. Maybe he wanted to be the first to throw a punch, bring some pain to the lofty businessmen of the city. Maybe then they wouldn’t fuck with you. Keep their smartass comments to themselves. He could walk back there, and get him right in the jaw. Take a few hits so everyone just thought he was lucky. Yeah…

“Questions from the press will be saved until the end. I want to hear from all of you first, who took time out of your workweek to hear my campaign.”

Bruce glanced over heads and shoulders to see you in the middle of the pack of reporters; the only one without a flashy camera or tablet, your hair falling into your face as you wrote something on your notepad. His shoulders relaxed. You took care to be here. Probably spent the weekend researching. He wasn’t about to fuck that up for you.

He maintained that rhythm through the rally’s end. Each time he felt his thoughts melt toward vengeance, he’d peek your direction. The flames would dissipate to a gentle mist. Though for all your diligent notetaking, none of the press got a chance to speak, even going past the stated runtime. The people had come in hot, drilling March on topics from environmentalism to if he’d uphold the death penalty. The crowd seemed to lean progressive, with not a lot of naysayers. He wondered how that ratio might shift with Grange and Hady. He hoped you wouldn’t miss another rally, because he was barely staying afloat at this one; reminiscing how he used to stand on stage beside his parents, and how tightly he’d squeezed his mom’s hand. Crowds had always made him anxious.

He hung to the back and let people pass him, though many wanted to stop and chat. He pretended to be answering an email, keeping his eyes to the ground to—found you, and stepped in line with your footsteps. Though he’d tried to be inconspicuous, he did it for your sake; he didn’t give a shit what Gavenstein had to say, or how he wanted to spin it. Being in your orbit, safely, was all that mattered.

He spoke first, bursting with energy. “What are you thinking?” The crowd leading toward the exit was stalled, with a large group hogging the doorway. You and him were some of the last people in the pack… he glanced behind him to see if anyone was taking the back exit. So far, no one.

Jesus, your voice was like a salve. “It would be blasphemous for me to take sides,”

“But?” He liked how your cheeks went pink when he egged you on.

“But… he seems about as stellar as a politician can get.”

Bruce smirked. “Told you.”

“What did the billionaire think about all the taxes?”

He thought about how willing he’d been to hand over his card under alcohol’s haze. Oddly, he still felt that way. “Might take some of the funds away from our housing mission.”

“I thought I’d dreamt that.” You laughed, and it made his stomach flip. You liked it that much? It was a dream of yours? A flutter of blinks and you stared at the floor, biting your lip. Why hadn’t he wanted to come here, again?

The line still wasn’t moving, and he got a pit in his stomach thinking about you getting into another rideshare. Or worse, walking. He was certain your leg still hurt, maybe your head too. He was pretty sure Miller hadn’t escaped, but he hadn’t checked since the weekend. He lowered his voice, though he didn’t think the geriatric couple behind you were gossips. “C’mon, I’ll drive you home.”

He tried to not make it seem like he’d fall through the floor if you declined, and tried to stifle his relief when you accepted. After instructing you to wait five minutes before walking out back, he slipped through the line and snuck between the family holding everyone up. The steps were slippery, but he jogged down them well enough. The shouting and flashing barely resonated as he took his key from the valet and sped down the avenue. Paparazzi usually followed him until Orville, where he hung a right and took a half dozen more. Maybe one day they’d catch on, but it wasn’t today.

You’d just slipped out of the back door when he pulled up, lights cut. On approach he’d anxiously inspected the chair for dust, crumbs, or defects, none of which he found. The collar of his undershirt was choking him. Was the cabin too cold? Too warm? You slid into the passenger seat, and all was quiet again.

You were the first to break the silence, him being perfectly content to share the space. “You really want to do the housing thing? That wasn’t a binding contract.”

“I’d never thought of it before. Everyone talks so much about the housing crisis, I never thought there were enough empty apartments.”

“Be good to get it rolling before winter. Shit kills people.” Shit likely being the thick, hard blankets of ice and snow that coated every available surface in the city from November to February. He nodded in agreement, pinning the conversation for Thursday. It got him thinking…

“Does it snow much where you live?”

“I don’t know, downtown gets so much less than the rest of Gotham.”

Your sarcasm used to be so grating; now he felt lucky to receive it, his cheeks pained from squishing against endless grins. Is that all it took? One drink, once, and now he was talking to you like a friend? “Your hometown.”

“Have you been to the west coast?”

He shook his head, trying not to pay attention to the gong of nostalgia rattling through him. His parents had continuously put off travel until the campaign’s end. You looked out the passenger window, only able to see the slight reflection of your face in the glass. “The winter’s more mild there, for the most part. We live in a valley, so we don’t get much snow. Fall’s pretty there, though.”

“What do you like about it?”

“The trees are gorgeous. Like,” you shook your head, and he had to intentionally focus his eyes to the lanes of the road or his eyes would wander. “Seriously. Stunning. Used to bike there a lot, especially in October.” It was impossible to miss the wistfulness in your tone.

He was caught between two sides: pulling himself into the conversation, or keeping the focus on you. He gripped the steering wheel and took a chance. “You’ll have to send me some photos.” His brow furrowed. Why had that felt like taking a chance, exactly?

“I can pull some up right now.” The light blasted you in the face when you pulled out your phone. The streets were wide and empty, no one visiting the industrial district past sunset. He cut the lights again and pulled into an empty recycling plant’s compact parking. He unclicked his seatbelt and leaned toward you, and you did the same, transfixed by whatever was on your screen. Whatever it was had your pupils dilating, even in the bright light, and your smile huge. You held your phone between the two of you, your shoulder pressing into his to fill the gap.

Could you feel his heart pounding? The flush of his skin? Was his breathing too loud? He didn’t move away, didn’t react. You swiped to a photo of a cat playing in a bright red pile of leaves. He hoped you would speak, he didn’t trust his voice not to shake as his chest and arm pulsed everywhere you’d touched. He didn’t have padding now; you could feel his skin, he could feel your fingertips…

“This is Walter.”

Bruce’s lips parted in alarm when you spoke, his eyes moving from the fingers cradling your phone to the video of the leaping cat running around a side yard. “Walter. Is he yours?” Thank god his voice didn’t crack like he thought it would. He was coming back into his body, looking at the gray cat frolicking, focusing on the blue of the sky. You startled him when you turned to face him, so close he could see every pore on your cheeks, every line in your lips. Lips that had just asked him a question, one that he couldn’t recall over the glow in his chest. What were you doing to him?

“Do you like cats?”

He nodded, his body going on autopilot. You swiped again, showing another landscape with no building that wasn’t a barn. He drew a steadying breath. “Looks quiet.” Like the physical manifestation of being around you.

“It is. Too much sometimes, but, yeah.”

Whatever tension his body had become confused navigating, it was fading the more he focused on the images, and less on the you of it all. Getting this window into another life, life outside the city walls, was fascinating. “Is that your neighborhood?” You nodded and swiped again, showing an endless dirt road with vineyards and a disheveled barn in the distance. Some birds flew over you, your bike tires rumbling against the separated, dry dirt. It wasn’t just quiet, it was silent. Gotham had never been silent. What would it feel like to be somewhere like that?

He noticed the time just as his heart slowed to a light jog. 8:49. Gordon. He sighed, getting caught up in yet another startling amount of disappointment, and put the car in gear. “Need to be somewhere at nine. Sorry.” Sorry didn’t cut it, and for the next five minutes of driving he overthought how simply he’d put it. You hadn’t complained, tucking your phone away and chatting pleasantly while juxtaposing the two climates, but he was aching with dread.

When he pulled into the parking garage (you’d ducked, and he’d waited until the street was relatively empty), he squeezed as close to the door as he could before braking. Stay. Please. “Thanks for showing me the pictures.” Don’t leave. “Looks nice. Walter’s fun.” Let’s watch another show. Get snacks. Talk. “See you on Thursday.”

You waved before getting into the elevator, and he waited for the doors to close before pulling out. His body felt hot, sweaty, tight. Putting on the padding, the armor, the cowl… it sounded horribly irritating. The driving, the elevator up, the strain on his esophagus when he spoke. The pictures Gordon would inevitably share, full of blood, and guts, and dead, dead eyes.

He winced, intrusive images of that overlaid with your neighborhood. Bloodied, mangled leaves, animals and bodies strewn about, a constant scream heard from another assault, another fist, tooth, blood running down his shower drain at six in the morning. He wasn’t even mad when Gordon called him minutes later to postpone, and he didn’t care why. The drive home was monotonous.

Bruce dragged his heavy body up to his bathroom, shedding first the sweater, then his undershirt, his hands tiring as they unbuckled his belt. He turned the water hot, waiting for steam to fill the room and fog the glass before forcing the last of his clothes off. He let the water pummel into his tired muscles, the soreness becoming one dull throb. Being around you lowered his tolerance for this, he was becoming conscious to that phenomenon of yours. But he didn’t know why.

The water droplets stung as they hit his shoulderblades, cooling just slightly but not enough as they slid down the back of his thighs. Steam thickened the air he breathed in, deep and slow. He let his eyes fall shut, let the weekend pass over him, slip through like the water falling from the tips of his fingers. He pressed his palm against the shower wall to release the tension in his lower back, struggling to grip against the slick, fogged glass as he dropped his shoulders and opened his hips. His eyes fluttered and he let out a reflexive sigh as the hand lingering at his side moved to slide down his abdomen, following the flow of the water.

He hadn’t masturbated in awhile, not having enough energy while balancing the two identities. He was tense, strung out, his dick already hard, pulse hammering. He leaned his forehead against the glass, soft moans coming out in exhausted sighs as he built closer to climax. God, his body needed this… his strokes stuttered as the water fell out of perception, his body tensing, tensing, yes—until his hand became yours. His eyes flashed open and he gasped, yanking his hand back as he slammed onto the shower floor. What the, what the fuck?

He scrambled out and threw on a towel, unimaginably tense, driven straight to the edge. He pressed his palms to his temples, struggling to stop their shaking. No. No. No!

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