#guy was trembling so hard when he apologized personally to Mr. Wayne Mr Pennyworth and the Wayne Kids

[bluejaysgonerogue]

batkids using this while on patrol and as civilians

@frownyalfred enjoy

Actually my favorite replacement for both 'kill myself' jokes and jokes about reacting violently to things/people that upset me is "I'm going to end up on the news" like it's versatile, it's vague, it's not going to get me in trouble with any censors or websites that take joke threats seriously, it's family friendly while still getting the point across, what's not to love???

[lackadaisical-pottymouth]

Batmans Apology

this is so late oh my gosh im ashamed i forgot about it

Fandom: Batman

-- is a change in perspective

xx is a change in snippet

There was a rumour in Gotham City.

Tuesday. The city lit by streetlights and apartments that hadn’t quite settled for the night. Empty roads hummed with drifters going this way or that.

Fingers, frigid. Ears, nose, frozen. Jim was losing the battle against frostbite.

Restless shivers sent his shoes bopping against asphalt. The pocketwarmer abandoned him by the time he’d lit the big black bat signal, but blessed be his luck, it was a clear night in Gotham City.

The --what did springy Robin call it? Bat-phone?-- the Batphone weighed comfortably in his pocket and pulled double hours as a heater. A small heater that touched barely four by two inches of skin. Only minutes prior had he sent out the signal.

“Commissioner.”

And there was the person of the hour. Imposing, dark, familiar. Maybe a little too familiar. It was easier now than it had ever been to imagine big blue eyes and his father’s jaw--but then again, he hadn’t been privy to that information before.

No, no, Jim. That hadn’t been confirmed yet.  

His soul promptly left his body at the greeting but he pulled it back with gum or staples or whatever the hell had kept it in place for all these years. Right. He straightened his spine and tried hard for the composure that’d been trained into him. Drivers-licence Robin watched from the shadows, the whites of his mask luminescent.

“Batman,” he greeted, refusing to question how he snuck up behind him when he was backed against a wall, “Robin.”

The child vigilante nodded in acknowledgement, stepping forward to join his mentor. He was young, very young despite the upp of his nose and the overconfidence in his posture. The Robin sent an unkind look that he probably deserved.

Batman grunted, “You said it was urgent.”

Right. He brought his hands to his lips and blew softly, all the while wishing for the gloves Barbara had bought him. Like ripping off a bandaid, Jim, he assured himself. “I’ll spare you the details. Word has it you’re Bruce Wayne.”

He imagined the silence that followed was a raised eyebrow, the sardonic sort that wouldn’t have been seen through the fabric--metal?--of the cowl.  

“I get the feeling you won’t tell me who’s under that mask,” Robin bristled but the Bat raised an arm and the boy stayed put, “And I don’t want to know who. Just thought you should know.”

“I take it you’ve looked into it.” said as a statement, as always. But Jim quirked a self-hating smile nonetheless and presented the manilla folio.

“Lot of it is hearsay,” he said, recounting the he said she saids and ‘cousin sally’s he’d gone through to get even that,

He’d look back and they’d be gone, like always.

xx

The intercom rang with yet another arrival and Alfred clicked to connect between pressing shirts. Instantly the feed lit up with a face full of adolescent pimples and aged sweaters. Teenagers, he noted, temporarily setting the emergency protocol to ‘Civillian’.  

“Oh my gosh there’s a camera! Kim, look! We’re famous!”

Nervous skittering was followed by a harsh rebuke that put an end to the abrupt tizz of movement, “Shut up, Barlow. This is a bad idea. We should go home and--.”

A composed cough sent a shock through both teenagers. “I take it you don’t have an appointment,” Alfred said, more or less reciting lines by this point, “Name and purpose for the visit, please.”

“Barlow” paused in confused shock, “Is Bruce Wayne british?” they asked, peering up into the surveillance as though it’d deliver answers. “Never met the guy--Kim? Is he?”

“No!” “Kim” snapped, “He’s from Jersey!”

“You don’t say,” said with the lightest whistle of amusement while “Kim” seemed to seethe embarrassment.

A beat passed and he considered dropping the line, picking up whatever they’d brought later. But they spoke, pulling a thatched cap down over unruly curls, “Uhm, Kim Long. My Ma sent gifts for--,” a stutter as the voice dipped to the faintest of whispers, “For Bruce Wayne.”

Kim looked over a faux-fur shoulder and Alfred paused, his attention fully on the video stream, “He-uh-Batman, stopped a fire in my apartment building. And Wayne funded the whole rebuilding thing. So, thanks.” They looked around, then paused to be incredulous as Barlow gestured to a ziploc container, “we’ll just leave it here, then. Bye.”

He waited till they were gone before sending out the robot rover-- things were mucky enough without added speculations that Bruce Wayne housed Robot Butlers. The goods would be inspected thoroughly before being sent to the furnace. “Kim Long” would be added to the growing list of thank-you card recipients once the ordeal was over.

xx

It was always a toss-up going to work after times as these. Odds were that Wayne Ent would be attacked because he was there, or that Wayne Ent would be attacked in his absence. Rarely was there a third option, so he tended instead to make one.

This he stole from Tim’s book, which Tim claimed was stolen from one of his.

The tux was an authentic Pennyworth, lined with hidden pockets a-plenty and the most lightweight of bullet-resistant fabric. 

xx

Shocker of the year, Wayne Enterprises was under attack.

Mr. Wayne struggled to show his disappointment. Anaji’s presentation would need be postponed for another time, one with a few less looming threats. But the real travesty was that Anaji would have another sixty minute segment scheduled for some later date. Such things were better experienced once and in very small amounts.

Anaji’s apparent dislike translated to stabbing him in the back with her purse as they hurdled through the halls like business-dressed tuna.

The walls groaned and although he was no stranger to their echoing lengths, today they were cold and warped. The steel panels danced under flickering lights. Rivets stared judgmentally as board members stampeded to safety.

Some clutched to their suitcases and their bags, elbowing fiercely against that damn rib that he’d only just gotten clearance for. Those that didn’t sent him cautious corner-eye glances, their breath held as if expecting him to move, to miraculously solve everything. He’d the feeling it was more than just worry for his boisterous persona.

The group took a left, veering toward the shielded emergency steps that led to the back parking lot. With one arm, Wayne propped himself up. Someone and their damn elbow-knives had decided he was moving too slowly, apparently. The other ushered forward his companion of the day who was making good work of turning themselves into a human wrecking ball.

He winced as clumsy feet trampled over his left foot where the toes had yet to heal. He hissed painfully and the group froze. When he turned to them the intern withered instantly, paling several shades as their mouth gaped for air.   

“I’m sorry Bruceman! Mr. Batwayne! Boss Knight!” they stuttered. The hidden gazes turned harsh, scrutinizing. Wayne stepped back, slouching as the prattling continued, “This wasn’t meant to happen--I didn’t know. I swear.”

That again. Familiarity quirked the side of his lips into a smile. They were new then, probably under the mercy of older, more mischievous co-workers. The others though, the fearful ones that stole glances, even now? He didn’t have an answer for those.

“It’s alright, it’s alright!” He stomped three times despite the pain. A wave of suited shoulders relaxed and he’d the distinct feeling he’d passed some sort of test. The frown he felt was put aside and he focused back on the intern, “August, right?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

He huffed in the slightest of ways, looking the appropriate amount of petulant while surveying the reactions, “Well, Augie--can I call you Augie?”

They nodded and he continued.

“These things happen. Don’t worry about it.” and with that he laughed deeply, loudly, too loud for the alarms ringing and the eyes that trained on him like daggers, “no harm done.”

He intended to pat the interns arm. It would be a final, clinching action that would have sealed the facade--but the intern jumped away from the contact. The tension seeped back into their shoulders and drenched the air about them.

For a moment they were ice. As though this would be the straw that broke the camel’s back. The axe that felled the oak tree.

Mr. Wayne coughed, then clapped twice.

“Sheesh,” and he peppered his voice with nervous laughter, wicking away the discomfort in buckets, “I thought this hallway was a lot shorter!”

It worked in the most ineffective of ways. The unease had already become an unwelcomed guest. It stayed there, suffocating, until the heavy steel doors were pried open and the people scrambled to safety.

In the chaos of relief, Bruce Wayne disappeared.  

--

Curiously, Alfred picked up as soon as he beeped in. There was something in his voice, something weighty and strained despite the intentions of the deadpan commentary, “I take it the meeting went well, sir?”

Batman grunted as he moved between vents.

An annoyed sigh echoed on the lips of the old butler, “Right. I suppose I’m talking to myself now. Very good.”

Clicks fired off in rapid succession before halting sharply to an inhaled breath. Batman dove down a side-vent of the building designed for times as these. The clicking resumed, more hesitant this time.

“They came in through the north and southern entrances. Twenty altogether.”

A breath shifted the accents to one that was deeper, gruff and indistinguishable. Alfred grunted before switching back to his normal tone.

“I know Master Batman,” he continued, “they are a ballsy lot. Shame they couldn’t come up with a decent dress code. I’ll send you a visual.”

Another grunt from the aged man and a notification beeped quietly.

Clear lenses tinged blue as the scene was projected. He recognized a few things instantly--the deep crimson of the welcome desk. The bright green of the plants. The huddled forms of the first-floor staff.

Intruders taking strides held themselves with hunched shoulders and trembling guns and seemed altogether better suited in a swiss cheese factory. A few of them rapped idly with their feet while one sang along to the warning tone. Hostiles numbered ten.

The second clip was of the southern entrance, though this group was significantly less decorated than the first.

“Red Robin will be there with haste. I’ve sent him the same information I’ve sent you, sir.”

The grunt that followed was facetious, not quite to the level of gruffness as the previous imitations had been. More a whine, really.

“And we will most certainly have time for cucumber sandwiches afterwards.”

Batman himself made no sounds as he changed to his hands, working at the screws of another vent, this one closer to the breach. “Have Red Robin take the south entrance. Tell him--”

“Already on it, B!”

He froze for the briefest moment before motion returned to his hands.  “Keep on your toes, watch for hostiles in hiding. They’re slow and untrained.”

Red huffed a sound, almost like a chirp, “That makes them easy targets.”

“That makes them unpredictable. Stay focused. Batman out.”

Alfred sighed, “I do so love these conversations,” he muttered dryly. And then the clicking returned, calculated and slow until the communicator was turned off.

Batman frowned as he dropped from the vent he’d crawled through. A fan whirred angrily in the distance and almost masked the soft squeak of dirty tennis shoes on polished tile. One man in particular strode with fake confidence, gesturing wildly with one gloved hand while the other clasped the gun like a lifeline.

“Activate sound,” Batman commanded, dwarfed by one of many purposefully-obscuring columns. He blended to the dark it provided. Instantly the feed was punctuated by the nasally tones.

“Come ooon out, Brucie!” the man drawled, gnarly with overconfidence and ire, “We just want a little chat, see.”

Three batarangs were unsheathed. For a moment, the intruder stopped. His back turned away. His feet shifted weight. His heartbeat skyrocketed. Then he continued in the same grainy pitch.

“Look, we’re even all dressed up to play!” he scoffed, and then he knocked the butt of his gun against the shoulder of an elderly woman. A guest, probably, from the scowl she wore. The man laughed and spat on her floral print cardigan, “Some of us anyway, but that’s alright. We can all have a honky-dory party. ‘S not fair when you’re the only one with a mask.”

Batman breathed and began to move. His strides were rapid, soundless.

“You colossal fu--.”

He flicked his wrist. The batarangs sliced through the air with deadly aim, embedding themselves into the black metal of the gun. The last nicked the mans gloved hand and he howled.

At once the gaggle of nervous accomplices exploded into tones and grunts. Good, he thought, ducking for cover. This misdirection was his disguise.

But the people--the people. He watched as their eyes like saucers roamed the place, their mouths slightly agape in hushed words. They clung to each other.  

Murmurs echoed through the office and stole the places where silence hid before. “It’s him,” they said, “It’s the Bat.” Yet the stillness permeated like a sickness, so much so that the ashen faces in petrified frost could’ve been mistaken for statues.

He moved between pillars, unseen aside from movements in the corners of eyes. Unheard for the cracking of the cape between lunges.

The intruders began to circle, their chests puffed out in an attempt at bravado that failed miserably. Their uncoordinated mishmash of bootleg kevlar and camo-print was almost laughable. Nervousness rattled the guns in their hands in time with the chattering of their teeth.

Batman lunged.

Person One went down with a thud after a crack against his skull. Two had barely crossed his path when a nerve-strike robbed his consciousness.

Three and Four were back to back, but pressed against a huddle of people nearest the welcome desk. They became quick acquaintances with the big blue welcome map and the spot that said “You are Here.” and again with the burgundy carpet.

Five, Eight and Nine turned at this, fumbled with their machinery between obscenities screamed and jumbled orders. A batarang sliced through the guns like heavy leaden butter before a net exploded from a capsule and caught them.

From the shadows Batman watched, taking note of the citizens in varying states of distress, of the men that clotted together between them. His eyes narrowed on the scatter of remainders. Men by the plaque that displayed the Wayne Ent. missions statement, where a group of employees were crouched in fear. The remainders ducked behind information podiums.

It was Seven, with the dirty denim jacket and the greasy hair that still peeked out under his mask, that managed to fire a shot. It echoed loudly, startling Six out of their petrified stance.

“What the hell, dude?” Six demanded, their voice hoarse and their eyes trained on the heated barrel. Then they blinked at the people around them, who’d covered their ears in the flimsiest of shields, “We weren’t supposed to shoot! What if you hit someone?”

With a scoff, Seven repositioned his gun. With a sharp tap, Batman descended and Seven fell.

Six’s eyes were trained on his unmoving associate. Then they climbed the height of the looming figure beside him and rested on unnerving white of the irises. He muttered a single, “Christ.” before he, too, crumbled. The old lady nearest the two spat at the unmoving bodies and Batman allowed himself a smirk as she was pulled back into the protective huddle.  

And then there was that silence again as Batman surveyed the area. Eyes trained on him, some awed, some afraid, many confused, were all obscured the moment the thermo-scanners were activated.

Big bad Ten remained hidden.

“Of course you came,” he sneered from some place where wooden desks surrounded him. Rage and fear caused his voice to quiver, “What a good businessman you are, Mr. Wayne.”

Batman closed in, moving fluidly, quietly, even as the man continued to jeer.

“It’s funny to you, isn’t it? Just another pastime for the rich boy.”

He arched around the desk, the man sniveling in his sights.

“Fuck you,” he spat.

The Batman descended.

--

Gordon had little to say as they booked the perps and led them away. Apart from the recount for the report, he’d stuck mostly to redirecting the wandering attention of his subordinates. But the gazes had lingered despite his intentions. He’d caught the looks on the ruddy faces-- cautious, so cautious, under a layer of confusion. It was echoed in the eyes of people escorted away from the building.

Batman frowned, but stood silently and watched, replaying the taunts. He scowled, etching a personal message to the Cave to scour recent media outlets.

Behind him, though, he heard footsteps. Slightly heavy, but incredibly rapid--as if pushing against something that weighed down. “Red Robin,” he greeted, turning to face the young man.

His lips were a taut line. Batman braced himself for the worst.  

“B, you may wanna look at this.”

A button was pressed and a holoscreen propped up on the gauntlet.

Batman Unmasked, it said, Bruce Wayne is the Caped Crusader.

The scowl deepened.