#now I’m thinking about him running through the woods around Wayne manor and setting off sensors like crazy

[rewrittenwrongs]

Werewolf Tim

[pl-panda]

To Marry a Vigilante: Part 4

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To Marry a Vigilante: Part 4

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The next day, Marinette woke up in her bed, still dressed. By the time her father brought her into her room, she was already asleep. The emotions finally caught up with her somewhere along the way. Remembering the end of the evening, her eyes immediately latched onto her finger, but the ring was not there. A mere second before a panic attack, she looked at the bedside table, where both the box and the ring rested. She let out a breath. She didn’t lose it. 

“Morning cupcake,” a voice startled her. “Are you okay?” Her father was looking through the repealed doors. 

“Yeah… Did yesterday really happen?”

“We are still at Wayne Manor and I seem to remember to have put the ring on the night table.” 

“I can’t believe he actually proposed!” Marinette jumped off the bed and started to pace around with a dreamy look on her face. “I mean I know we are married, but it was still so romantic! And in front of so many people! Oh, Papa! I’m so happy!” She fell back onto her bed. 

“I’m glad you’re happy, cupcake. Remember that your Maman and I will always be here for you.” His smile took a sadder shade. “I know you’re almost a grown-up with a job and all, but to us you will always be the same little girl that I used to fit in the palm of my hand.” 

“Don’t worry Papa. I won’t forget you and Maman.”

“Good. Now let’s go open the presents! Race you!” He ran out of her room and toward the big tree in the hall. Mari giggled at her father’s antics before following him; the ring shining on her finger. 

In the back, Tikki floated with a big smile on her face. Her chosen finally had a chance for some happiness. If only that ruddy alley cat did not run away with the miraculous. She could still feel Nooroo and Duusu active. She could wait one more day before telling Marinette though. The girl deserved a peaceful Christmas.

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By the time Marinette arrived by the tree, most of the people were already gathered. Dick was seated in a large armchair next to a pile of gifts. He was dressed in a full Santa Claus outfit, complete with a fake beard. The only reason she recognized him was because of his voice.

“Now that everyone’s here, who wants…” He started, but someone interrupted. 

“Before that, I need to apologize.” Johnathan Kent turned toward Marinette. “Yesterday, after you left, I made some unsavory accusations about you, for which I want to deeply apologize.” Just for a second, his eyes jumped toward Sabine. The girl noted that her mother was glaring at the older man. “I’m a simple man and this… secret world you all live in is strange for me. Please, accept my sincere apology.” 

“Oh… No problem Mr. Kent. To be honest I’m still getting used to it all myself.” She smiled at him. Marinette was not that oblivious not to guess what kind of accusations the older man had made. 

“With that out of the way, I think we can get started. Maybe let’s begin with the youngest?” Dick said, trying to imitate how the real Santa Claus would sound. Marinette would admit that he was close.

“Me! Me!” Mar’i started floating in the air until Jon pulled her gently to the ground. He really got into the ‘older brother’ role. 

“Yes, you, sweetheart.” 

Mar’i received several gifts from the pile. Marinette was surprised to see one from her family. Inside were several baked goods from their bakery. She didn’t remember her parents packing any, but maybe they made them here.

“Me next!” Jon was giddy. His pile of gifts was slightly smaller, but there was a box of sweets there too. 

After that, it was Marinette’s turn. She received probably even more than Mar’i. There were also gifts from her Nona, grandfather, uncle Wang, one without a name tag that she was pretty sure came from aunt Sandra, a giant box from Chloe, and a small one that she had no idea who sent her. It was wrapped with a paper with black cats that would look better somewhere around Halloween, but she was too distracted to question it. Damian was busy arguing with Jon about whether he would get the Kryptonite knuckle dusters or not. 

She started with the largest box that Chloé sent her. Inside, there was a giant chest filled to the brim with detective novels and a letter that she chose to read when she was alone. Next was the gift from her uncle, which turned out to be an intricately decorated stone bowl for mixing ingredients. 

Her grandfather got her a beautiful rolling pin made half from cherry wood and half from solidified resin. The resin was in dark green color that reminded her of Damian’s eyes. But Roland had no idea about that, did he…?

Many gifts were some nice fabrics, a gift card to Gabriel, which she was tempted to burn as soon as she got it, but out of politeness just put it back into the box for now. Finally, the gift from aunt Sandra contained a set of beautiful daggers, a Katana, and a hairpin that had a space to pour poison inside. 

Her parents gave her a new rope dart, this time with a sharp end that she could use in combat. The line it was attached to was made from titanium-carbon alloy that would be able to withstand point-pressure of at least two tonnes. The weapon itself was practical instead of good-looking. The blade was thick, looking a bit like a diamond. The edges were sharp and the tip very pointy. The grip of the weapon was wrapped in a red cord for a more comfortable grip. Mari thanked them both before pocketing the weapon into her bag for now. She would probably fashion a better place for it.

Finally, only one box remained. The mysterious cats. Mari was about to open it when Jon noted it and leaped at her. The bow came undone the moment he covered the small box with his body. Everyone waited, watching carefully what was going on.

Nothing happened.

“Tt. Kent? Mind explaining to us why you decided to smash my Angel’s gift?” Damian glared at him.

“Um… I might have accidentally scanned it. You don’t want to see what’s inside. I definitely don’t want to see what’s inside ever again,” he shuddered. 

“Show me,” Sabine demanded. She picked up the squashed box and opened the top before closing it. A small lighter made its way into her hand and before anyone knew better, it was aflame. Seeing people staring at her, she smiled. “Nothing to worry about. It was a terrible prank.” She wrapped the now-charred remains and some vaguely straight shape into the torn paper. 

“What was this Maman?”

“A very distasteful prank.”

Marinette looked at the shape in her mother’s hand and her blood suddenly ran cold. It was shaped like a knife. The knife.

“No… He knows?! He can’t know!” She panicked, but Damian quickly pulled her closer to him, immediately soothing her some. 

“No, Sweetie. That bastard thought he would appease you by offering a painting of a stabbed Ladybug.” Sabine’s expression was heralding God’s wrath.

Jason growled. “He is sick.”

Next to him, Tim muttered so that only Stephanie could hear him. “You gave B. a crowbar on your first Christmas back…” Superman heard it too, judging from his reaction. 

“So what now?”

“Well, I think it’s safe to say we won’t be coming back beyond ‘appearing’ at the airport when your class is scheduled to leave. I still can’t believe how incompetent your teacher must be to force you to travel with them.”

“I know it might sound stupid, but I think you will be safest in Gotham City.” Lois offered. 

Mari nodded sharply before cuddling into Damian. “Don’t worry, Angel. I will protect you.” He reassured her while hugging her close to his heart.

“I can protect myself.” She huffed but didn’t reject his hug. 

“That I don’t doubt.”

“There is a good chance he won’t be able to reach you in Gotham anyway. He is just one kid, which will make crossing the border much harder for him.” Stephanie pointed. 

“He has his daddy’s money. That will probably be enough.”

“Let’s hope not. I will send the warning to the border control that he might be trying to enter the country, but that’s the best I can do.” 

“Meanwhile I will go check if my guns are working…” Jason tried to leave, only for Tim to grab the back of his jacket and pull him back into place.

“There is no point worrying for now. Let’s just enjoy Christmas.” Sabine nodded for everyone to return to gifts. When no one was looking at her, she pulled Jon to the side and placed the knife paper on the stone floor. They didn’t speak, not to start another drama, but the boy understood. A short heat-vision later the knife was no more than a piece of smoking paper and molten steel.

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A blonde boy walked toward the terminal. He was dressed in a light gray long-sleeved dress shirt underneath a dark gray vest. He also sported a black necktie, dark gray dress pants, and black dress shoes. His hair was combed back, adding to the impeccable look. The green eyes swept over the guards as they observed him closely. He presented the passport.

He noted that it took them longer than it should. His eyes fell on the wanted poster next to the guards. 

“I’m not my idiotic cousin if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Ah… Um…” The guard that was speaking to him was clearly confused. 

“Really? Ugh! That idiot decided to play supervillain and suddenly I have to suffer for it! I am not Adrien Agreste.” He ruffled through his bag, not caring that several guards almost drew their weapons. He finally pulled out a magazine with him and Adrien standing side by side, modeling for Gabriel. When side by side, the difference in their styles was even more pronounced.

“Apologies, mister. You must understand thought…” The man started to back-track.

“Yeah yeah. Spare the prostrating.” He dismissed the guard and walked past the checkpoint. Once he was out of the hearing range, he grinned. “It’s not you that I want to see on the floor…” He whispered omniously. 

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Marinette and Sabine arrived through a portal five minutes from the airport, with ten minutes to spare before class was scheduled to meet. The two did not carry any luggage so they would get past the customs much faster. An upside to having all your things brought through a magical portal the day before. 

The airport was buzzing with activity. Marinette and her mother quickly got past the checkpoint and met with Chloé, who awaited them eagerly. 

“Dupain-Cheng! How was Christmas with the Waynes?” She asked in a hushed voice, so the class didn’t hear her. 

“Well…” Mari grinned before showing the blonde her ring.

“What? Now that’s what I call a good Christmas gift.” 

“How did you like the belt?” Marinette asked. In response, Chloé showed her that she was already wearing it. It was white with some golden glitter around the elegant buckle. There was a barely visible MDC logo etched on the buckle. The designer worked on it for some time before repurposing it as a Christmas gift. She had to cut on the glitter decorations, but in the end, the more minimalistic design appealed to Chloé. 

Sabine watched the two girls talk. A year ago, the woman wouldn’t believe her eyes if Marinette and Chloé acted this friendly. Now though, they were cute. 

“Did you get my gift?” The blonde asked impatiently.

“Um… Yes. The books are great.” 

“What was under the books!” The girl whispered, hoping to avoid Sabine’s watchful eye and ear.

“What?” Marinette looked surprised and Chloé had to resist the urge to facepalm. 

“Honestly Dupain-Cheng! You’re ridiculous! Utterly ridiculous!”

And then the mood was broken when the rest of the class found them. 

“Good morning Marinette.” Madame Bustier greeted the girl. “Sabine.” 

The older woman did not return the greeting. “It’s Madame Cheng. We are here in the role of chaperones.” She almost seethes. “Let’s keep at least the illusion of professionalism.”

“Um… right. Moving on kids!” The slightly embarrassed teacher declared. 

“She is just as bad as Maribrat,” Alya muttered to Lila when she thought Sabine couldn’t hear her. The glare she received in response made it clear she made a mistake in her judgment.

After they got to the plane, people started to whisper when Chloé and Marinette didn’t join them in the economy class where they had their tickets. Instead, the two left for the first class. 

“Why aren’t they joining us!?”

“Because Chloé’s father paid for hers and I can afford mine.” Marinette normally would be against such blatant flaunting of wealth, but she couldn’t stop herself from rubbing it a bit into them that she earned the luxury. 

“She probably…” Kim suddenly lost his ability to speak when he was met eye-to-eye with Sabine Cheng. 

“Think carefully about what you want to say next.” 

He could almost see the flames of hell burning brightly behind her. “Um… she probably earned it?”

“Good boy.” 

“While I agree that Marinette earned it,” Caline started speaking and Sabine, Chloé, and the girl in question all had to resist the urge to groan, sensing there was more to that sentence. “I think it would be preferable if the girls joined the class for the duration of the flight. It would serve to strengthen the bonds between kids.” 

“And how exactly do you plan on fitting them when all the places in this place are bought out. Not to mention the price difference. Or maybe you thought money was not a problem?” Sabine asked, her voice dripping in sarcasm. 

Before Caline could answer, Lila decided to open her mouth. “Maybe Madame Bustier and you, madame could switch places with them. We know how hard our teacher worked and a bit of relaxation and comfort would do her good. You too could probably relax a bit from all the hard work in that Bakery.” 

Immediately after that, everyone started to agree and try to convince the chaperones to leave them alone. Sabine was about to protest when Caline spoke up. “Well, I think it would be acceptable, provided the girls agree.” She sent both a glare. 

Sabine’s blood boiled. She wasn’t sure if any normal girl would actually have the strength to stand up to a teacher in that position. Only the fact that Marinette looked completely unbothered stopped her from reacting. 

“Of course they won’t agree! They are too selfish!” Alya shouted. 

Some of the people on the plane started to stare at the group, with many gazes falling on Marinette and Chloé. 

The blonde scoffed, but her best friend grinned. “Sure.” She pulled her ticket and handed her to the teacher. “But we’re blocking the flight, so let’s move.”

Chloé handed hers to Sabine, smiling politely at the woman. “Marinette suspected this would end like that.” She whispered before taking a seat next to Dupain-Cheng. Both girls pulled out old-fashioned dictaphones and started recording what was going on with the class. Then Chloé gave Mari one of her detective novels and they started reading. 

Sabine shook her head. Her little girl had a plan and she would trust her. And after seeing Lila in action, she now had some idea how that liar worked. The way she manipulated people’s opinion reminded her in some ways of the assassin training she underwent. 

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The plane was already half-way to Gotham. Sabine did her best to ignore Caliné’s rambling about Marinette, switching between praising her and making her into the heart of all the problems with the class. If she didn’t know better, Sabine would think that the teacher had some sort of mental disorder. Beyond simple stupidity that is. 

Out of the blue, Caliné stopped rambling and Sabine saw her asleep, snoring lightly. 

“A strong sedative. It should give us at least an hour of peace.” A calm voice spoke from behind her. 

“Sandra.” Sabine greeted her sister politely, but without the usual cheerfulness. “Clever of you to choose here of all places to meet me. Don’t think that it will let you escape my wrath. You left that girl on the mercy of a monster.” 

“Cassandra was… I did regret what I did, but I couldn’t risk trying to reclaim her. Not until I was sure she could defend herself.” Sandra said, allowing emotions to enter her voice. Sabine could tell she was genuinely saddened by the situation. 

“You could’ve brought her to me. I would raise her along Marinette without a second thought. And you know that nobody would dare to come after me.” The older turned in her seat to glare at her sister. Two men at her side were both also sleeping, each with a small wound on their neck. They had complete privacy. 

“I… I’m sorry. By the time I managed to find her again, I… I was ashamed. I admit that it pained me to see what Cain did to her. But I couldn’t…”

“We will talk about it when I can scream at you properly.” Sabine cut her off. “For now I want to know what is so important you decided to show up personally, risking my wrath.”

“The boy has allies.” 

“Who?”

“I don’t know, but they are influential enough to shield him from many of my contacts.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure you tried. As opposed to with your daughter.”

“I deserve it…” Sandra lowered her head. 

“Yes, you do.” Sabine huffed. 

“If I find the kid…” 

“He sent Mari the knife he stabbed Ladybug with. I have no idea how he got his sticky hands on it…” 

“You still have the bag, right?”

“Already waiting for me in Gotham.”

“I will try digging some more, but I’m getting blocked at each turn.”

“Meanwhile I will keep both our girls safe.”

“I got the picture of Talia by the way.” Lady Shiva allowed a smile to ghost her face. “I carry it framed and put it by my bed. She got a few copies too.” 

“Good. That might remind her not to trifle with us.” The sisters shared a laugh, but Sabine was still angry and it showed. She would give her sister a piece of her mind when the time came. 

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A figure stood cloaked in shadows. The small screen showed a series of images. 

“Poison Ivy; Bane; Penguin; Riddler; Mr. Freeze; Two-Face; Scarecrow; Clayface; Falcone; Harley Quinn; Killer Croc; Joker…” 

“The previous Hawkmoth was a fool.” Another figure spoke from the shadows. Their voice was neither feminine nor masculine. “He stuck to a moral high ground, giving powers to untrained kids. Then again, he was fighting kids.” 

A small, butterfly-like creature floated in the air. “But that is precisely what the Butterfly Miraculous is supposed to do! Its powers will work best with the common people.” 

“Interesting.” The main figure grinned. “So my father wasn’t such a fool after all.” He laughed when another image appeared on the screen. “And I see that my trap is already working.”

Duusuu had to hide from fear. This was not the kind boy they knew. What could’ve happened to Chat Noir, the great kind Chat Noir that made him into… this.

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Masterlist // Next

[ragingbookdragon]

Date Nights Are The Best Nights

Batfamily Blurbs!

A/N: This is the first reader insert I’ve done in a while. I missed it! Enjoy! -Thorne <3

Dick:

           “I’m not sure if I should be charmed or worried that you picked this for our date.” She glanced over at him, eyes narrowed suspiciously, though her voice was calm. He scoffed lightly, zipping up the windbreaker until it reached the base of his trachea; he reached over, curling his fingers in hers.

           “I’m not sure if I should be offended or amused that you think I’d take you somewhere unsafe (Y/N).” An eyebrow arched high on her face, and (Y/N) retorted,

           “We’re in the middle of a forest Dick. One of two things is gonna happen-I’m either gonna sleep in a tent, or I’m getting murdered.” A snort sounded from his throat and he squeezed her hand before pulling her along.

           “Well I don’t plan on murdering you (Y/N)…I love you too much.” She rolled her eyes, stuffing her free hand in her sweatshirt pocket, and muttered,

           “Didn’t say you were gonna be the one murdering me.” Dick paused and glanced back at her, hoisting the camping gear higher onto his shoulder.

           “You really think I’d let something happen to you babe?” (Y/N) squinted at him and bit out,

           “I’ve watched you willingly trip your brothers to get first dibs on chocolate chip cookies.” She pulled their hands up, pecked his, then let it go, walking past him; before she did, she quipped, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you tripped me when an axe murderer comes running out of the woods.” He grunted, following her.

           “You’ve been hanging out with my baby brothers too much.”

Jason:

           The two of them giggled as they crouched behind a bookshelf, avoiding the light coming from the doorway; she glanced over at him, watching as he peered between the books. “Jason, if we get in trouble, who’s gonna bail us out of this one?” Teal eyes darted to her before he grabbed her hand, pulling her to another bookshelf.

           “Uh…we’re not gonna get caught (Y/N).” She huffed a laugh.

           “Jay, we’re in the library past hours.” (Y/N) shifted her gaze to check between a set of books. “The guard’s leaving.” At that, he took her hand, dragging her to the enclosed space. He let go of her hand, closing the door behind them before he shrugged off the backpack, unzipping it. Jason pulled out a blanket and a few books; the sight made (Y/N) snort. “Building full of books and you bring your own.” She reached over, running her fingers through his hair, tugging gently at the tuft of white in the front. “Only you Jason.” He grinned up at her, pearly white teeth reflecting in the moonlight as he replied,

           “Your own books are your babies, doll. They’re special.” Jason rose, gently pulling her along until they collapsed on the couch, curled up together. He shifted lightly until he was propped up against the couch, (Y/N) nestled between his legs. Jason cracked open a book, using the moonlight to read. After a moment, she asked,

           “Are we gonna stay here all-night Jay?” She felt him nod then say,

           “That’s the plan.” (Y/N) twisted until she could look at him.

           “And what happens if we fall asleep and the guard finds us here?” Jason glanced down at her and gave her a smile.

           “Then we’ll just tell him we fell asleep in here when school was in.”

Tim:

           “I can’t believe you’re saying this to me.” She rolled her eyes, curling her arms across her chest as she retorted,

           “Well believe it Timbers, ‘cause I am.” Tim groaned, burrowing into the covers.

           “But it just opened today (Y/N)!” She rolled her eyes again, watching the lump wiggle. It reminded her of a worm, causing her to giggle, and his head shot out from the covers, cerulean eyes narrowed into a glare. “And now you’re laughing at me!” Tim pouted, sticking his bottom lip out. “Why do you hate me babe?” (Y/N) huffed and reached over, fingers gently sliding through his onyx hair.

           “I don’t hate you. But I’m not going to a new coffee shop that opened on main and standing in line for hours just to get coffee.” Tim stuck his bottom lip out as far as it would go, eyes pleading with her as he begged,

           “Please (Y/N)? I’ll love you forever and ever. We can have as many dogs as you want.” She pretended to think for a moment, then poked his nose and quipped,

           “You should leave the puppy eyes to Dickie. He’s better at it then you are.” The second (Y/N) finished her sentence, Tim pulled his head back into the covers, rolling around.

           “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU JUST TOLD ME MY OLDER BROTHER HAS BETTER PUPPY EYES THAN ME! MY OWN GIRLFRIEND! I’VE BEEN BETRAYED! A BETRAYAL MOST FOUL!” (Y/N) stared at Tim as he wiggled in the covers, then she reached over, pulling them down so she could see his face.

           “If I take you to the coffee shop, will you forgive me?” Tim watched her a moment than asked,

           “Will you buy me a caramel macchiato?” (Y/N) pulled the covers back up and replied,

           “Whatever your whiny butt desires Timberly.”

Bruce:

           The two swayed gently along the deck, snuggled close to one another. She propped her chin on his shoulder and let out a content sigh, smiling as she felt him turn his head, lips pressing to her cheek. “Feeling relaxed darling?” She hummed in agreement, turning her head to press her temple to his chest.

           “I feel very relaxed Bruce.” She glanced up at him, catching his steel-blue eyes on her. “Find anything interesting here handsome?” The corners of his lips rose, and he nodded, voice low as he said,

           “I found a beautiful woman in my arms (Y/N)…I’ve found the most interesting thing in the universe.” She chuckled at that, nuzzling close to him, feeling his arms curl around her back.

           “Mr. Wayne, you have such a way with words.” (Y/N) twisted a finger in a stray string from his sweater, tugging gently at it. “Thank you for dinner tonight Bruce.” He didn’t respond for a moment, and it prompted her to look up at him. “Bruce?” He was staring out into the backyard, but quickly looked back at her.

           “Sorry (Y/N). I was finding the words to apologize with.” She raised her eyebrows, words laced with confusion as she asked,

           “What are you talking about? Why are you apologizing?” Bruce frowned and the sight tugged at (Y/N)’s heartstrings as he murmured,

           “Tonight was the first date night we’ve had in a while and I wasn’t able to take you out somewhere nice.” (Y/N) huffed a laugh, pulling out of his grip until she could stare at him; she took his hands in hers, fingers tracing delicately over the scars that lined them.

           “Fifteen years we’ve been married and still you don’t understand.” His eyebrows furrowed and he watched as she raised his hands, gently pressing her lips to his knuckles. “Bruce, it doesn’t matter if we’re at the fanciest restaurant or here at the manor.” (Y/N) smiled at him and confessed, “So long as I’m with you, I don’t care where we are.” He gave her a heart filled smile, pulling her to him, arms tightening around her.

           “I love you Mrs. Wayne.” (Y/N) hummed, wrapping her arms around his back, gently kneading the muscles.

           “I love you Mr. Wayne…more than you know.” The two pulled back a few feet, staring lovingly at one another. As they leaned towards each other, the sliding door slid open so hard it slapped the doorway, and their two oldest came running out, arms waving frantically.

           “MA, WE NEED HELP IN HERE!”

           “MOM! WE DID A BAD THING! A VERY BAD THING!” Bruce and (Y/N) let go of one another, and she started towards them.

           “What did you hooligans do now?” Before they could respond, her two youngest stumbled out, tears running down their faces.

           “UMI! TODD SHAVED MY HEAD!”

           “MOM! DICK PUT A WAX STRIP IN MY HAIR!” (Y/N) raised her hands, rubbing her face as she moaned,

           “For one-night y’all couldn’t stop nagging each other.” Warm hands rested on her hips, and her husband’s voice sounded in her ear.

           “Batmom to the rescue.”

[greycappedjester]

"If ATFO isn’t up by the end of the month, feel free to ask me for an already written scene from one-shot from that universe." is the offer still open?

Gotcha! Sorry this is late 😬

Here is young Jason's POV. It's from right after Year 4 so before Tim and right after Jason was formally adopted (still in training to be Robin)

Here's the first eight pages

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Year 4.5: The Vacation

Alright, so here’s the thing.

Jason is a city boy. He grew up in a city. It was Gotham so it was a shit city and the part that he lived in even shittier; but, it was, without question, a city. And one where he had lived the entire fourteen years of his somewhat depressing life. Jason was familiar with said city.

So, Jason is decidedly not familiar with the so-called “great” outdoors. Fuck, he’s pretty sure the closest he’s come to nature is fights with Poison Ivy.

All of which is just too fricking bad because Jason also happens to be the recently adopted brother of Dick Grayson, who has for some unimaginable reason decided camping is the best way to spend a vacation.

And Jason is coming along.

Why? Because apparently Dick’s first thought had been this was a great time for brotherly bonding. Okay, actually his first was that it was perfect for Jason’s birthday but Jason had flat out refused and Dick moved it to the week after.

So, now, the newly fourteen year old is watching as Dick somehow crams a tent, sleeping bags, and camping gear into one of the Wayne’s very fancy and very compact sports cars.

Jason looks back wistfully to the manor door.

It’s probably not too late to back out.

But, as lame as it most definitely sounds, this camping trip actually seems really important to Dick. Like important enough to give Donna his Titans duties for a few days and ask Roy to be back up for Barbara in Gotham if she needed it. Plus, more terrifying, getting Barbara to agree to that.

And, as much as he refused to say it aloud, Jason could privately admit that Dick Grayson may have a very large part in why his recently somewhat depressing life is a now a lot less depressing.

Whatever. So, Jason might not actually think it’s too terrible to spend a few days with his older brother. Even with the camping.

That still doesn’t explain the other part.

“Why can’t we bring our uniforms again,” Jason complains, crossing his arms.

Dick doesn’t stop in his work to get the trunk shut. “Because that would mean we’re working and I’ve been informed by both Raquel and Zatanna that working vacations don’t actually count as vacations.” The trunk pops back open and Dick’s head disappears inside. “Besides, we won’t need them where we’re going.”

“Yeah, cause that doesn’t sound ominous,” Jason mutters under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!”

Dick emerges and the trunk finally closes with only a slight creak of protest. “Ha, there! What did I tell you? Circus performers always know the best packing tips.”

Jason is reluctantly somewhat impressed.

“Come on, get in! We’ve gotta get to the grounds while there’s still light to set up the tent.”

Jason slumps into the passenger seat. “Are you sure this isn’t like you stealthily training me in advanced wilderness survival or something?”

“It’s a vacation, Jason,” Dick insists, starting the car and backing down the drive way. “Believe me, if it was training, I’d pick a lot trickier place than twenty minutes out of Gotham city limits.”

Crap, if it was training, Jason would at least know it sucked for a reason. Doing it for fun makes it even worse.

“You know you’re an heir to like billions of dollars, right?”

“We’re the heirs,” Dick corrects because of course, he does.

Jason rolls his eyes. “I’m just saying if you wanted nature, we could go to like the Bahamas or the Galapagos or even just buy an island if that’s what you really wanted.”

“We don’t need an island.”

“Sure, we do. We could even use it as a secret prison for supervillains when we’re done. It would be great!”

Dick’s grinning, checking briefly before pulling into Gotham traffic. “Secret island prison bases definitely fall a bit too far into the supervillian category, Jay. They'll sue us for trademark infringement.”

“Still beats camping.”

“Camping’s fun!” Dick laughs. “Trust me. Millions of people do it every year. They can’t all be wrong.”

Per usual, Jason is far less trusting of the populace’s intelligence than Dick is.

As if to spite his skepticism, the hour or so drive out to the woods doesn’t go so bad. Jason commandeers the radio so they’re listening to a good classic rock station instead of being subjected to the weird mix of folk songs and pop music that Dick likes. The dark buildings and usual smog of Gotham starts to fade out around the forty minute mark, somewhere between one of Dick’s Titans stories and Jason complaining about a plot thread in the last book he read.

The drive is nice. Peaceful, even.

You know like most horror movies start.

“We’re here!”

Jason eyes the stretch of trees for any kind of sign or even a distinguishing feature. There’s nothing.

“Dick, this is definitely not a campsite.”

“It’s a few miles off,” Dick explains, dropping a bag in Jason’s arms. “I wanted to avoid the usual campgrounds in case the tabloid reporters found us. Don’t worry, I checked with the owner. No one’s used this stretch in years.”

Jason thinks there’s probably a reason for that since there’s not one hint of a trail in sight.

“Where are we even going to set up a tent?”

“Not sure,” Dick says way too cheerfully. “Finding a spot’s part of the fun!”

Jason gives him a look.

Dick rolls his eyes. “Relax, Jay. The owner told me there’s a stream about half a mile in. We’ll set up camp there.”

Jason still gives a token grumble just because.

By the time night rolls around, they do manage to find a camping spot, set up the tent, and Dick even starts up a small fire right in the middle of the campsite.

If pushed, Jason would admit the entire thing is a bit picturesque.

He bites down on his hot dog as Dick digs through the rest of their stuff.

“Oh! I almost forgot to tell you!” Dick pulls something out of the bag. “Look, I brought stuff to make s'mores!”

“Cool, hand them over” Jason grabs for the bag of marshmallows only for Dick to pull them away.

“Not yet, they’re for our last day. Gotta ration out the food.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “You’re ridiculous. Why not bring enough for every night?”

“Cause then it’s less special,” Dick answers sagely. “Think about it like a prize for surviving camping.”

Because Jason is the generous sort, he doesn’t even make a crack about “surviving”.

“So, okay, let’s say I buy that camping is a vacation,” he says instead between bites.

“It is a vacation.”

“Yeah, fine, sure. Real question though, why are we taking a vacation?” He waves a hand. “What ever happened to ‘crime never sleeps’ and everything?”

“I’ve never said that!”

“You said it to Babs last week!”

“That was so she’d help me run the Poison Ivy samples! That doesn’t count! She didn’t even believe me!”

“Definitely counts!”

Dick rolls his eyes. “You know most kids don’t need a reason to go on vacation before school starts.”

“So, that’s what this is,” Jason accuses. “This is for you! You wanted a vacation before college!”

Dick turns his face down to poke at the fire. “I’m not going to college...not this year anyway.”

Jason frowns. “I thought you got accepted to Gotham U. Shit, I know you did. Alfred still has the letter hanging on the fridge.”

Dick shrugs. “I’m going to turn it down. There’s too much going on right now. Gotham. The Titans. I’ve gotta start sitting in at the Wayne Enterprise meetings soon, too. I don’t have time for classes.”

“Pretty sure, the classes would help with the Wayne Enterprise crap,” Jason says. “And you know Roy and Donna can help with the Titans and Babs and I can cover more in Gotham if--”

“Jay, it’s fine,” Dick cuts him off. “I need to choose what to focus on and it just can’t be college right now. It’s okay.”

Jason wants to argue more but then Dick’s continuing

“And, hey, I know camping’s not exactly your thing; but, I’m glad you decided to come anyway.” Dick gives him a blinding grin. “You deserve to do some normal summer stuff after all the Robin training. And I’m glad I get to spend some time with my favorite little brother.

Jason glares, ignoring the way his cheeks have gone warm. “Shut up, I’m your only brother. And you know I hate it when you say stuff like that.”

“No, you don’t,” Dick says, shit eating grin in place.

Jason flings the bag of hot dog buns at him.

He catches it, still grinning. The asshole.

-----

Something that’s always jarring but becomes really fucking obvious once he thinks about it is the fact that Dick gets nightmares.

Of course, he does. How could he not? Jason’s doesn’t know why he never expects it.

It’s not even loud nightmares with like screaming and flailing arms and shit. It’s just these short, sharp little gasps as his body goes entirely too stiff and face twists in pain. Sometimes, Jason thinks that’s worse than screaming.

Jason shifts in his sleeping bag, turning to face the top of the tent. He briefly contemplates waking Dick up; but, he knows from experience, it won’t help much. Better to let him get some rest until the nightmare goes away on its own.

Only problem is that Jason still can’t fall asleep. It’s kind of funny. He’s never really thought of himself as a picky sleeper before. Fuck knows he’s slept on way too many of Gotham’s mold infested roofs back when his dad was on parole. But, there’s something about the cold feeling of hard dirt that he swears he can feel even under the layers of sleeping bag and tent.

Camping sucks.

Screw it. Jason’s not just going to lay here all night. Least he can do is get up and explore around the campsite so he can have a better idea of whatever “fun” activities he’s sure Dick has planned for tomorrow.

He slips out of the tent without waking up Dick--which actually does serve as a fairly good challenge for his new Robin training--and heads into the woods, careful to keep note of how far away he goes from camp. He feels ridiculously like he should have bread crumbs or some other kind of fairy tale stuff to track his way through the forest.

He swears if he survived living in Crime Alley, Black Mask, and a freaking explosion just to get lost and die in the woods, he’s going to haunt Dick forever. Jason the Unfriendly Ghost.

He gets to the stream that he and Dick found earlier so at least he’s not that lost.

SNAP!

Jason’s head whips around in the direction of the noise.

Nothing.

He lets out a long breath. Dumb, of course, it’s nothing. It’s the forest. Forests make weird noises. It’s reason #357 why they’re terrible.

SNAP!

Okay...that definitely sounded like something big….but, maybe it’s something normal like a tree branch snapping or--

Snap!...Snap!...Snap!

That’s footsteps.

Jason moves back into the tree line, crouching down until he’s covered in the darkness of the bushes. His hands run over the ground, trying to find anything even remotely useful other than a slightly pointy stick.

Snap!...Snap!

Shit, he really is going to die here, isn’t he? In this stupid forest before he even gets to go out as Robin. Of all the dumb fucking--

Snap!...snap!...snap...snap.

The footsteps are getting further away. Echoing deeper and deeper into the forest on the other side of the stream.

snap...snap...snap…

Jason listens, in slight amazement, as the sounds slowly fade off into the distance until they finally disappear. Slowly, Jason counts in his mind to sixty, then a hundred and twenty, then two hundred.

On three hundred, he bolts--tearing through the forest in the direction of the camp until he finally catches sight of the obnoxiously bright yellow of the tent Dick bought, shining in front of him like a heavenly beacon.

He tears through the opening, breathing heavily, just a half a second before there’s an arm jammed hard against his neck.

“Jay?”

The pressure disappears and then Dick’s looking down at him with wide eyes and a slight blush. “Sorry about that. Was surprised. What’s wrong?”

Jason’s heart rate’s finally slowing down. And here in the safety of the tent, in the face of Dick’s patented concerned face, admitting to getting freaked out by noises in the woods seems beyond stupid.

“Nothing,” he mutters. “Just thought I heard something?”

“Heard something?”

“Yeah, like footsteps.”

Dick frowns. “We’re on private camp land. There shouldn’t be anyone around here. You sure?”

Jason shakes his head, face feeling hot, as he sits back down on his sleeping bag. “No. Don’t worry about it. Like I said, it was probably nothing. Maybe it’s just a mountain lion that’s gonna eat us in our sleep.”

Dick pats his shoulder. “Mountain lions don’t really live in this region, Jay.”

Jason rolls his eyes before turning over pointedly to try to get some more sleep.

“It’s bears you need to worry about.”

[dccomicsimagines]

What’s Lost is Found - Batfamily Imagine - Part One

Part Two  Part Three   Part Four  Part Five  Part Six  Part Six.Five  Part Seven  Part Eight  Part Nine  Part Ten   Part Eleven

The drive was silent. From the backseat, you saw Alfred reach for the radio several times, but stopped himself to focus on the road. His fingers would clench the steering wheel for a minute before relaxing. Oddly, you found yourself copying him, tightening your fingers around your wrist and letting go once he relaxed.

Damian, eighteen with the dark handsome Wayne looks, shifted in the front passenger seat. His elbow moving to lay on the arm rest. He seemed impatient as his eyes glanced out the window. You didn’t understand why he was impatient. If it were up to you, this drive would go on forever. You would never arrive at your destination, therefore what happened would have never happened.

Alfred slowly parked the car outside the cemetery gates. You closed your eyes. Your hands moved off your lap to grip the edge of the leather seats. If you held on tight enough, maybe time would stop. Maybe you wouldn’t have to go. If you don’t go, it didn’t happen.

A long sigh escaped from Alfred, but you kept your eyes closed. “Well, here we are,” Alfred said softly. You heard him turn off the car, but he made no move to leave. Silence filled the car.

“TT, let’s get this over with,” Damian growled. He threw open his door and slammed it shut behind him with unnecessary force. You flinched at the noise. Suddenly, you were in the dark warehouse with blood on your hands.

“Mx. (Y/N).” A warm gentle hand touched yours. You felt your heart pounding a million miles a minute. “Take as long as you need.” You focused on Alfred, who had turned in his seat to look at you with a small smile. He squeezed your hand. “If you are not up to this, it’s alright. You can stay in the car.”

“No, no, I’m good,” you choked. You could still smell smoke, rotting fish, and the hint of iron. Glancing down at yourself, you were surprised to find your Robin uniform instead of your black dress clothes. You shook your head and your black dress clothes were back.

Alfred frowned, but turned away to get out of the car. Your nails dug into the leather seat as you prevented yourself from flinching when his car door shut.

A little whimper escaped your lips. Your hands started to shake, but you dug your nails further into the leather to keep them still. You turned to look out the window. Other people, dressed in black, had arrived. You distracted yourself by recognizing people. There was Superman and Lois. Jon was tagging along behind them before going over to greet Damian.

Tim walked by with Steph. He looked horrible while Steph kept her composure. Kate and Cass joined them. You recognized several League members, Titans, Teen Titans, and Young Justice members arriving. A rock formed in your throat. Leaning forward, you pressed your forehead against your knees, hiding from the people outside. You heard more car doors slam and all you could think of was the blood and a gruesome, wet crack sound.

One breath after the other. Don’t panic. You froze when you heard a familiar voice talking outside of the car. “Where’s (Y/N)?” Dick asked. A cold swell of rage and hate filled you. You couldn’t face him now. Not here.

You heard someone answer him as you slid across the backseat to the opposite side of the car. Silently, you opened the opposite door and slipped out of the car. You pressed the door shut behind you. With everyone heading into the cemetery, you crept back through the rows of parked cars and into a small woods. You wandered into it until you couldn’t see the cars.

There was a fallen tree trunk covered with green moss. You sat on it, not caring about dirtying your dress clothes. It was quiet. Your thoughts slowed as you played your little game of denial again. If you sat here forever, then it didn’t happen. If you sit here, then nothing will happen in the cemetery. The casket will never go into the ground and it will have never happened.  Those people wouldn’t be there, and you could just sit here. It would be a heroic thing. You give your forever to prevent the worse from happening. Batman wouldn’t be dead, Bruce Wayne wouldn’t be dead, your father wouldn’t be dead. If you sat here, then his body will never go into the ground and he’ll still be here.

However, a tiny whine escaped your lips as you felt a wetness on your cheeks. You reached up only to feel tears. Everything was wrong. You leaned forward and sobbed.

***

You got back to the car before the service finished. To avoid everyone, you laid down on the seat to hide and pretend to be asleep. Eventually, you dozed off.

Time passed. You heard your door open, but you were trapped in the space between fully awake and deep sleep. Someone ran their fingers through your hair. It felt nice and you imagined it was your father, back from the dead.

“You’ll be at the will reading tomorrow, Grayson?” Damian asked softly. You thought it was strange he was attempting to be quiet.

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” The sound of Dick’s voice made you want to get up and scream at him, but you couldn’t move. You realized the fingers stroking your hair were probably Dick’s and you wanted to cry all over again. “Actually, I’ll be at the manor tonight after the reception on the watchtower.”

“TT, Father would have hated the idea of a reception there.” Damian shifted, shuffling his feet. “Will you patrol with me tonight? I plan to try out the cowl for the first time. We can’t let anyone know Batman is gone.” You wanted to wake up, blow up, but you were finding it difficult to have the energy even with the emotions bubbled inside of you.

Dick hummed. “Yeah, but you know I’m retired from that part of my life, Damian. It will only be one night. Any more and I’ll find I can’t stop.”

“You make it sound like a drug, Grayson,” Damian huffed. Dick’s hand paused, mid-stroke on your head. The weight of it heavy on your temple.

“It almost is,” Dick whispered. His hand started stroking you again and their conversation faded away into nothingness.

***

You were in your Robin uniform, taking down Bane’s hired goons. The smell of smoke and rotting fish filled your lungs. You flipped through the air, kicking one of the men into another one before dodging a punch. It was natural, normal.

Batman was fighting Bane above you on a metal catwalk. You could see him out of the corner of your eye. He had this under control.

One of the goons you were fighting pulled a gun. You somersaulted to dodge the bullet and kicked the gun out of his hand. Suddenly, you heard something from the catwalk. You turned to see Bane flip Batman. The gruesome, wet crack filled the air as Batman’s head slammed against the metal railing. Bane picked up his limp body and tossed him to the floor.

You shook off the horror, running over. His body banged against the ground like dead weight.

“Batman,” you gasped, quickly checking his pulse. There wasn’t one. “Dad.” You heard a voice over the comlink, but you couldn’t process it. “Daddy.” You shook him, trying to wake him up. Bane laughed above you. You slowly looked up at him and all you saw was red.

The next thing you knew you were standing there with a bloody knife in your hands. Blood was everywhere. The smell of smoke and rotting fish mixed with tinny iron smell. Bane laid nearby, unmoving along with the rest of his hired goons. You dropped the knife and collapsed on top of Batman’s, your father’s, body. The last thing you remembered was how cold he was.

***

“(Y/N), are you listening to me?” Lucius Fox asked from behind your father’s desk. You almost jumped out of the cozy armchair, startled out of your memory. The entire family was in your father’s study, and you couldn’t remember how you got here. Everyone was looking at you with concern. You studied each of them, although you skipped over Dick when you saw he was sitting in the chair next to you. Too close.

“Yes,” you said finally once you made eye contact with Lucius.

Lucius frowned. “Did you read the letter I gave you? The one from your father? It’s written in the will that those must be read first.”

You blinked. “Yes,” you said quickly, wanting the attention off you. However, you did not read the letter. In fact, you threw it away. You knew it would say it was all your fault. Lucius nodded, going back to the will. Everyone else looked away from you. Dick’s hand slid over to lay on top of yours. You flinched away from him, giving him a glare. He frowned at you.

“So we’ll move on then,” Lucius said, clearing his throat. “There are trust funds set up for each of you with equal amounts of money and some stocks in Wayne Enterprises. However, Tim has been left more, simply because he has taken a more active role in the business itself…” He kept talking, but you stopped listening. You tried to remember how you got here. Did you wake up this morning? You must have had since you were dressed and down here. Lucius talked to you like you were awake. A headache blossomed in your temple.

You reached up to rub your temple. That got the attention of Dick, who glanced back over at you. The rage grew in your gut, but you pushed it aside. You couldn’t blow up at him now. If you can just get through this, you could hide in your room until he disappeared from your life again.

“Then we come to the guardianship of the minor, (Y/N) Wayne.” You looked up in surprise. Why would that be important? You figured Alfred would take over. He was basically raising you anyway. “The guardianship is placed with Richard John Grayson.” Your blood ran ice cold.

You slowly turned to look at Dick in horror. Dick stared back at you. You couldn’t read his expression, but you could tell he wasn’t surprised by the news. He knew before coming into this.

“No,” you whispered. The rage bubbling it’s way to the surface like beginning of a volcanic eruption. “No!” You were on your feet. Red filled your vision.

“Mx. (Y/N), calm down,” Alfred soothed, coming to your side. You jumped away from him only to find Dick on his feet as well.

“No, I will not accept this!” You turned to Lucius. Lucius was taken back, afraid by your reaction. “Change it now! I will not be stuck with him! I want nothing to do with him! Anyone else, but him!”

“I can’t change the will,” Lucius said helplessly. Your breath got caught in your throat. Dick moved closer to you, but you scurried away toward Damian.

“Damian, please. Don’t let him do this,” you begged. Your voice broke. It was like someone had a fist around your neck.

Damian blinked, stunned by your reaction. “I can’t, (Y/N). It is for the best.” His betrayal hit you like a punch in the stomach. You looked to Tim, Steph, Barbara, and Cass, but none of them would meet your eye. Finally, you looked to Jason who was hanging around in the back of the room.

“Jay, please?” It was a pitiful cry. You felt the tension increase in the room.

He shared a long look with Dick. “Sorry, kid,” Jason coughed. You flinched, dancing away when Dick used the distraction as a chance to come closer. Your heart shattered.

“Oh I get it,” you said in a low, dangerous voice. Everyone in the room was taken back by the tone in your voice. “It’s because I’m a murderer, isn’t it?” No one said anything. A cold, chilling laugh escaped you. You sounded insane, but you didn’t care. “I killed Dad and Bane, so now you’ll just throw me to the wolves. Well, I won’t go.” A sob racked it’s way through your body. “I don’t need any of you, and I definitely don’t need you.” You turned to face Dick, narrowing your eyes when you saw the fear in his eyes.  

Dick swallowed hard before his expression hardened. “(Y/N), you need to calm down.” He took another step toward you.

“NO!” You let out a primal screech, letting all your emotions into it. Everyone else covered their ears while Dick didn’t react at all. You grabbed one of those stupid metal statuettes your father had on his desk and threw it at him. Dick caught it, staying where he was.

“(Y/N).” Dick set the statuette back on the desk. His mouth twitched. You were making him mad. Good. “What are you trying to gain out of this?”

You snorted as the smell of smoke, rotting fish, and iron came back to you.  The headache was now pounding your temple like a sledgehammer. The horrid, wet crack filled your ears again. All you wanted was quiet. You covered your ears to block it.

Dick was suddenly reaching out to touch you. You screamed again before using all your strength to run out of the room. Others tried to stop you, but you fought them off like a wild animal. Scratching, biting until you were free. The only thought on your mind was getting to the quiet. You needed the quiet.

After losing the others for a second, you found a unused closet down one of the upstairs hallways. You slipped inside. The darkness was soothing. With your hands firmly over your ears, you sank to your knees to breathe in the quiet.

Your heart ached like a hole had been pieced in it. Tears stung your eyes. You had often wondered once you began to remember killing Bane why you hadn’t been punished? Why weren’t you in jail? Your father would have arrested you for it, why didn’t anyone else?

You shook your head, lying down on the hard, cold floor of the closet. Racing footsteps ran through the hallway, the light flickering beneath the door. You held your breath until they moved on. Maybe they were planning on punishing you in their own way? That’s probably why Dick was made your guardian to make you pay for your crimes. After all, nothing hurts more than the fact that Dick suddenly had completely control over your life. Your eyelids began to grow heavy. A wave of exhaustion flowed through you and you let yourself fade away into the nothingness of sleep.

***

“Where is (Y/N)?” Jason’s voice echoed loudly in your ear. You opened your eyes in fear before relaxing when you saw you were still in the dark closet.

“They’re in the closet,” Dick sighed. His voice came from right outside of the door. You wanted to tense up from him finding you, but you were too tired. At least he left you alone somewhat.

The floor creaked as part of the light from under the door got block. One of them sat against the door. “So what’s your plan?” Jason asked after a long silent minute.

“What do you mean?” The rest of the light from under the door got block. You heard the floor creak as the other one sat down in front of the door.

“Are you planning to keep them locked in there or what? I mean (Y/N) really doesn’t like you,” Jason said. You found yourself eager to hear what Dick would say.

Dick sighed. You could picture him running his hand through his hair like he always did when he was frustrated. “I’m planning on taking care of them. They need help, Jay. You saw how they freaked out at the will reading.”

Jason snorted. “I hate to point this out, but they only freaked when they found out you got custody of them.” He was enjoying this a tad too much.

“(Y/N) just lost their father. They saw him die.” Dick’s voice cracked. “Not to mention they killed Bane too.”

“I thought we decided not to talk about that. We convinced the cops that it was some kind of assassin.” You rolled onto your side to stare at the door.

“We did, but it’s clear (Y/N) remembers now.” Dick sighed again. “I hoped they wouldn’t remember that, but we can’t ignore it if they remember now. We have to help (Y/N) heal.” The two men fell quiet. You had to admit, you didn’t feel bad for killing Bane. Maybe you were a monster for not feeling guilty about taking a life, but rather you felt guilty for not saving your father’s.

Jason took a shaky breath. You wondered if he was trying not to cry. “I’m glad they killed him. Though, I wish I’d been the one to do it, they don’t need to bear that burden.”

“I’m not going to say anything, because you know I disagree with you. An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind,” Dick whispered. Jason snorted, but didn’t say anything. Another long minute of silence past between them. “What did your letter from Bruce say?”

He grunted. “Bruce just wrote the normal stuff. How he always thought of me as a son, wanted me to stop killing, but understood that I made a difference, etc. Why? What did yours say?”

“That he loved me, and was proud that I left the life behind.” Dick paused. “Then he thanked me for helping Damian.” He took a shaky breath. “And then he asked me to do the same for (Y/N).” You stiffened. He must be lying. Your father would have never asked him that, he knew how you felt about Dick. He wouldn’t do that to you, would he?

“Well, that’s going very well so far. I mean, you got (Y/N) to freak out and lock themselves in a closet.” Jason chuckled humorlessly.

“I didn’t think they would react that way.”

“The bite on my arm begs to differ.” Jason hissed. You felt your cheeks heat up. Was it Jason’s arm you bit? You thought it was Dick’s.

Dick sighed. “Okay, I knew they’d take the news badly, but I didn’t think it would be like that. I thought I could reason with them.”

Jason hummed. “Sure you did.” He was quiet a moment. “What did you do to make them so mad at you?”

You held your breath, waiting for Dick to reply. “I think part of it is jealousy. I spent a lot of time with Damian when I came to visit. There were times I didn’t see (Y/N) at all, because we’re doing Nightwing and Robin stuff.” Dick choked a little. “But it got worse when Bruce decided to make (Y/N) Robin. I fought with him on it, saying (Y/N) was too young and didn’t have the proper training. (Y/N) overheard.”

“No wonder they hate you. They’ve only been training to be Robin their whole life,” Jason retorted. “Do you know how many tests they had to pass before Bruce would even consider it? I mean we both got it easy compared to that.”

“I know. I never agreed with any of that.” You hated him more than you thought you could. “You remember when Bruce died the first time with Darkseid? I took over raising (Y/N) for almost a year. They were only four and didn’t know what was going on. I wanted them to have a normal life, but I couldn’t give it to them. I had to take up the cowl, and stop Damian from going on murder spree. But I did the best I could until Bruce returned and I gave (Y/N) back to him.”

You couldn’t believe he was such an idiot. Your hand clenched into a fist. Sure, Dick saying you didn’t have what it takes to be Robin hurt, but not as much as being abandoned by him. He made it sound so simple. ‘I gave (Y/N) back to him’. You had to hold back a sob, knowing they’d hear it. It wasn’t like he could act like your dad for a year and just hand you back without any consequences. Then, to have him say you were simply jealous when he spent all his visits years after with Damian. It was like someone knifed your heart and was twisting it in deeper.

“No wonder they hate you,” Jason muttered. You sensed Jason had a clue about what was really going on, but he didn’t try telling Dick. Not that Dick would listen. He never did.

Dick hummed, not saying anymore. You suddenly felt so tired. Why did your father have to die? You would have never had to deal with this if he didn’t. Why didn’t you save him? All the doubts went round in your mind, making you feel sick to your stomach. It was at that moment that you realized you haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday morning. How long had it been?

“Master Dick, Master Jason, dinner is served,” Alfred said. You could hear him approaching the door. “Has Mx. (Y/N) awoken yet?” Your heart skipped a beat. Of course, they thought you were asleep. Why else would they talk so honestly if they thought you couldn’t hear them? You quickly turned away from the door and relaxed to pretend you were asleep. Your stomach rumbled with hunger, but you ignored it. You deserved to go hungry.

Dick and Jason thumped to their feet before the door creaked open. You could see the light shine in, blinding you even with your eyes closed. “They’re still asleep,” Dick said.

Alfred sighed. “Well, Mx. (Y/N) needs to eat too. They’ve already lost too much weight as it is.” You wondered how he knew that, but then again Alfred noticed everything.

“You two go ahead. I’ll wake them up and bring them down,” Dick said.

“Are you sure you can handle that, Dick?” Jason asked uncertainly. You clenched your hand into a fist against your chest.

“Go on. I don’t want you to get bitten again, Jay. I’ll meet you down there.” You heard Alfred and Jason leave. The weight of Dick’s presence was heavy in the tiny closet. You hated him. “Come on, (Y/N). I know you’re awake. You heard everything.” His hand touched your arm gently, but you jerked away from him.

He was blocking the door, so you slid back until your back hit the wall. “Don’t touch me.”

Dick sighed, running a hand through his hair. You had a flash of when you were four and wouldn’t go to bed. He did the same thing before he offered to read you to sleep. You wanted to cry from the memory. “(Y/N), why do you have to make this so hard? I know you miss your dad, honey, and I know you’re suffering, because you think you killed him. You didn’t kill him.”

“I didn’t save him. That’s the same thing,” you snapped back. “Besides, I did kill Bane. Why didn’t you tell the cops that? Then I could spent my life in prison and you could go back to whatever is that you do. Actually, I would prefer that then having to live with you.”

He flinched, eyes wide with surprise. “You don’t mean that, do you?”

You narrowed your eyes. A lump grew in your throat. Don’t let him convince you that he cares. He doesn’t care. “Yes, I do.”

His mouth became a fine line. Anger making his eyes brighter. “Let’s put it this way. You confess to the cops and you’ll expose yourself as Robin, your father as Batman, and Damian as the new Batman at the very least. It’s not going to hurt me if you do that. I’m retired from Nightwing. They won’t make the connection, and you’ll be alone.”

Uncontrollable rage filled you. He dared to say you’ll be alone. You were already alone. Your father died, and now suddenly Dick gets to come back into your life like he never abandoned you.

Dick saw the change in your expression and tensed. You flung yourself at him, knocking him out of the closet and into the hallway. Red filled your vision as you punched at him. He blocked each punch until he finally caught your fists in his hands. You snarled, kicking him. Dick pushed you away, but you came back at him again.

The two of you fought long and hard. Despite the rage and the urge to hurt him, you noticed he wasn’t hitting you back. He was on the defensive.

“Hit me,” you growled. He blocked another one of your punches. You quickly jumped off the wall to get more leverage on a kick to his face.

“I’m not going to hit you.” He blocked the kick easily and flipped you to the floor. You tumbled roughly. Your ankle twisted from the bad landing. A gasp of pain escaped your lips. The exhaustion had worked it’s way deep into your bones and you couldn’t get up. Tears started streaming down your cheeks. You hid your face into the carpet, embarrassed, hungry, and tired. The rage you had was spent and now all you wanted to do was cry.

There was a hand on your back before you felt yourself being picked up. Dick gently cradled you in his arms. He sat down against the wall, tightening his arms around you. “It’s okay, honey. Cry it out,” he soothed into your ear.

You did what he said, crying the tears you didn’t know you still had. It felt like you already cried for years in these last few weeks. However, you hadn’t forgiven Dick. You would allow him this moment of weakness on your part, but he hadn’t broken you like he believed he had. After all, you were your father’s child.

[damian-dreamz8442]

Missing in Action Part II

Hola, back with the second half of the fic. Should I link Part I here?

Psych, I already did. 

BTW this is NOT canon compliant and I do not even try to be accurate at all, just in character. 

Basic re-cap (spoilers) Damian is missing, kidnapped by a pack of goons in clown makeup, right out from under Dick’s nose. Afterwards he got a call from the Joker saying he has Damian, and gave Dick a bit of a clue as to where. 

Meanwhile, the Joker is very angry over the fact that he doesn’t actually have Damian, and the little punk is, in fact, nowhere to be found. 

Dick called the batmobile to his location, putting it on autopilot as he was in no condition to drive. His pounding head was only a minor distraction compared to the all-encompassing worry over Damian. He needed back-up if he was going to find Damian. 

Stephanie was, unsurprisingly, the first to answer. “Batman?” She questioned, no doubt noticing Dick initiated a group call with her, Cass, Tim and Jason. 

“I hope this is quick, Batman,” Tim added, keys clacking audibly in the background, “I’m in the middle of a case with the titans and-”

“Damian is missing.” Dick blurted, abandoning code names. 

“What?” Jason barked. Dick could hear Cass narrow her eyes. 

“He was kidnapped on patrol,” Dick explained, “a pack of goons took him, wearing clown makeup.” 

“Oh my god.” Stephanie breathed, at the same time as Tim’s “the Joker? He’s back?” 

“We don’t know that.” Jason reasoned, voice tight. “There are copy cats of the Joker all over Gotham.” 

“I got a call.” Dick cut his brother off, trying to focus his eyes on the road despite not being in control of the car. “A payphone, somehow he knew I would still be in the area. He gave me a clue.” A really messed up, useless clue. Dick hated even remembering the words as they came along with that familiar nasal voice. He’d written down the message, scrawled hastily on a sticky note in his belt, but somehow he’d dropped it in his panic. 

“He said he took Robin to ‘the place little robins go to... die’.” Dick ignored his voice crack, hoping the others would as well. 

Tim’s typing stopped, “like actual birds or-”

“The warehouse.” Jason growled, eliciting a curse from Dick. “You don’t think...” Jason’s only response was a grunt. 

Jason’s constant death jokes insured that at least they all knew which warehouse he was referring to. It did nothing to instill confidence in Dick. 

“How long do we have?” Tim asked as Dick went about changing the coordinates in his GPS. 

“It’s the Joker,” Jason grumbled, emotion lost from his voice in a transparent way of blocking out old memories, “we’ll be lucky if Damian’s even recognizable when we get there.” 

The line went silent, the implications heavy on the group of siblings. Dick wished for the thousandth time that Bruce was there. He could’ve stopped all this, surely. Dick didn’t have time to think about the irony; losing his first robin the same way the first Batman lost his robin. Dick wouldn’t let his brain go there. He couldn’t. 

Damian finally made it back to the street Dick was supposed to be on. Between limping and sticking to the shadows as much as possible in red and green, it had taken him nearly another hour. Quite the pathetic display, Damian told himself. No doubt if his father had been alive, he would’ve been disappointed. 

Despite it being two hours, Damian was at a loss when he found the alleyway deserted. There was a creepy box, mostly broken, and a stuffed clown face that laid decimated not far away, but no Batman. Damian did not like the idea of limping all the way back to the manor. His ankle pulsed with constant pain, it was getting harder to breathe around his ribs, and the cuts littered all of his limbs had yet to stop bleeding. It was tempting to just sit against the wall and wait for someone to come along and put him out of his misery. 

Instead, Damian limped over to a phone booth across the street. The receiver was unhooked, emitting the most sound, second only to Drake speaking. Damian hung it up with a grimace. He was surprised it worked at all, considering no one used phone booths anymore. Unless they were desperate. Which Damian was. 

He was about to try to remember the number for Wayne manor, when Damian noticed something yellow discarded haphazardly outside the phone booth. It wouldn’t have been of much interest to him, except the handwriting was unmistakable. 

Dick had used the phone booth and carelessly left behind a note. No doubt he was over reacting to Damian being missing, but at least it ensured he was alive. The note made little sense. 

‘Where little robins go to die’, who would even come up with that? Damian made a face at the sickening notion. 

Sluggishly, Damian’s brain aligned the clues. Dick thought he was missing, already on a scale of six of worry. He and Tim categorized a scale of worry for their family. Dick was almost always a five, Damian had never seen Jason rise above a two. 

Someone had called him on the phone booth, obviously. It was unlikely Dick’s communicator was broken in the skirmish and even if it was he wouldn’t think to use a phone booth. For what purpose? He could just call the batmobile. 

So some sicko had called the phone booth and given Dick the message. A clue perhaps? Damian read it again, allowed his mushy, bruised brain to comprehend the words. Wished he was as good a detective as Drake. Bashed the intrusive thought with a mental crowbar. 

Crowbar! Damian would’ve smacked his head if it didn’t already hurt so much. Finally Jason’s fatalistic sense of humor came in handy; his cause of death ingrained in the back of Damian’s mind. A rather dark turn of thought, but Damian was more results oriented. 

The Joker had beaten Jason with a crowbar, then killed him, in a warehouse on the other side of Gotham. It never did get rebuilt, but the Joker had erroneously threatened to do the same thing to Damian. Despite it being a lie, Dick would believe it. He didn’t know Damian escaped. 

Great, just great. How unbelievably fantastic. What an amazing turn of events, now Damian would get the absolute privilege of walking all the way across Gotham, trying to catch up with Dick who was probably a hair shy of a ten. If Damian was wrong well... that would really suck. 

Damian was really starting to understand why Joker was the most disliked criminal in the batfamily. (There was a vote. Ironically, they all like Harley Quinn the most.) 

With no other options, Damian began limping in the vague direction of the infamous warehouse. A street later, he passed a marooned motorcycle. After that, his night got much better. 

Dick ran across the grounds of the warehouse district to find the rest of his siblings not far from the remains of the blown up warehouse. Cass had a hand on Jason’s shoulder, while he quietly muttered about not letting Damian die the same way he had. It was cruelty on another level, this scheme of the Joker’s. Dick just wanted his robin back. 

Tim and Steph were formulating a strategy. Well, Tim was, having pulled up an overhead view of the warehouse rubble. Steph kept suggesting they go in fighting, get Damian, and set Joker on fire. Tim pointed out eight reasons that would not work. 

Dick stood next to Jason, taking a deep breath. “I don’t think we have time to wait, or make a plan.” He shot an apologetic look at Tim, “we just need to go in, canvas it, find Damian-”

“That’s what Joker wants!” Tim insisted, gesturing lamely to the building. “He probably has some game set up, or the entrance rigged, and we’ll all get blown up!” Jason bristled at the prospect of being blown up again, noticeable only to Cass. She squeezed his shoulder. 

Suddenly, a sharp disc cut through the group, lodging in the tree behind them. They all looked at it in shock, Joker’s logo laughing at them. It blinked to life, emitting a hollow cackle. 

“You’re too late!” Came a raspy voice. It hissed, a pathetic amount of laughing gas bubbling out of its edges. The frisbee was not meant to do damage, the real threat...

Dick spun around just as ruins of the warehouse let out a sickening crackle and exploded. Again. 

“No!” Dick screamed, lurching forward. Cass jumped in front of him to hold him back, eyes trained on the building. Jason couldn’t tear his eyes from the flames, memories and horror clutching him. 

“No, no, no, that can’t be it!” Tim insisted, burying his hands in his hair. “It’s... it’s the Joker! Where are the mind games? The... the...” 

Stephanie crashed to her knees, gaping at the scene. “What just-what just happened?” 

“Damian...” Dick’s voice cracked painfully, throat raw. He could feel the heat, there were debris floating down. Cass hugged him tightly. 

Jason spun around and punched a tree, it was unclear if the following crack came from the wood or his knuckles. He let out a furious growl, which morphed into an anguished roar. “I’m. Going. To. Kill. That son of a b-- !” 

Damian nearly stopped his stolen motorcycle as he saw the warehouse rubble go up in flames. What the... who would go through the trouble of blowing up that heap of cement? He could only hope Dick wasn’t in there, it would be just like him to do something stupid without Damian. 

Finally making it over the grassy hill - one of the few greenspaces in this area of Gotham - Damian ditched the bike. He was about to hobble forward when he heard a haunted wail from none other than Jason Todd. Damian broke into a run, despite his bodies protests. 

Had Dick gone into that building? Was one of them hurt? Damian could see his whole family gathered not far from the explosion. He could barely breathe, thanks to his ribs, and tripped on his ankle. He was panting by the time he got close enough to call out to them. 

Are you ok?” He straightened to talk to Jason, the only one looking at him, “what happened? Sorry I’m late, but someone ditched me in central Gotham and-” 

His whole family spun to look at him. Jason looked close to tears. Dick was crying. Stephanie was on the ground. Maybe she was hurt? Before Damian could ask, Dick was running full speed at him. 

“Robin!” His voice was thick with relief as he swept Damian into a hug. Normally such contact was unwarranted but not uncomfortable. This time, could Damian just say, ow. 

“Batman, release me!” Damian managed through gritted teeth, his ribs screaming at the pressure. There were definitely a few broken. 

“Robin, I can’t believe... you were... and then we!” 

“Batman! My ribs!” Dick let go immediately at the pained sound of Damian’s voice, supporting the boy as he doubled over painfully. He looked up to find his whole family gathered around him in concern. 

There were hands all over him, noting his injuries, bracing his ankle, rubbing his back. Someone - Todd, probably - even took advantage of the situation to mess up his hair. It was too much to keep track of, making him dizzy. 

“What happened?” He asked, batting the hand away from his hair. 

“We thought you... you were in there.” Stephanie finally explained, pointing at the burning cement foundation. 

“Joker, he... I saw you?” Dick was still unable to formulate a proper sentence. 

Damian scoffed, which cost him dearly as pain seared through him. It took him another second to get enough breath back in his lungs to explain. “I got away from those buffoons in like... five minutes.” Two hours, but who was counting. 

“Your ankle. Ribs. Head.” Cass countered. Ah, her hands were bracing his ankle. 

“Well, I didn’t get away entirely unscathed.” 

“We were really worried about you.” Tim’s voice was choked with emotion. He was rubbing Damian’s back. Damian couldn’t help but look at him in shock.” 

“So you all rushed here... to try and save me?” 

“Obviously!” Jason scoffed loudly. “Always.” He finished, locking eyes with Damian. 

Damian cleared his throat - another act that rendered him speechless in pain for a few seconds. “Thank you for coming. As you can see, I’m fine.” The siblings shared an incredulous look. 

“Is that Damian for ‘my body frigging hurts and I want to go home’?” Steph asked, leaning down to Damian’s level. He glared at her. “No, I’m-” he was about to say ‘not even that hurt’ but then Cass let go of his ankle to stand and Damian nearly fainted. To his utter mortification, a pained whimper left him. 

“Oh, lil’D, c’mere.” Dick cooed sympathetically, slowly gathering him up. This time he was mindful of Damian’s ribs. Damian would not admit that a huge wave of relief washed over him as soon as he was being carried, weight off his ankle and head cradled on Dick’s shoulder. 

“Put me down. I can... I can walk.” Damian’s protest held no heat, it was basically a whine. Dick leaned his cheek on Damian’s head softly. That was all it took for Damian’s body to finally give into the darkness. 

When Damian came to, he was in the batcave on a bed next to Dick. Dick was holding his hand, half asleep, pristine bandages wrapped around his head. Despite the calm scene next to him, the batcave was anything but. 

Tim and Cass were playing a video game on the huge monitor - correction, Tim was losing against Cass in a video game on the huge monitor - while Jason and Steph cheered them on. Alfred was cleaning up medical supplies when he noticed Damian’s attempt at awareness. 

“Master Damian,” Alfred greeted with a soft smile. Dick jerked awake, already grinning. “Dami! You’re awake!” The game was paused as four more people came rushing to his bedside. 

Damian hated being on pain meds. The sight of his family being so worries about him was enough to make him want to hug them. Humiliating. 

“How are you feeling?” Tim asked. Before Damian could bite back with a harsh ‘fine’, his emotions betrayed him. 

“Thank you,” he muttered, surprising no one more than himself. “Thank you for always coming for me.” Damian bit back the rest of his words, and the tears. He refused to be as pathetic and young as they expected of him. 

Dick saw right through him, he always did. He reached over and hugged Damian - something that was quickly becoming a normal action, not that Damian could bring himself to mind. “We love you.” 

[bearly-writing]

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: DCU, Batman - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, Very brief Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne Characters: Slade Wilson, Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne Additional Tags: SladeRobin Weekend Mini-Event 2020, Day 3: Omegaverse, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Alpha, Alpha Slade Wilson, Alpha Jason Todd, Omega Dick Grayson, Blood and Injury, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Biting, Knotting, Hurt Jason Todd, Protective Dick Grayson, Protective Jason Todd, Rape Aftermath, Vomiting, Dissociation, Protective Bruce Wayne Series: Part 3 of SladeRobin Weekend 2020, Part 2 of Jason Rare Pair Challenge Summary:

"When Slade rolls back to his feet and glances back at the bed he comes face-to-face with Jason Todd, crouched protectively over Dick, face red with anger. There’s the sudden stink of furious, protective alpha so strong that it makes Slade shudder. Rockets his heart against his chest, and not in the way it should. Because it definitely shouldn’t be shooting heat straight to his dick."

For the SladeRobin Weekend prompt Omegaverse.

Chapter 3 is now up!

Bruce doesn’t think he’s ever driven so fast or so recklessly - even back in the days when he’d been young and stupid, testing the limits of everything he did. He’d been at the office when Dick had called, wanting a break from the oppressive emptiness of the manor. Not that it was totally empty of course, Damian was there, Cassandra and Alfred and Ace, too. But Dick, conspicuously, wasn’t. Even though he’s in heat. Even though the manor is where he’s supposed to be.

Then Dick had called him - something Bruce hadn’t been expecting for another week at least, given the way they had left it - and before he’d even picked up, he had known something was wrong. It had slid into his gut like a snake, cold and uncomfortable.

He’d been right. When he had picked up, Dick had been crying. Not just crying, sobbing, whimpering on every exhale. And Bruce’s protective alpha instincts had surged up on him like a tidal wave. As much as Bruce has always tried not to treat Dick differently, he’s still the pack’s only omega, and knowing he’s hurting, hearing him cry on the other end of the phone and not being close enough to help him, knowing he’s in heat, well...Bruce is actually quite proud of the way he restrained himself. Not many alpha’s would have been able to politely excuse themselves before tearing out of the office to get to their omega - their pup.

Bruce parks haphazardly on the street, not caring that he probably shouldn’t leave his nice, expensive car out in the open in Bludhaven of all places, not caring that, technically, he’s not supposed to know the location of his son’s most-used safehouse. Dick hadn’t volunteered his address, but Bruce doubts he’ll be surprised to see him. And Bruce honestly doesn’t care if he is. All Bruce can think is that he needs to get inside. He needs to get to Dick.

There aren’t many things that could bring Dick to call Bruce, hysterical, in the middle of his heat, despite the ferocious argument they’d had just a few days earlier. Any other time, Bruce might think he was injured badly on patrol or one of the family was hurt or, God-forbid, someone was dead. Knowing Dick is in heat though, Bruce’s stupid alpha brain can only think of one thing.

No. Bruce tries to force that thought aside as he skids into the apartment lobby and heads up, taking the stairs two at a time. Bruce doesn’t want to think that. Not about his son. Not about Dick. Instead, he focuses on counting each flight of stairs as he sprints up them. He isn’t in the Batman uniform - hadn’t had the time or the presence of mind to think about changing - but it’s not like anyone stops him, anyway. In Bludhaven, just as in Gotham, people learn pretty quickly to mind their own business. And Bruce knows that he stinks of furious alpha. There aren’t many people who would be willing to risk confronting him.

The door to Dick’s apartment is ajar and that alone is enough to freeze the breath in Bruce’s lungs. Before he can think better about it, Bruce shoulders his way in. If he was in a better headspace, more in control of himself, Bruce might have been more careful about it. He might have stopped to take stock of the situation, to get a little bit of a clue as to what might be waiting for him on the other side.

Right now, though, Bruce is just desperate to get to his pup, and the door is just another thing standing in his way.

As soon as Bruce steps into the room, the scent hits him like a brick wall. It’s such a strong, confusing mix of smells, that at first, Bruce can’t pick any particular one out of the bunch. He has to pause in the doorway, breathing shallowly for a few moments, to get his bearing and then -

Fear. It’s the strongest scent in the room, sharp and metallic and thick on Bruce’s tongue. And not just from Dick - Bruce smells Jason in there too, the slightly more acidic quality telling him that his second son was here, and he was just as afraid as Dick.

If Bruce’s stomach wasn’t already churning, that would set it off. He hadn’t known that Jason was here, although he probably should have guessed. Dick isn’t stupid or desperate enough to spend a heat entirely alone. He must have invited Jason here to help him through it - an acceptable pack alpha to replace the protection Bruce should have provided. Then something had happened - something to explain the strength of the fear in the air, the metallic scent of blood and pain.

It’s not hard to guess what. Even if Bruce’s alpha brain hadn’t immediately jumped to that conclusion, the heavy smell of arousal that runs like a current under the fog of fear would tip him off. It isn’t just Dick’s caramel heat scent that Bruce would expect - that should be the only arousal Bruce can smell in a room where his son is in the middle of his heat - although Bruce can smell that too. It’s heavier, thicker, unfamiliar. An alpha that isn’t pack.

Oh God. Thinking it and knowing it are two utterly different things. And with the nauseating mix of alpha and omega arousal and fear and pain and blood, Bruce is confronted with knowing. Knowing that his son has been raped.

Bruce’s stomach flips. His throat aches. It feels as though the vacuum of his chest has sucked all of his organs up behind his ribs. He thinks he might vomit, if he could unlock his jaw far enough to let the bile in his throat surge out. He knows, distantly, that his own scent is flaring through the room, sharp with fury and grief, but all he can smell is Dick. The familiar scent of his son twisted into something awful.

He needs to find him. He needs to help him.

But, at first glance, the room is empty. It’s not a particularly large room - a studio apartment with a basic kitchen at one end and a bed at the other. Bruce’s eyes catch on that and stick. Before he can think better of it, he’s moving forward on wooden legs until he’s standing right over it.

The smell is stronger than ever here and it isn’t hard to figure out why. There’s a little puddle of vomit just beside the bed. The sheets are rumpled and twisted. A pair of metal cuffs are tangled around the bars of the headboard - and Bruce’s stomach does another queasy somersault at that. But worse than that - worst of all - are the bright spots of blood littering the white sheets and the bleachy stink of semen that Bruce can’t help but inhale this close. He smells slick too, a small damp patch on the mattress, and has to close his eyes and breathe shallowly for a few seconds to get a hold of himself before he can force himself to turn back to the rest of the room.

“Dick?” he calls, low and soft but loud enough to carry through the small apartment. A rumble rises through his chest after it, an attempt to comfort the distressed omega. “It’s Bruce, son. I’m here.”

A whine splits the air in response. The sound has Bruce’s heart leaping in his throat and he turns automatically towards the source. A cupboard. Dick has hidden himself in one of the cupboards - an emergency nest if Bruce had to guess - and it’s not uncommon omega behaviour to find somewhere small and dark to hide in when distressed, but it makes Bruce’s chest hurt anyway.

It only takes a few long steps to get to the cupboard door and Bruce can tell by the concentration of smell that both Dick and Jason are in there. It had been Dick who had called him, earlier, despite his clear distress, and suddenly, Bruce is afraid of what that means. If Dick was in trouble, he knows Jason would sacrifice his pride to call their alpha, so why hadn’t he? Why had Dick had to be the one to get in contact with him?

Some of the blood in the air is definitely Jason’s - some of the fear and pain, too. Is Jason hurt? Too hurt to make the phone call himself? Was he injured trying to protect Dick?

The thought almost has him ripping the door off its hinges. Thankfully, he controls himself just in time. Bruce is their pack alpha, familiar and, hopefully, comforting, but the last thing he wants to do is scare either of his sons by ripping open the safe space they’ve created. Blundering into Dick’s nest whilst he’s hurt, whilst he’s in heat and terrified and violated is a recipe for disaster.

Instead, he knocks softly to let them know he’s there. “Dick?” he croons, through the wood. “It’s me, sweetheart. Is it OK if I come in?”

There’s another whine, then, soft and shaky, “Alpha?”

That’s all Bruce needs. Rather than ripping the door off, he gently eases it open. As expected, both Dick and Jason are huddled inside, crammed into a haphazard nest, curled around each other. Jason’s head is buried in Dick’s throat, his face hidden from Bruce. The smell of blood is almost overwhelming in the confined space. Bruce can see it gleaming wetly on Dick’s neck - not enough to explain the strength of the smell, but enough to have his stomach clenching. He doesn’t want to think about where the rest of it has come from.

“Dickie,” Bruce breathes and his oldest son looks up at him, blinking. His face is startlingly pale, his eyes red rimmed and silvery tear tracks streaking down his cheeks. There’s blood around his mouth.

Bruce reaches for him automatically but Dick recoils, snarling, his arms tightening around Jason hard enough to force a small noise of pain from the alpha. Bruce snatches his hand back. It hurts to have his son react to him like that, but he understands it. He’s not sure if Dick is even truly aware of his surroundings.

So he crouches, to ensure he isn’t looming over them, to make himself smaller and less threatening. Dick’s eyes follow him as he lowers himself. Bruce holds his hands up placatingly and starts a low rumble from deep in his chest.

Dick blinks. Then he keens, listing towards Bruce. Instinctively, Bruce catches him, leaning half-into the cupboard to get an arm around him and press him gently against his chest. Dick goes limp, although he doesn’t relinquish his grip on Jason. Turns his face up to snuffle over the scent gland beneath Bruce’s jaw and Bruce responds with a fierce scenting of his own. Dick smells...he smells like Bruce needs to tear someone apart - the warm scent of caramel curdled with fear, the stench of an aroused alpha all over him. Bruce scrubs his cheek over Dick’s in an attempt to spread his own protective alpha scent. Licks at the tears on his cheeks. Sniffs at the wet wound on his neck - a bite inflicted by the alpha who attacked him, undoubtedly. The thought sends icy prickles over Bruce’s skin. He recognises an attempt to claim and subdue an omega when he sees one.

“B,” Dick murmurs, small and strangled.

“I’m here,” Bruce rumbles, clutching his son tighter. “I’m here now. Where are you hurt, Dick? What happened?”

Dick shakes his head, pressing his face harder into Bruce’s throat. “Not me,” he mumbles. “Jason. He -“ a shuddering, half-sobbing breath. “He hurt Jason.”

Bruce’s blood runs cold. He’d been so focussed on Dick he’d almost forgotten, for a moment, that Jason was here, that he’s injured. He pulls back a little, shifting his focus to his younger son. Jason has barely reacted to his presence, his face still pressed against Dick. Now that he’s looking, Bruce can see blood smeared across his neck too, weeping from the ragged wound torn into his throat. The result of a battle for dominance with the alpha who had attacked Dick? It’s a brutal wound. Easily bad enough to cause permanent damage.

Bruce pushes that thought aside before it can choke him. “OK,” he says instead, voice surprisingly steady. “Let me take a look, Jay.”

Jason picks his head up at that and if Bruce had thought Dick looked bad, Jason somehow manages to look worse. The wound on his neck, now Bruce can see it better, looks as if someone had honestly tried to tear his son’s throat out and a red mark spreads across his jaw where he’s clearly been hit. He’s shirtless (Why? Some sort of powerplay from the alpha that nearly tore his fucking throat out?) blood trickling over his bare skin, bruises forming dark shadows up his ribs. There are tears streaking over his face, too, and his eyes are shiny and glazed.

“B?” he slurs. He looks between Bruce and his brother, blinking slowly. Too slowly. If his scent gland has been totally destroyed… “I told you not to call him, Dickhead.”

That hurts, a sharp sting in Bruce’s chest. He knows he and Jason don’t always get on but he thought they were close enough that his son would come to him if he was in danger. And if not, he’d hope that he would call, at least for Dick’s sake. Why would Jason want to stop Dick from contacting him? When they’re both clearly in so much distress?

“I know Jay,” Dick croons, soothingly, all classic omega. “I’m sorry. You need - we need -”

Bruce has the sudden, sinking feeling that he’s misread this somehow. That there’s something he doesn’t understand. He swallows against the sudden lump in his throat.

“OK, well, I’m here now. Are you injured? Let’s get you out of the nest so I can take a look.”

It takes a little maneuvering to get them both out. The nest is barely big enough for two and Jason hisses in pain with almost every movement, stiff and uncooperative. Still, Bruce carefully frees him, pulling him up against his chest so that he can scent Jason too, as Dick climbs out after him.

At first glance, there are no obvious wounds, beside the bites on both of their necks and the bruises already forming on Jason’s jaw and ribs and webbing across Dick’s throat. When Dick reaches out to brush Jason’s curls away from his damp face, Bruce catches sight of his wrists - rubbed raw and oozing blood, no doubt from fighting against the cuffs Bruce had seen on the bed. There’s a dark stain spread across Dick’s thighs, too, and Bruce has to close his eyes and bury his face in Jason’s hair to try to fight back the bile rising in his throat.

Except, that doesn’t really help. Because Jason stinks of aroused alpha - far more than Bruce would expect, even if Jason had fought Dick’s attacker hand-to-hand and been overpowered. When Bruce shifts to scent him properly, rubbing their faces together, he gets a whiff of alpha claim - of blood and, worst of all, semen.

Jason pushes weakly at his chest, growling. “I ain’t a pup, old man.” But he doesn’t pull away and Bruce can feel the heave of his ribs as he huffs his alpha’s scent.

Dick leans closer too, plastering himself against Bruce’s side and burying his nose in his neck.

“What happened?” Bruce growls through his half-closed throat, again, trying to understand. “Where are you injured? What happened?”

“Slade,” Dick starts, then cuts off with a little whimper when Bruce snarls.

Slade Wilson. Bruce should have recognised the scent. He should have known. Slade has always been...inappropriately interested in Dick. Before this, Bruce had always brushed it off as simply an intimidation tactic, knowing his son can take care of himself.

Clearly, he shouldn’t have. Because now he’s confronted with the fact that Slade Wilson has raped Dick - Bruce’s son. Bruce’s pup. Somehow, he’d broken into Dick’s den whilst the omega was in heat, vulnerable without the protection of his pack alpha. He’d fought Jason, hurt him, before tying Dick to the bed with those awful cuffs. Then he’d raped Bruce’s son.

Bruce can practically feel his scent flaring, so thick it’s almost physical as fury burns like fire through his veins. His throat is so swollen he can barely even loose a growl.

Despite the bloom of scent, or perhaps because of it, Dick takes a shaky breath before continuing. “Slade he - he knotted him. It’s bad, B, he’s lost a lot of blood.”

What? Bruce’s heart skips a beat. Knotted him? Knotted Jason? That’s not at all what Bruce was expecting to hear. That’s not possible. Jason is an alpha. Alphas can't...alphas don’t…

Except, he knows that alphas can and do better than anyone. Bruce has been Batman long enough to have seen almost anything. He knows alphas can be raped just as much as omegas can. He’s seen the aftermath of non consensual knottings before. He knows it can happen - to alphas and omegas. It’s just…

It’s just that it’s Dick who’s in heat. It’s Dick who Bruce, smelling that gut-curdling mix of alpha and omega arousal, had assumed was attacked. Alphas can rape other alphas, sure, but there aren’t many that would pass up an in-heat omega.

Maybe Slade hadn’t. Dick had said he knotted Jason, but that doesn’t mean he left Dick untouched. Had Slade Wilson raped both of Bruce’s sons, whilst he’d been sitting in some stuffy board meeting, utterly unawares? Had he attacked Jason in a sick display of dominance then followed it up by hurting Dick?

Not that it makes it better or worse, which of Bruce’s sons the sick asshole attacked. But Bruce likes to know the facts. He likes to understand exactly what happened. And he feels painfully out of the loop right now. His son is hurt and he doesn’t even know how.

Well, he knows one thing. He knows that Slade had raped Jason. Knotted him. He knows how much damage a knot can do - even to an omega. The stench of blood makes sense, now, despite the lack of obvious sources.

Oh God. Bruce feels cold horror sink through his gut like a stone. He can’t stop himself from pulling Jason closer, tucking his son’s head more firmly beneath his chin to allow him better access to his throat. He scents him again, shakily, and Jason doesn’t complain, even though Bruce knows his scent must be acrid with his protective anger.

Maybe he has lost too much blood. Normally, Jason would never allow himself to be coddled and scented like this. He’s too limp in Bruce’s arms. Too quiet.

“OK,” Bruce says, thickly but surprisingly steady. “OK, we’re going to get you to a doctor, Jay. It’s going to be OK.”

Except, he doesn’t know if it will be OK. He doesn’t actually know what to do. Normally, his mind would be two steps ahead, planning out every contingency, already confident about what he should do and what his next move should be. Now his head feels like it’s filled with static. All his thoughts have narrowed down to the hurt kid in his arms and pressed against his shoulder. He can’t think.

Instinct tells him to take Jason back to the cave, to entrust his care to Alfred and no one else, but the more rational part of his brain tells him that wouldn’t be the best idea. Jason trusts Alfred, probably more than he trusts anyone, but the younger alpha has been hurt so intimately. Even if Bruce is confident Alfred could handle the situation, it’s not a position that either of them need to be put in. Jason won’t want Alfred to see him like that - vulnerable and hurt in such a horrific way - and Bruce finds he doesn’t want that either. There’s nothing shameful about what happened to Jason - Bruce feels ashamed, ashamed of himself and how useless he was, how he let this happen, but that’s a different story - but he can guess how Jason will feel. It will be better to take him to someone more impartial.

They aren’t in their superhero identities and Jason has technically been revived both legally and publicly, so Bruce could take him to the local hospital. The doctors and nurses there would be impartial and Bruce’s money will ensure Jason gets the best care. It’s just...the alpha in Bruce bristles at the idea of strangers touching his son after he’s been hurt so badly. The thought of some random alpha with their hands on Jason, especially when the stink of aroused alpha still clings to Bruce’s son, makes him almost frantic with rage.

So, probably not the hospital then. The last thing Bruce wants to do is freak out on some poor, undeserving Bludhaven doctor just because they’re trying to help and Bruce can’t handle that. And it’s not as if they need a rape kit. Bruce knows exactly who did this and he won’t need the police to help him find justice. It would only mean involving more strangers in Jason’s business and creating the opportunity for his private pain to be aired. Bruce won’t allow that.

Which only really leaves one option.

“Dick, chum, will you call Leslie and let her know what’s happening?”

He feels Dick nod against his neck before taking another steadying breath and pulling away. Stupidly, Bruce misses the weight of him against his side. He wants to drag him back into his arms and hold him tight and soothe away his hurt but Jason is already a heavy weight in his lap and Bruce owes Leslie some warning before presenting her with this.

Jason pushes against his chest again, with more strength this time. “I don’t need Leslie,” he grumbles. “Just take me back to my safehouse and keep Dick company. I’m fine.”

Instinctively, Bruce tightens his arms, although being trapped by a stronger alpha is probably more frightening than comforting for Jason right now. It’s hard not to give in to his desire to hold his pup close, though. It’s more than just pack-alpha instincts - it’s the fact that Jason is his son and when he holds him like this, he might as well be that skinny little twelve-year-old that Bruce had first taken in. He’s taller now, of course, broader and he fits more awkwardly in Bruce’s lap. But when Bruce buries his nose in Jason’s curls, he’s transported years into the past.

Only, in those years in between, Jason has been hurt more terribly than Bruce could have ever imagined.

“If Slade -” and he spits the name out like bile, like poison, “- if he knotted you, Jay, you need to see a doctor. This isn’t something you can pretend didn’t happen. Not if you’re hurt.”

“I’m not fucking hurt,” Jason growls. He pushes away again and, this time, Bruce lets his arms fall limp, not wanting to cage him in. Jason doesn’t make it far, though. Whether because of his injuries or the bites that have been inflicted on him, he only makes it to his knees, whimpering in pain before he falls still, forehead pressed against the carpet. Like this, Bruce can clearly see the dark stain spreading across the back of Jason’s jeans, the smear of red streaked across his own pants where Jason had been pressed into his lap.

Bile surges thick and fast up Bruce’s throat and threatens to choke him. The wave of nausea is so strong that Bruce is afraid he might throw up right there, into his own lap. He’s not sure what sort of noise he makes - something strangled and ugly, no doubt - but Jason echoes it with a thin whine.

As if summoned by the sound, Dick materialises at Jason’s side, wrapping one arm around his back with a confidence that Bruce wishes he felt. “It’s too late now, Little Wing,” he croons, somehow managing to sound reassuring, “Leslie is already setting up. We just have to get you there.”

He throws a pale-faced look over his shoulder and Bruce is suddenly hit by the realisation that Dick might be injured too. That he is injured, if the bite and the bruises are anything to go by. A knot might be easier for an omega to take but that doesn’t mean Dick isn’t hurt.

Jesus, how has Bruce fucked this up so badly? How has he allowed this to happen to his sons? His babies?

“Help me with him,” Dick murmurs and Bruce swallows against his self-loathing to do just that.

Even with the two of them helping Jason, it’s an effort to get him to the car. Jason is difficult and uncooperative, mostly trying to walk on his own even though the hormones from Slade’s bite are clearly making his body hard to control and struggling down the stairs must be hurting him. Dick still stinks of heat and the vulnerability of both of his sons has Bruce so on edge that he feels he might snap. Bludhaven is not the sort of place where Bruce is comfortable having his in-heat omega son out in the stairwell for anyone to smell and with Jason barely able to stand between them, leaking blood and violation with every step, Bruce is keenly aware that his protective alpha scent might not be enough to keep disreputable alphas at bay.

By the time they finally make it to the car - somehow still there and intact - Bruce is trembling with tension. Jason flops into the backseat with a pained grunt, pulling away from Dick when the omega clambers in the other side and tries to drag his brother close. There’ll be blood on the seat by the time they get to Leslie’s clinic, Bruce guesses. Slick too. The thought is not a pleasant one.

His knuckles are white around the wheel as he peels away from the curb and starts the drive back to Gotham at only a slightly less frantic pace than the drive here. In the back seat, he can hear the rasp of Jason’s pained breaths, as well as wet little hitching noises that might be sobs, although he can’t tell which of them they’re coming from.

“Tell me what happened,” Bruce growls, only partly so he doesn’t have to hear those anymore.

There’s a tense silence behind him and Bruce starts to think that maybe Dick won’t answer him. Maybe it’s too painful - too fresh and raw. Maybe Bruce is hurting them by asking. But, God, he wants to know.

No. Not wants, because Bruce has never wanted anything less. Needs. Bruce needs to know what happened.

A heavy breath. Then, in a trembling voice: “It was my fault.”

Bruce’s chest clenches. “Dick -” he tries, but his son cuts him off before he can get the denial out.

“Slade broke into the safehouse. I don’t actually think he was expecting me to be there. Jason was out getting supplies.”

“Shut up, Dick,” Jason snarls. “You don’t need to fucking tell him.”

Bruce watches in the rearview mirror as Dick throws Jason a sorrowful look. His second son is leaning against the window, his arms crossed over his chest, and he meets Bruce’s eyes in the mirror with a glare.

“You don’t,” Bruce agrees, softly, although all he wants to do is shake Dick until the whole story comes rattling out. He won’t force that on Dick though. Not if it’s going to hurt him.

Dick shakes his head. He looks at Jason again and the alpha sets his jaw and turns away, clearly reading the intent in Dick’s face.

“He smelled I was in heat, obviously,” Dick continues, as if there had been no interruption, but he’s staring hard at his hands where they’re folded in his lap. “He...came at me. Scruffed me and handcuffed me to the bed. It was all some stupid powerplay. Slade doesn’t - he doesn’t even likeomegas.”

Bruce hadn’t known that. It doesn’t particularly help, though. Not with the image of that bastard’s hands on Dick’s neck, of him pinning Dick to the bed in his own den while he was in heat and vulnerable.

“Jason got back and -” An awful hitching breath. “They fought. Slade bit him. Then he dragged him over to the bed and pushed him down on top of me and -”

“Shut up!”

Dick falls abruptly silent. Not that Bruce needs him to continue - he can guess exactly what happened next. Slade had raped Jason right on top of Dick. Knotted him. Claimed him. Practically torn his throat out. And then what? Had he raped Dick then, too? Rape isn’t always a matter of sexual orientation, Bruce knows. Even if Slade doesn’t like omegas, it doesn’t mean that Dick was safe.

Not that what Dick had described isn’t horrific enough. Bruce can’t imagine how painful and terrifying that must have been for them both. Is trying very, very hard not to imagine it - Slade Wilson pressing both of his sons into the bed, the smell of Dick’s heat and Slade’s arousal heavy in the air, Jason trapped and helpless between them.

He’s not doing a very good job of it.

The confined air of the car is thick with anger - both his and Jason’s. It’s almost enough to drown out the stench of blood and Slade’s arousal. Almost, but not quite. Bruce grips the steering wheel hard enough that it creaks in protest, staring blankly out of the windshield as Gotham starts to loom into view, and tries to will himself to calm down a little. Flying into a rage right now is not going to help anything.

Still, Bruce can feel his blood burning hot under his skin. His gums itch with the urge to snarl and challenge and bite. If Slade Wilson were here…

Except, he isn’t here, and Bruce will have to save his retribution for when he knows his sons are safe.

“Dick, did he…” he struggles with the words, has to force them out of his throat one-by-one, “did he touch you, too?”

Dick’s answer is immediate. “No. No, he bit me, but he wasn’t interested. Not like that.”

As he says it, something dark flickers across his face that Bruce can’t read. He’ll have to deal with that later, he knows, but for now Bruce lets himself enjoy the relief that blooms tentatively in his chest. It doesn’t change the fact that Dick was hurt. Doesn’t change the horrific thing that happened in that room. Doesn’t change that Slade had raped Jason. But if one of Bruce’s sons was spared this awful violation?

Well, at this point, Bruce will take what he can get.

Tearing down the highway towards Gotham with one son battered and bleeding in the backseat and the other leaking heat and distress into the tiny space of the car, it doesn’t feel like much.

[violetsmoak]

Appetence [1/?]

AO3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251420/chapters/47997634

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Red Robin is investigating the disappearance of a friend and stumbles into a spot of supernatural trouble. He doesn't expect to be saved by Jason Todd, miraculously alive five years after his death and now with the inexplicable ability to commune with the dead. Meanwhile, when Jason returned to Gotham he meant to maintain a low profile and not get involved with Bat business. That was before he found out how hot his Replacement is.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #cemetery #haunting #relics

Canon-Compliance: Alternate Universe; Jason still died but was not found by Talia when he was resurrected. All other events mostly follow the same chronology as New Earth continuity, with mentions made to events in New 52

Author’s Note(s): My attention span was really terrible today and I couldn't focus on either of my two other fics even though the next chapters of both are completely planned out. So I'm posting the start of the third (and final) story that I'm doing for the JayTimWeek/Month challenge. Also, I'm really excited about this one. I spent more time planning this than either of the other two and I can't wait to hear what you guys think!I've got work stuff to do tomorrow so there may not be anything updated until Friday.

Beta Reader: I’ll get back to you on that.

________________________________________________________________

The Bat-Signal cuts through the dark and hazy clouds lingering above Gotham City, and for a split-second, Jason Todd has the urge to drop everything and race for the roof of the GCPD Headquarters. It’s hard to ignore the nervous jump of excitement in his stomach, the phantom sensation of a domino mask on his face and the heavy drag of a cape at his shoulders.

Which makes no sense, since it’s been at least five years since I even wore that shit.

Taking a drag of his cigarette, the smoke mixing with the familiar summer smog, Jason turns his back on Gotham’s literal beacon of hope and steels himself against nocturnal threats of his own. The city is for the caped crew—because apparently, the Bat has a posse now, he thinks with only a hint of a bitter sneer—and Jason has been fighting in a different arena for quite some time now.

He takes a final drag of the cigarette, and then grinds it beneath his boots, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. It’s a weathered and worn thing that reminds him of one Willis Todd wore in one of the few memories Jason has of him that doesn’t involve alcohol or fists. He thinks it’s less pretentious looking than a trench coat and probably gives off fewer ‘creepy motherfucker’ vibes like the sartorial choices of certain other people. It’s also less likely to snag on things when he needs to make a quick exit while digging up graves.

Yeah, it’s a thing in his line of work.

Gotham Cemetery is a sprawling necropolis, as dark and forbidding now as it was the night he dug himself out of his own grave. Half a decade of Gotham-style tender, loving negligence has left the somber green hills overgrown and the majority of the old tombstones fallen or rotting.

You’d think in a city with the highest homicide rate in the country, the mayor would spring for better maintenance. Then again, it’s Gotham. The dead don’t pay taxes, so fuck ‘em.

Which…enough said.

Gotham and the world think Jason Todd-Wayne is dead and has been for five years now; in a way, it’s the truth. He’s no longer anything like the boy that was beaten to death by a psychotic clown, no longer the shrimp who fastidiously dyed his hair black and jumped into someone else’s cape and pixie boots just so he didn’t have to be his own screwup self anymore. He outgrew wanting to be Dick a long time ago, outgrew wanting to be Bruce, too, and embraced a whole new other set of skills to put him apart from them.

Most occultists and even homo magi need to put conscious effort and intent into calling up or even seeing a spirit. Ever since Jason died and then mysteriously got better, the dead appear to him as blatantly and a solid as the living.

John told him he was a fool to come back here.

“Someone with your gifts, they’ll drive you bloody mad,” his mentor warned him when he left London. “And I ain’t talking about the dead ones, neither.”

“You’re just saying that because Batman wouldn’t hold your hand that one time,” Jason retorted, shrugging off the concern. He is Gotham born and bred, his blood is in those streets, and he has always wanted to come home, even if it wasn’t necessarily to a stately manor or its inhabitants.

He clenches his fists.

Inhabitants that wasted no time in replacing him after he died. Jason was rotting away in fucking Arkham, and Bruce was shoving another kid into the tights.

If it didn’t involve seeing him, I would hunt him down and break his jaw.

He surveys the graveyard proper. The everyday observer considers cemeteries to be places of peace and eternal rest; quiet, if a little bit spooky. To Jason, they’re as gruesome as any major battlefield.

Spirits pack the way before him; some of them look relatively normal if dated by their clothes; many others are disfigured and bloody from whatever killed them, whether natural or unnatural. They clamor and crowd, eternally shouting to be heard, or screaming as they relive their deaths in their own personal purgatories.

In the beginning, that din almost drove Jason insane. Bruce’s teachings kept him rational as long as it could in the months after he woke up, and then John’s training helped him temper his own awareness further. By now, he can function almost normally, automatically filtering the voices out as he goes about his daily business; it’s only in places like this, where the dead outnumber the living, where it’s harder.

Jason reaches up, adjusting the noise filters in his ears—mechanical devices that need regular winding but are still more reliable than anything running on electricity of batteries. They’re like steampunk hearing aids, only instead of magnifying sound, they drown out the constant moan of the ghosts when he can’t do it himself. Just one of many methods of protection he’s learned over the years. Some are physical, like the prayer beads wrapped around his wrist or the bottle of holy water in his pocket; others—spells and symbols and mantras—are carved all over his body in tattoos and blood writing. Anything to keep the otherworld away.

“Personal space is a key to a medium’s sanity,” John told him once. “That and a good bottle of single malt scotch.”  

Jason ignores the moss-covered path that winds through the larger and more prominent mausoleums. He deliberately doesn’t search out the one in the distance bearing the Wayne crest—

(Still remembers the feel of his fingernails splitting against the wood of the coffin, choking on clumps of soil and insects.)

—and instead seeks a small structure much farther away. It’s in the furthest part of the cemetery, the shabby section almost hidden by overgrown willows. Half of the name above the doorway is obscured by vines, but it’s easy for him to make out the name etched into the stone with bold letters.

HAYWOOD.

According to the public record, Sheila Haywood’s body was returned to Gotham at the same time as Jason Todd’s. Bruce paid for her funeral and internment, which was just as well since she had no other family, and then she was promptly forgotten about.

By everyone except Jason, it seems.

It took some doing and a few weeks tracking down everyone that had worked at the same refugee camp as his mother, but he’d finally managed to collect what possessions she left behind. A colleague of hers had put them aside when there appeared to be nothing of actual monetary value in them.

A gold coin, small bone carvings of stylized animals, dainty trinkets of garnets, amber and lapis lazuli, a compact mirror, some seashells, a decorative fan, quartz paperweight, and a brightly colored feather. There was a picture of Willis in there, too, young and almost Jason’s double. No picture of Jason, though, but he hadn’t expected it.

He kept the picture but left the rest in the small wooden box, which he now removes from his messenger bag and sets down in front of the stone bearing his mother’s name. He follows that with various tools and ingredients. Black candles arranged in a star shape around the box, a chalice, a jar of detritus—teff seeds, driftwood and soil, all from the place where she died—that he sprinkles around in a circle, a handful of smooth obsidian stones to mark a pentagram joining the candles, the dagger John gave him for his last birthday, vials of oil and holy water.

Murmuring a few protection oaths, he shrugs off his jacket, leaving his arms bare, and then digs out a pack of matches to light the candles; flickering shadows dance across the mausoleum walls. He takes up the chalice to combine the water and oil, and then reaches for the dagger.

Hate this part.

Training to ignore pain doesn’t mean it goes away, and he grits his teeth a little as he draws his blade across his forearm, not deep enough to nick anything vital, but enough that the blood runs easily into the chalice. Without bothering to bandage the wound, Jason holds up the chalice in front of him and centers himself.

“Phantasma inrequietum, te voco,” he intones. “Eloguiorum mei audi: Sheila Haywood, te nominas!“ The stagnant air in the mausoleum starts to pick up. “In nominee creatricis, te impero, hic locum decede.” Hand over the top of the chalice, he swirls the liquid within, and then tips it into the open keepsake box. “Per sanguinem hominis et per sanguinem filii tui, non remane et apage! ”He strikes a match and lobs it into the box, not even flinching as the whole thing flares into flame; he intends to watch it until it burns to nothing.

“That’s not going to work, you know.”

“Jesus fuck!” Jason explodes, whirling to the right and glaring at the interrupter. “What did I say about sneaking up on me? Or just—showing up around me in general?”

The apparition in front of him doesn’t look impressed.

Sheila is still beautiful—or, at least, the side of her body that isn’t covered with third-degree burns and sections of pulverized bone—and still sharp. Cold, untouchable and self-interested.

But unlike the way she was before, she’s all-too present in Jason’s life now.

“Goddamn it,” he snarls, and against every lesson John has ever given him, lashes out and knocks the candles and detritus hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. “What the hell. I’ve done everything. You had last rites, your body was cremated, I just torched the things that had any value to you, why the hell won’t you just move on?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions,” Sheila replies, as always.

Jason scowls. “And of course, you can’t just tell me.”

She gazes at him balefully, and he runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Sheila, we’ve been over this. You can’t stay here. One, you know spirits that stick around past their time go Dark Side, and I really don’t want to have to exorcise your spectral ass. Two, it’s fucking creepy for a twenty-year-old guy to be followed around by his mother wherever he goes. What the hell is keeping you here? What more do you want from me?”

“Your forgiveness,” she tells him patiently.

“I already forgave you. Years ago.”

“You still call me Sheila.”

“That’s your name.”

“I’m your mother.”

“Who sold me out and got me murdered.”

“See? You haven’t forgiven me.”

“I have. I’m just stating a fact, Jesus…”

“Apparently the cosmic balance doesn’t agree enough to let me move on,” the ghost says dryly. “And to think, I used to be an atheist.”

“This is total bullshit,” Jason snaps, grabbing his jacket and stalking out of the mausoleum in frustration.

Three years of this mediumship crap, and neither he nor John have ever been able to figure out why the ghost of Jason’s dead mother won’t stop haunting him. Wards and sutras that keep even the nastiest spirits away from Jason don’t even phase her, and she’s inexplicably coherent.

And persistent.

As Jason stalks back through the cemetery, he can sense her in his periphery, gliding along beside him, unconcerned with his irritation.

“Can you just…stay away from me? Like you did in the beginning?” he grumbles.

“You were just learning how to communicate without going insane. I wasn’t about to disrupt that.”

“How considerate of you.”

“I try.”

“Look, I’ve had enough of the ghost-stalker thing for today. I went out of my way for this, you know. I didn’t even want to come back here. And now I’m back to the fucking drawing board.”

“It may not have been a waste of a trip,” she replies and vanishes.

“Oh, you can fuck off when it’s convenient for you,” he grumbles, though he already senses what she was speaking of.

Several yards away, a small boy, maybe eight, is clinging forlornly to an angel headstone. Translucent tears stream down his cheeks, but every now and again his face shifts, like a television caught between two channels, and his mouth widens into an unnatural smile.

Jason could have gone the rest of his life without seeing that smile again.

Still, he sighs and heads toward the kid.

“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low and maintaining a safe distance from the boy, whose head whips up to stare at Jason in sudden fear.

“Who are you?” he asks, voice thick with tears.

“I’m Jason. You okay, kid?”

“I can’t find my mom,” the boy murmurs, wiping at his face. “I keep going looking, but I forget the way home. And then…I always end up back here.”

He sounds on the verge of tears again; it’s something Jason can understand.

With the puzzling exception of Sheila, who appears to come and go as she pleases, most ghosts are stuck in certain patterns and paths when they die, frozen in an infinite loop until they break themselves out of it or until some arbitrary higher power decides they’ve suffered enough. And for some reason, Jason can break them out of it.

“You could always try again,” he suggests. “I think you’ll manage it this time.”

The boy shudders. “There’s scary people here.”

No arguing with that.

“I know. I see them, too.” Jason glances at the headstone, scanning the name and dates. “Your name’s Cole?”

“Yeah.”

“If you’re missing, there are probably people looking for you. They might have posted something online about it. I’ll check it out, but it could take a bit.” He holds up his phone, glad to see it’s at full charge and bars; that’s hit or miss around so many ghosts. “Can you hang around here until I’m done?”

The boy nods, silent, face flicking back and forth between sadness and the unnatural smile.

Fucking Joker…

Jason does a quick search of the kid’s name, pulling up obituaries in the Gotham Gazette in the past year. It doesn’t take long for an article to pop up concerning the Joker’s latest escape and a list of the dead.

He narrows his eyes, startling the kid.

“It’s fine,” he lies. “The internet is just really slow.”

“Or our phone is really bad,” Cole tells him with the blunt honesty of a kid that grew up constantly surrounded by functional technology.

“Everyone’s a critic…”

Another quick search for the parents, phone lists and social media, and he’s got an address. Crime Alley, of course. He brings it up on his map and enables a view of the street, holding the phone out to the boy. “Is this your house?”

Relief settles and settles over his face. “Yeah.”

“What if I helped you find your way home?”

Cole makes a suspicious face. “I’m not supposed to go anywhere with strangers.”

“Which is really smart. But you see, I’m not really a stranger.”

“Oh yeah? Why not?”

“Well, I’ll let you in on a secret.” Jason bends down, conspiratorial, and Cole’s eyes gleam the way any kid gets when hearing a secret. “When I was a little older than you…I was Robin.”

The boy gapes. “Like…Batman and Robin?”

“Exactly.”

“No way!”

“Way,” Jason smirks, crossing his arms. “And I’ll tell you all about it on the way to your house. Including the time that I stole the wheels off the Batmobile.”

“No way!”

Despite his scandalized disbelief, the kid is obviously hooked.

Jason’s heart clenches a bit at the open curiosity on Cole’s face, the reality hitting him that this boy will never have a chance to do anything mischievous or fun ever again.

From one dead boy to another, this sucks…

As he leads him out of the cemetery, Jason starts to tell the little ghost about his life. He edits out the less pleasant bits, like dying and returning to life half brain dead with the ability to see and hear ghosts.

He figures a good story is the least he can do for the boy.

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

[holy-fate-worse-than-death]

Red has a new chapter!

Chapter 13 is here! That’s right, it’s the Jaydick fluff chapter you’ve all been waiting for! (No? Just me? Okay...)

As always, you can read the whole fic here, but I feel like this chapter can be read as a standalone bit of Jaydick fluff (with some Superbat mentions), so I’ll post it below the cut.

Word count: 3966 because I’m a long-winded bitch who likes describing Dick Grayson’s face a whole lot

Content Warnings: Swearing, mentions of death, mentions of sex, mentions of canon-typical violence

He was waiting until Bruce got back, Jason told himself. But his fingers, tapping impatiently against the steering wheel in front of him, told a different story. Maybe it was this damn car, a silver Porsche 911 that was older than Jason was. It was small, sleek and low to the ground; not the sort of car Jason would usually drive, but he’d picked it from the garage that morning because he remembered that it was the one Dick had taken his first joyride in. It had seemed appropriate, given that he was driving to Blüdhaven and back. The plan that was slowly coming to life in his head, unfurling like blueprints across the Batcave’s conference table, was fuelled by the type of sheer ego that only Bruce Wayne could pull off. Bruce Wayne and all his shiny cars, and even shinier gadgets.

Jason sighed, reaching out and flicking off the radio with a short, frustrated noise. As if the lasts few days hadn’t been enough to wind him up, every radio DJ in Gotham had seemingly forgotten what taste was while he was gone.

He fished his phone out from the centre console and jammed it into the mount on the dash. It connected to the car’s radio automatically. Jason was planning to play some of his own music, but when his fingers touched the phone he found himself calling Dick’s number instead.

I was going to surprise him, he thought as he set the call to speaker.

It took a few rings for Dick to pick up, and Jason found his heart skipping with each one. A knot formed under his diaphragm and it seemed to siphon off some of his air, leaving him not-quite breathless.

“Jay?” Dick asked mildly, a hint of surprise in his voice.

See the thing is, Jason never calls first. He isn’t – has never been – the one to initiate these things. It was always a one-word text from Dick to Jason’s cell; just the word ‘now’ or an address. Jason never replied to them, but he always showed up. But then that night had happened- and god, Jason couldn’t think about it without wanting to scream or cry or something. How had he gone from ramming Dick’s ass once or twice a month to I hate you for making me fall in love with you, all in one night?

“You driving?” Dick asked after a while, when Jason didn’t say anything.

In retrospect, he probably could have at least said ‘hello’. But there was blood rushing in his ears and someone had just cut him off on the highway. He hummed in affirmation, wondering if Dick could even hear him through the speaker.

Dick’s voice dropped lower then, more serious. Jason pictured him sitting down, tensing his shoulders and worrying at the hem of his sleeve like he always did when he was nervous.

“How’s Damian?” he breathed.

Jason smiled then, despite Dick’s sombre tone. Perhaps he should have been worried, but truth be told the kid was bouncing back like a champ. He’d even had the Kent kid over yesterday. They’d squabbled over ice-cream flavours like real kids, and Jason’s chest had been full to bursting. The Kent kid – Jon – had helped Damian feed all his animals, even his cow and the two-dozen battery hens that now roamed Wayne Manor’s hedge maze (and Jesus, Jason would have to ask Dick later how the fuck that had come to be). It had been weird, seeing these two miniature versions of Bruce and Clark chase each other around the Manor, but it had also felt so spine-tinglingly right.

“He looks like his mom when he smiles,” Jason murmured, not realising he’d spoken out loud until the words were already hanging like a warm cloud in the air.

“How well did you know her?” Dick enquired.

Dick was always so inquisitive, so full of questions. For a long time, it had annoyed Jason, pissed him off to the point where he’d yelled at his older counterpart about it a time or two. But these days he’d just resigned himself to it; understood that it was the natural companion for Jason’s (no doubt equally as infuriating) brevity.

As if to hammer that point home, Jason replied with a single word: “Well.”

Dick hmmed at him then, just as Jason turned onto the Blüdhaven off-ramp. Now or never, he thought to himself.

“You at home?” he asked gruffly.

“Yeah,” Dick replied easily, a smile creeping into his voice, “Night off.”

“I’m coming over,” Jason told him, not bothering to phrase it as a question.

Dick’s breath hitched on the other end of the line and Jason chewed on his lip, wondering if he’d pushed his luck too far.

“Okay,” Dick eventually breathed, letting out a long, shaky breath that Jason wasn’t sure he was meant to hear.

Jason smirked to himself, relieved that he could still take the guy’s breath away when he wanted to. Emboldened, he asked, “So… what are you wearing?”

He’d figured the question – which was the sort of thing only straight men in their forties ever asked their dates – would have earned him a laugh from his jovial older counterpart. Instead, silence tore a schism between them, and Jason was left feeling like all the air had been sucked from inside the car.

When Dick finally spoke, he wasn’t even angry, he just sounded sad: “Jay, please don’t make fun of this.”

Jason’s stomach sank so far that he could feel it in his knees. In his mind’s eye he was seeing Clark, in that abandoned hospital on the outskirts of Smallville, flinching at Jason’s joke and trying desperately to hide it. That moment had already broken Jason’s heart, and somehow this one was so much worse.

He wanted to grab Dick’s sweet, scared face in his hands and kiss him until he forgot every stupid thing Jason had ever said; until he could feel Jason’s feelings pulsating between them. He wanted to breathe new life into this tired, terrified boy who’d been the only one brave enough to call this what it was. The one who’d been brave enough to call Jason’s name since the very first night they were together. The one who’d kept letting him in, piece by piece, knowing that the Red Hood would almost certainly break him; run him through and pierce his heart like he’d done to so many men before him. Admittedly, those men had been criminals, not lovers, but sometimes Jason felt like his whole being existed to cater to criminals.

“I’ll be over in fifteen,” Jay croaked, fumbling to hang up the phone before Dick could protest.

He looked at himself in the rear-view mirror; eyes downturned and sad under a grey-white fringe that had been neatly combed to one side. His eyeliner was smoky, and a little too thick, because he’d applied it in the car to avoid having that conversation with Damian. Not that he was ashamed, it just seemed like something that his brother didn’t need to be thinking about right now, especially with the way the Kent kid made him blush. Jeez, he thought, they really are their father’s sons.

Jason had pulled a crisp white tee from Bruce’s closet (all of Jason’s were stained or torn) and paired it with his tightest black jeans, throwing his usual jacket and boots on with it. Somehow the shirt was enough to clean up his whole look, and he was glad; he wanted Dick to know he’d put in a little effort.

For fucking once, Jason thought bitterly, glaring at his own reflection.

Dick’s loft in Blüdhaven was an intimidatingly light and airy place, with none of the Gotham gothic style Jason was used to. Even in the various short-term rentals Jason had lived in over the years (including a few here in Blüdhaven), Jason had maintained the greyscale colour palette of Wayne Manor and The Penthouse. Here, everything was shades of warm brown; wood-panelled walls and unpolished floorboards, with a modest chipboard kitchen and huge windows with lace curtains that danced in the afternoon breeze.

Dick’s clothing was draped over everything; a salmon-pink button-down over the back of the couch alongside a half-inside-out pair of pale blue jeans, a denim jacket hung over the back of one of the breakfast bar’s stools, a pair of discarded boxers on the living room floor. Everything smelled so much like him, and Jason spied some black-and-red Kevlar mesh poking out from between the couch cushions. Jason snorted at the discarded uniform and sauntered towards the bedroom where he’d heard footsteps. Better than a glass case, he thought.

Come in! It’s open! Dick had called at him when he’d knocked, so Jason did.

Jason swung the bedroom door open and dropped his shoulder against the doorframe. It was darker in here, and Jason spied the rubber-backed curtains on the window that blocked out the sunlight. He smirked at them, the contrast between these curtains and the ones in the living room serving as a reminder that Dick was still the antisocial little cave-dweller they all were.

His eyes fell to Dick then, soft hair curtaining his face as he desperately tried to yank on a pair of jeans that were entirely too tight. Jason was familiar with his plight and had to stifle a laugh as Dick desperately tried to force the offending denim over his ass. His back was turned, and Jason could see the way all the muscles in his shoulders tensed as he hopped up and down, fingers hooked through his belt loops.

“Take it easy, D,” Jason chortled.

He pushed off the doorframe as Dick spun around to face him, a half-hearted glare sent in Jason’s direction. Jason figured he probably deserved it, but he ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach.

Instead, he barrelled into Dick, gripping the back of the acrobat’s waistband and yanking his jeans up over his ass easily, inadvertently lifting Dick into the air in the process. Without thinking it through (and gee, there was a surprise) Jason snaked his hands around to the front of Dick’s jeans to do up his fly for him. There was a joke in there somewhere about the irony of Jason helping him put on his jeans instead of taking them off, but Jason left it unsaid.

Dick’s hands had fallen limp to his sides as Jason manhandled him, and now he rolled his eyes.

“Thanks mom,” he said, shoving Jason away playfully so he could bend over and retrieve his socks from the floor.

Dick sat down on the edge of his unmade bed to put them on, and Jason stood over him, grinning like a maniac. He looked good like that, still shirtless and leaning backwards onto the bed, one leg in the air as he tugged a bat-symbol-branded sock over his foot.

“You still wear the matchin’ panties too?” Jason asked, inching just a little closer to Dick as he began to tug on the other sock.

Dick blushed then, and Jason’s smirk got even wider. He’d just seen Dick putting on his pants, so he knew the answer was yes. But it reminded Jason of so many other times – and the first time, where he’d cracked some lame joke about daddy issues and then torn them off with his teeth.

But this wasn’t about sex, and it wasn’t just about Jason distracting himself from the ludicrous plan he was setting in motion in Bruce’s absence, either. This was meant to be about something else, so Jason sank into Dick’s lap, startling his older counterpart, and pressed his lips gently against Dick’s.

Jason had never kissed like this before. Usually when he kissed somebody it was a jaws-clashing, teeth-gnashing, go-until-you’ve-got-spit-on-your-chin affair. And Jason loved that, of course, but this was something else.

Dick’s lips were soft and pliant under his, tentative and quivering just a little. Unlike last time, neither of them was crying now, and Jason had all the time in the world to work Dick’s mouth open and explore it tenderly with his tongue. He wrapped his arms around Dick’s neck like a girl might and pulled back playfully so that Dick had to chase his mouth to continue the kiss – which Dick did eagerly. Their lips made that sound that happened when people kissed in movies and Dick weaved a hand between them and up to Jason’s face, cupping his jaw and rubbing circles on Jason’s cheek with his thumb.

The kiss never deepened, but when they pulled back to rest their foreheads together they were breathing as though it had. Even so, there was a stillness in the room, a comfortable silence that embraced them as they embraced each other.

Jason opened his eyes first, Dick’s relaxed, gently-smiling face coming into focus. Dick’s dark eyelashes dusted his cheekbones, and his lips were red and shiny now, pulled up into the ghost of a smile and still parted slightly. Jason settled properly onto the bed, knees still bracketing Dick’s thighs, and wondered if he could stay like this forever.

The soft afternoon light filtered in through the bedroom door over Jason’s shoulder, casting the perfect shadows over Dick’s face. His jaw was strong and square, his cheekbones high and angular, but set into an exquisitely masculine shape. His nose was wide at the nostrils, the bridge of it sunken back into his face and crooked from at least a half-dozen broken noses. The first hint of a beard peppered his chin and Jason had to resist the urge to nuzzle his own face against it.

Eventually, Dick’s eyes opened and he sighed contentedly, wriggling with lazy pleasure as he wrapped his arms more firmly around Jason’s waist. Jason thought that it was nice to be held like this (though he’d never say it out loud). He was still tense with the knowledge of what was coming next, but for once he felt safe in someone’s embrace.

It reminded him, perhaps perversely, of the first time Bruce had ever held him; sheltering Jason from the storm he’d been weathering on his own for so many years. And it reminded him of how he’d held Damian and Tim over the past few days, though he’d been in Dick’s role during those moments. Is it supposed to feel like this all the time? he wondered.

Dick was staring up into his eyes now, their haziness disappearing as he scrutinised his younger counterpart. Jason knew what he was looking at, and he wondered if Dick – or anyone in the family – had ever seen him with makeup on before. Jason squirmed, somewhat despite himself, but Dick’s lazy little smile never faltered.

“So,” Dick began carefully, “What’s the plan.”

Jason chewed on his lip as he contemplated how best to answer that. Jason hadn’t come here with an explicit plan, but somewhere between the Gotham on-ramp and the Blüdhaven off-ramp, Jason had come to know exactly where he’d take Dick. It had seemed silly at that point, to drive all the way out here to pick up Dick, only to drive right back to Gotham, but somehow it had seemed right. Old fashioned, he thought to himself. But it had seemed like the type of thing that Clark Kent would do, and so Jason had done it.

“There’s this old Italian place down by Amusement Mile,” Jason started, climbing out of Dick’s lap to sit next to him on the bed.

He swivelled his head to face Dick, giving his older counterpart a look that hopefully conveyed his seriousness. Instinctively, Jason reached out and took Dick’s hand in his, giving it a little squeeze. Dick didn’t respond, but he didn’t jerk his hand away either – though he was looking at Jason with a calculated sort of confusion; brows knitting together as his eyes flew across Jason’s features, trying to read him.

“They have the best ossobuco in the city,” Jason continued, swallowing down the ache that came from how much he sounded like his Sicilian mother whenever he said anything more Italian than ‘pizza’.

Jason had never been to this Italian place himself, but a long time ago Dick had told him about it. More specifically, he’d told Jason that it was the last place he’d eaten with his parents before their deaths.

Dick had stopped breathing now, and Jason pre-emptively flinched, ready for Dick to wrench his hand away and throw Jason out of the apartment. Which was why Jason nearly choked when Dick squeezed his hand instead.

“Have you ever been back?” Jason asked softly, knowing that Dick had caught on to his plan now.

“No,” Dick whispered, turning his face away from Jason’s to scrunch his toes in the carpet.

Dick took several long, steadying breaths before he spoke again. Jason waited patiently, never loosening his grip on Dick’s hand. He’d wait for Dick Grayson for as long as it took. Had been waiting, he realised, maybe since before his death.

“Is this a date?” Dick asked after a while, eyes flickering over to Jason briefly before returning to the carpet.

“Yes,” Jason answered firmly, utterly determined not to give Dick any cowardly cop-outs this time – not this time, and never again if he could help it.

Dick’s breathing had gone shallow again, but Jason felt suddenly emboldened to press on. Maybe it was the candour with which Clark had apologised to him back in Smallville that inspired him. After all, when Clark had done it, it had earned more of Jason’s respect than anything else could have. He figured he owed Dick at least that.

“But it’s also an apology,” he said, perhaps not as confidently as Clark would have, though he imagined Clark had had far more practice at this during his time as Superman (and during his time dating Bruce Wayne).

Dick turned to him, like he was about to ask, ‘for what?’ but Jason was already answering him.

“For… everything.”

Dick’s tears this time are gentle and quiet. They roll down his face like rain on a windowpane, and it takes a beat before Jason even spots them. When he does, his eyes begin to prick as well, and he reaches out automatically to cup Dick’s face in his hand and turn the older man towards him. Dick’s eyes are wet and glistening, but the hopelessness that Jason had seen in them that night outside Damian’s room is (mercifully) no longer there.

Licking a tear off his lips, Jason smiled weakly and asked, “How do you do this?”

He was half-asking how Dick could stand to cry so often when Jason usually cried about three times a year on average, and half-asking something else, which he voiced as best as he could:

“It’s like every time you cry, I have to cry too.”

Dick laughed at him then; a wet, sunny little laugh that ended in a sniffle.

“That’s called love,” he said easily, his tone as breezy and incredulous as if he was explaining to an alien what a toaster was.

“Well,” Jason said, wiping his tears away and laying back on the bed with a sigh.

He pillowed one of his arms behind his head, using his free hand (which was still in Dick’s) to tug his older counterpart down with him. Dick complied, rolling onto his side and resting his head on his elbow. From his vantage, he stared down at Jason while Jason stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Jason said after a while, finishing the thought he’d left hanging in the air.

Dick’s tears were gone now, and he’d perked up considerably. The amicability between them was unlike anything either of them had had together since before Jason had died, and if Jason had been asked to describe it, he might have called it freeing.

Dick certainly seemed free, as he asked, “You’ve never been in love before?” as unabashedly as a middle schooler might.

Jason chewed on Dick’s words for a while. The question ought to have made him anxious, but he felt nothing but an honest fascination that mirrored Dick’s. Never really thought about it before, he said to himself, deciding that wouldn’t be a good enough answer to satisfy Dick’s insatiable curiosity.

“Once,” Jason finally settled on, letting the story flow out of him before he was even sure where it was going. “He was hot,” he stated matter-of-factly.

He turned his head to give Dick a gratuitous look that said, ‘he was very hot’.

“And smart,” Jason added, “and sweet, and caring.” Jason scrubbed a hand over his face idly. “He was everything I wanted to be back then.”

Jason let out a puff of air from deep in his tightening chest, turning his head back to the ceiling so that he didn’t have to deal with all the emotions muddying Dick’s perfect face.

“This guy inspired me,” Jason continued, quieter now. “He made me want to be a better person.”

Jason smiled, memories that he hadn’t allowed in since his resurrection flooding his mind. But for once they weren’t flashbacks, they were like a warm breeze blown across his face, and he was heady with the sensation of it.

“This was before I died,” Jason clarified, for once not feeling torn apart by the mention of his own death. “How I felt about him changed everything. It made me who I am.”

Jason’s head lolled to the side, still resting on his arm, and he smiled easily at Dick; a smile that reached his eyes, because Jason felt like he was really looking at him for the first time ever.

“I wanted to be good enough for him,” Jason said. “And in the end, you know, I think I almost was.”

Jason sighed wistfully, and Dick shifted on the bed beside him with what might have been discomfort. He was faintly aware that Dick should be uncomfortable, surprised by Jason’s sudden candour, maybe even a little jealous. But he felt good, for once. His chest was light, and he felt like he could take the weight of the world. Or, at least, the weight of Dick and his brothers.

“Did I mention hot?” Jason asked with a laugh.

There was silence after that for a while, as Dick processed, and Jason continued to revel in old memories.

Memories of soaring through the air, and refitting the Robin suit, and eating McDonalds on the corner of Cornerstone Court and Third Avenue at the end of a patrol. Memories of stupid puns and witty one-liners; of aborted jokes, and stories that always got cut off by the blaring of an ambulance siren or the chatter of a police scanner. Memories of pillow forts in Wayne Manor, and ice-cream sundaes made hastily behind Alfred’s back. Memories of raucous laughter and boyhood. Memories of his childhood best friend.

Memories of Dick Grayson.

“You should tell him,” Dick said firmly after a while.

At some point his hand had slipped out of Jason’s, and now Jason felt the ache of its absence.

“Whatever is between us,” Dick continued slowly, holding Jason’s gaze, “You should tell him that he was loved.”

Jason’s smile unfurled alongside the great python in his chest that had been constricting his heart since that night all those months ago, when he’d caught Dick’s eye across the floor of The Black Cat. His grin was untameable, taking over his whole face until his eyes crinkled and his cheeks were sore.

He rolled up onto his side, pushing Dick down onto the bed so that they were a mirroring their previous positions. He tried to wrangle his smile and hold Dick’s gaze with some amount of seriousness, but he failed outstandingly.

“I think I just did.”

[creekqueen27]

Jeremiah x Reader

First attempt at writing Gotham.

First work in a while.

Requests are open.

Summary: S5E07 .. Wayne family dinner with Jeremiah and Brianna Wayne. Sexual themes and language.

___________________

The sight before you was still unbelievable. Your parents sitting at the table, alive, years after their murder. You glanced at Jeremiah sitting beside you only to find that he's still staring at your face, unclear emotions in his eyes. He smirks as if he can sense that he's making you more nervous by the second.

"Alfred told me such good tidbits about your and Bruce's childhood." His voice brought your attention back to him and away from your thoughts as you made eye contact. "How you would always eat penne pasta with cheddar, light salad on the side." He giggles while leaning towards you, "What an odd favorite food for a 12 year old!" He says lightly. You can't help but wonder what Bruce would think of you if he knew how your heart skipped a beat when Jeremiah was so close to you.. how it wasn't out of fear.

"Jeremiah.." your eyes fell to your lap, not sure how to word what you wanted to say..

As a sigh escaped you, a gloved hand found it's way underneath your chin and lifted, bringing your eyes and attention back to him. "Yes, Brianna?"

"Why are you keeping everyone else? Just let them go.. please.." He looked down quickly, muttering an apology.

"It's very important to me that I get every detail of this night exactly right." He looks past you to the pearls being placed around your mother's neck and smiles slightly. "What was it like for Bruce.. losing your parents that night?.. I lost my family too, Brianna.." His voice uneven with negative emotions running through his veins. "The wound still hasn't healed yet. I think about it often.."

"Jeremiah, none of this is real. It's just manipulation. Stop this, Bruce will be your friend-" he cuts you off by grabbing the fabric of your cardigan, pulling you close to him as he leans in.

"You think this is about Bruce? That bridge has burned. I want to feel connected to YOU! I offer for you to be my best friend! My other half!" Jeremiah nearly pleads, clearly upset. You can't help but stare back at him, surprised. You always thought it was all about just Bruce, he was just interested in you by association. Taking your silence as rejection, he lets go of you and sits back with his head down. "But I have realized.. if we can't be friends.. we can be connected in other ways.." he says lowly. Did he drag his gaze up your body in the most delicious of ways that you've been craving, or is that your mind playing tricks on you?

"How?" You can't seem to find your voice now that your mouth has gone dry under his intense gaze. He smiles slowly.

"You'll see, in time." He leans towards you and picks up the fork, testing the pasta and cheddar. "Mm. I'm sorry to cut tonight short, my dear, but your parents and I have a very important date." You call his name as he begins walking away. "With destiny." He looks back at you. "You may want to find your beloved Butler and leave. Quickly." You hear beeping and realize he set a bomb. You frantically try to locate everyone as fast as humanly possible, leading then to the woods by the manor. Just as you all reached the treeline, a huge explosion rumbled behind you, knocking you to the ground. You couldn't even look at anyone as you decided what you were going to do. They would hate you for it.

______

You followed Jeremiah to an abandoned factory, keeping your footsteps quiet and your coat close to yourself as the night was so cold you could see your breath. Jeremiah paces back and forth in front of a cage with what looks like two people standing inside, still and quiet. Ecco walks in, carrying two boxes of what looks like fireworks. They converse too quietly for you to make out what they're saying. Just as Ecco walks outside..

"I'm peeling the skin off my face, cause I really hate being safe. The normals they make me afra-" The moment you heard your cell phone ringing, your heart stopped beating and dropped to your stomach as you hid behind the corner, desperately searching for it to turn it off. As you held the power button, turning it off, you glanced around the corner to see where he was.. he was gone. You turn around sighing, but it turns into a gasp as you see him standing over you, smiling down at you, Ecco behind him with a gun pointed at your head. His arms go on both sides of the wall beside you, trapping you.

"Brianna.. what brings you here this evening my lovely dear?" His smile fades as you stare up at him in silence.

"I need to talk to you.. in private." You add, glancing at Ecco who looks to Jeremiah for instructions. He nods to her as he steps back.

"Very well, follow me." He says, offering you his arm. You take it, allowing him to lead you deeper into the factory. It's dark. Cold. Quiet. Surely you were in the heart of it, you thought. Light spilled out from underneath a door, the same door that Jeremiah began to unlock and lightly guide you inside; locking the door behind both of you. You glanced around, it was a very neatly kept room: not that you expected anything else from him.

"What would you like to discuss?" He asks as he sits behind the desk, taking a professional turn. You shake your head at him, muttering a quiet 'no' which earns you a confused look. You walk around the desk as he turns towards you, eyeing you suspiciously. You take his hands in yours and pull him up.

"This isn't professional, Jeremiah. This is personal." You whisper while he towers over you. He looks pleased at the mention of 'personal'. "You offered me to be your best friend.. your other half.. you wanted to be connected to me.." He nods, his gaze intense. You take a chance and step closer to him, your heart beating fast. "I've wanted that since I first saw you." Jeremiah smiles down at you, putting an arm around your shoulders.

"Do you really think I actually believe that I will ever be more important than the gunman who killed your parents?!" He wraps his hand around your throat and squeezes just enough to make you uncomfortable. "I realized at the dinner, after your rejection, that I will never be as important to you as you are, to me.." You try to speak but his grip gets tighter, eyes darker. "I will never be as important as the random gunman, the man connected to you the most.. the man you saw when you closed your eyes.." the last line dripping in sadness and anger, defeat on his features. "I wanna be the star of YOUR show! If I can't be connected to you by love.. then I'll be connected to you by hatred." He growls, his face dangerously close to yours. You let go of the hand choking you, slapping him hard across the face. His grip loosens enough for you to get away, breathing deeply as you look at him, shock and anger on his face.

"We are bonded by love.." you cough, crawling backwards on the floor away from him as he stalks towards you. "You are the most important man, the most connected man to me.." you say as your back hits the wall. Jeremiah kneels in front of you, maintaining eye contact. He takes a strand of hair that fell in your face, twirls it around his finger before placing it gently behind your ear. He stares you dead in the face.

"Prove it."

__________________

If you would like me to write the second part, please let me know!

[theartofdreaming1]

Partners - Part 6: Charity Ball

Rating: T

Pairing: DickBabs

Summary:  The big day has arrived: Barbara and Dick meet up at Wayne Manor for the annual Wayne Charity Ball!  

Read this chapter at AO3 or start from the beginning; read on my blog: chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4, chapter 5.

“Oh… wow.”

It was the day of Bruce Wayne’s charity ball and Barbara had just gotten out of her car, taking in the impressive exterior of Wayne Manor.

It certainly was… big. The warm light that shone through the windows and the animated chatter and soft classical music sounding from the inside at least made the mansion appear a little friendlier, although all the dignified splendor that exuded from the building didn’t help in making the whole ordeal seem any less intimidating to Barbara.

Oh well.

Barbara swapped the comfortable flats she had worn for driving with a pair of less comfortable high heels. She then made sure she had actually locked the car, took a deep breath and made her way across the driveway and up the steps leading to the wood-paneled main doors.

Standing right before the entrance, Barbara nervously smoothed out an invisible crease in her midnight blue dress. It had been some time since she last had accompanied her father to one of these functions. She had forgotten how nerve-wracking these kind of events could be.

Oh well...

Barbara sternly reminded herself that this evening was supposed to be fun, and not cause for her to fret even more than she was already doing anyway, with her mysterious letter and… - Barbara stopped herself from continuing that thought; she had firmly resolved not to think about this subject for at least tonight - this was a night for Dick and her to just be, have fun, and see where that would lead them.

Now mentally prepared for the evening, Barbara squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and entered the Manor purposefully.

Another ‘Oh… wow,’ crossed her mind again.

The entrance hall of Wayne Manor could only be described as grand: The floor was made of polished marble, with an expensive-looking persian rug on display in the center of the room. The ornately carved ceiling was carried by equally beautifully crafted wooden pillars, with a big crystal chandelier hanging from it - Barbara briefly wondered if this was the chandelier Dick had told her about during their first real talk at Hogan’s. To top it all of, works of art were displayed throughout the entire room - not in a showy way, but in a way that showed them to their advantage, in tasteful presentation.

It was certainly enough to leave a strong impression on Barbara.

Still taking in the Manor’s interior design, Barbara’s admiration was cut short by someone approaching her: “Miss Barbara! How delightful to see you again.”

Barbara snapped out of her reverie, turning to the person who just had addressed her - which turned out to be Alfred.

A bright smile lit up her face as she said cheerfully: “Alfred, hello! Great to see you again!”

Barbara sometimes was still astounded by the big difference clothing could have on a person’s appearance: now that he was dressed in the traditional butler’s uniform, Alfred looked like the very epitome of the dignified butler one would expect working for one of the richest people in the country, rather than the kind and humorous grandfatherly figure she had met at Dick’s apartment only a few weeks ago, when he had simply been wearing some more informal slacks and a button-down shirt.

Still, one look into the kind expression on his face was enough to let Barbara know that the “distinguished butler”- Alfred before her now was the same Alfred she had been introduced to in a much simpler setting.

With that in mind, Barbara decided to pick up where they had left off:

“I’m sure you will be relieved to know that Dick’s cooking certainly did the “Alfred Special” justice - it was absolutely delicious.”

The butler received the compliment with a humble nod: ”Why, thank you, Miss Barbara; Master Dick had told me that the response to my recipe had been favorable, but it’s most pleasing to hear so from yourself.”

Barbara smiled, letting her eyes wander across the hall, the doorway arch on the left-hand side allowing her to catch a glimpse of the enormous crowd of people that were entertaining themselves tonight at the Manor as well.

At that thought, Barbara’s expression grew a little hesitant; those were a lot of people in a very big house...

“Um, Alfred?” the redhead asked sheepishly, “Do you happen to have any idea where I might find Dick?”

Not batting an eye, the butler simply remarked calmly: “I am confident Master Dick will be here any minute now-”

“Hey Babs!”

As if on cue, Dick had stepped into the hall, a hand lifted in greeting, before he headed toward Alfred and Barbara.

“Your arrival has been awaited most eagerly, I might add,” the butler informed Barbara in a low voice, the crinkles around his eyes relaying the older man’s amusement. Before Barbara could even react to his comment, Alfred had already stepped away to greet the next slew of guests entering the Manor.

By then, Dick had made his way to her, still standing a little farther away than he usually would have;  Barbara realized somewhat nervously that Dick had stopped closing the distance between them because he was taking in her appearance…

Barbara suppressed the urge to smooth out another non-existent wrinkle in her dress.

“Wow,” Dick said finally, haltingly, sounding like he was nervously fumbling for words, “you look…amazing.”

All of a sudden, Barbara was very pleased with herself for choosing the dress she was wearing tonight - it was simple, but elegant, with a mermaid cut, off shoulder straps and sweetheart neckline; its midnight blue color made for a beautiful contrast to her vibrant red hair that she had styled to one side, causing it to fall over her left shoulder in gentle waves.

“Thanks,” Barbara said a little bashfully, “you don’t look bad yourself.”

That was obviously an understatement on Barbara’s part: there was a reason Gotham City’s tabloids used the term “Pretty Boy” synonymously for “Richie Grayson”; Dick was never hard on the eyes, but especially tonight in his (undoubtedly expensive) well-cut tuxedo, accentuated with a midnight blue cummerbund and bow tie that brought out his beautiful dark blue eyes...oof. There was no denying that her partner was exceptionally handsome.

“I try,” Dick said humbly, before gallantly offering his arm to her.

Barbara accepted his gesture, linking their arms and letting Dick lead her towards the big ballroom.

While doing so, they passed underneath the big crystal chandelier.

Barbara couldn’t help her cheeky remark:

“So, I see you have given up on hanging from the chandelier while the hors d'oeuvres are being served, huh?”

Dick responded with a wide smirk, giving a casual, one-armed shrug: “Well… I kinda stopped doing that once I crashed the original one.”

Barbara almost tripped over the hem of her dress.

“What?!”

“Yeah… turns out that chandeliers are not really built for eleven-year old acrobats to practice their skills on them… Bruce had a trapeze installed in the gym afterwards.”

Dick grinned impishly at that recollection, while Barbara could only shake her head.

“You‘re unbelievable.”   

  The elegance of Wayne Manor’s entrance hall was nothing in comparison to its ballroom. Barbara was trying really hard not to let her awe show, but she knew that she couldn’t fool Dick, especially when he commented the room with an amused, nonchalant “Pretty spiffy, huh?”

Feeling the need to tease her smug partner, Barbara only gave a shrug, pretending to feel indifferent to all this excitement around her:

“It’s alright, I guess.”

The ghost of a grin flit across Dick’s face before he nodded understandingly. He leaned closer to her, whispering as if he was revealing a big, well-guarded secret:

“Oh, you should see it without all the people in it - it’s an excellent room for sock surfing.”

Barbara barely managed to suppress a snort.

“Now, that would have been impressive,” she agreed in a fake pretentious voice, before vaguely gesturing towards the dignified hall, which was bustling with members of Gotham’s high society,”unlike this run-off-the-mill, fancily decorated room filled with Gotham’s most influential people, buffet and live music… but I suppose this will have to do.”

Dick laughed.

“Glad to hear that you are willing to make do with the little we have to offer.”

Barbara grinned, feeling a lot more relaxed now after goofing around with Dick.

“Maybe later I could give you a proper tour of the house, which would also include some very sock surfable hallways, I might add,” Dick said, a humorous twinkle in his eye, before suggesting more earnestly: “But how about we just mingle for now? There are some people I’d like you to meet.”

Barbara smiled, gently squeezing Dick’s arm.

“Lead the way.”

They spent some time talking to the other guests, some of which had been delightful and intriguing new acquaintances, like Wayne Enterprises’ CEO Lucius Fox. Others had been people Barbara was already familiar with from other functions she’d attended (such as Leslie Thompkins, a doctor running the free Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic in Park Row), as well as plenty of young socialite ladies who felt it their duty to chat with the host’s son (while not-so-subtly inquiring after the whereabout of his adopted father and host of the evening).

After socialising like this for a while, they had now decided to stop by the buffet before hitting the dance floor (“You wouldn’t want to miss out on the mushroom puffs, trust me”, Dick had assured Barbara, while expertly weaving through the crowd, with Babs trailing after him).

They had almost arrived at their destination when someone near the buffet table caught Dick’s eye - Barbara observed with surprise Dick’s face brighten with delight, all thoughts of mushroom puffs immediately whisked away.

“Ooh, there is someone I need to introduce you to,” he said to Barbara excitedly, before calling that special someone’s attention to them:

“Hey, Tim!”

Tim turned out to be a dark-haired teen of small-to-medium height, who Barbara pegged to be around fifteen years old. He’d looked a little miserable in his tuxedo, standing all by himself to the side of the buffet - that is, until he noticed Dick and a wide, genuine smile spread across his face.

“Tim’s like my honorary little brother,” Dick explained to Barbara, while they were heading towards the teen,”he’d spend his time here at the Manor whenever his dad was on a business trip, which was pretty often.”

Barbara observed the guys exchange joyful greetings, and with their blue eyes, black hair and just overall unaffected camaraderie displayed on both sides, Barbara wouldn’t have doubted Dick if he had told her that Tim was his biological brother.

When Dick introduced her to the teen, Barbara noticed that Tim acted a lot more nervously and shyly towards herself at first. She was pretty sure Dick had taken notice of that as well; Barbara could tell that he was putting an effort into keeping their conversation as easy-going and natural as he could to make Tim feel more comfortable:

“So, Tim... With this fancy shindig going on,” Dick made an indistinct gesture towards the crowd behind him, “I wouldn’t have expected you to be here tonight!”

“Yeah… Dad and Dana thought it would be good if I left my room for a while - but you know that I’m always happy to drop in… I’m just not really keen on attending these parties usually,” Tim professed sheepishly to Barbara.

The redhead smiled: “I’m in good company, then - I haven’t been at one of these functions in years.”

“Well, out of all the functions one could attend, you have definitely picked the best one,” Tim assured Barbara,“at least the people that throw this party are pretty okay-” (“I’m so flattered,” Dick commented amusedly) “-plus, the food is always great.”

Barbara could barely suppress a snort.

“So I keep hearing.”

Dick looked a little sheepish.

“Well, how about we’ll get Babs here over to the wonderful buffet I kept telling her about when I coaxed her into coming, grab some food and prove that I’m a man of my word, huh? And you’ve got to tell me how you are liking Brentwood Academy so far, Tim!”

Tim threw a discreet look in Barbara’s direction, trying to make sure Barbara was fine with that plan; he obviously didn’t mean to intrude on her and Dick’s togetherness.

But Barbara simply gave her best friendly smile and nodded encouragingly; she was genuinely interested in knowing more about Dick’s honorary little brother (as long as she could also eat something in the meantime).

Tim seemed to have come to the conclusion that Barbara truly didn’t mind him tagging along for a while and finally gave a shy smile.

“Sounds good,” he said, before giving her a piece of advice that caused both Dick and Barbara to chuckle: “If you want something really good, you should try the mushroom puffs - they are amazing.”

Dick, Barbara and Tim spent their time very enjoyably, talking about anything and everything  (as it turned out, Tim was very interested in and knowledgeable about all things tech-related, especially regarding computers, and a good deal of the conversation consisted simply of Barbara and Tim talking about the latest IT developments).

A few times while they had been busy chatting, Barbara could have sworn that she had seen the party’s host himself making his way over to them; however, he seemed to disappear whenever a swarm of young and middle-aged ladies alike appeared in Barbara’s field of vision.

The redhead was starting to wonder if she had simply imagined this bizarre routine, until one horde of these eager female guests swarmed Dick in their zealous attempt to find out the whereabouts of his adoptive father. While Dick warded off the throng of women by pointing them in one direction of the ballroom, Barbara could clearly observe the object of their desire, Bruce Wayne, hastily duck into an adjoining room on the exact opposite side of the room.

She quickly took a sip of her drink to conceal her grin. While this burlesque was taking place, Barbara made the mistake of catching Tim’s eye in the process - both of them had to break eye contact immediately to stop themselves from breaking out laughing - or, in Barbara’s case, to stop herself from choking on her drink.

She waited patiently until the ladies were way out of earshot, then addressed Dick amusedly:

“You two practice this routine very often? The misdirection?”

Her partner ducked his head shyly, looking like an 8-year-old who got caught with his hands in the cookie jar, “only in self-defense.”

Barbara shot another glance at the flock of gaggling women marching toward the other end of the room: “Fair.”

“You must excuse this foolish ruse,” a deep, unfamiliar voice sounded close to Barbara, startling her. When she turned back to Tim and Dick, she could see that the much sought-after host of the event had finally joined their group, now that the coast was clear. Bruce Wayne appeared to have mastered that same ability of silently sneaking up on people that Dick also possessed - which was pretty impressive considering his tall, broad-shouldered frame.

In direct contrast to his imposing figure was the little bashful smile displayed on his face,”I wanted to meet up with you without raising a ruckus.”

“Not an easy task, that’s for sure,” Dick commented jokingly, “it looks like Miss Vreeland came here with the firm intention of spearheading a manhunt… but here you are: Bruce, please meet Babs.”

And just like that, Barbara was shaking hands with the Bruce Wayne, one of the most influential people in Gotham, who told her most jovially how pleased he was to finally meet her.

“Dick has told us so much about you - only good things, I can assure you,” Bruce said, smiling warmly at her.

Barbara noticed Dick shuffling his feet awkwardly in response, while Tim was smirking gleefully.

“Considering how Blüdhaven is such a tough place - even in comparison to Gotham -, it’s just such a relief to know that Dick has someone who has his back out in the field.”

Barbara couldn’t help but smile at Bruce’s concern; it reminded her a lot of her father fretting over her safety.

“I know for a fact that my father shares these sentiments; with regard to Dick, of course,” Barbara clarified, before continuing: “I think both Dick and I have gotten very lucky in that regard - I’m certainly very glad to be partnered up with him,” she admitted, earning herself a wide, heartfelt smile from Dick.

“Speaking of the Commissioner, I just realized that I have yet to have the pleasure of encountering him tonight,” Bruce observed suddenly, his eyes quickly scanning the room in search of James Gordon.

“Oh, I’m afraid my father and Sarah asked me to excuse them for not coming - I think there was some business at the precinct that required their attention.”

Barbara wisely neglected to mention that this ‘business’ at the precinct had been regarded as a most welcome distraction by her father - even after all his years as the police commissioner of Gotham and being invited to the city’s most important official parties and galas, Jim Gordon’s dread of having to attend any of them hadn’t lessened one bit.

Bruce’s face fell as he let out a little sigh.

“What a shame! I very much enjoy talking to the Commissioner,” he said to Barbara, before adding in a low voice: “He offers a much more substantial conversation than most other guests.”

From the dejected look on his face Barbara could tell that he truly regretted her father’s absence.

Dick only laughed at his adoptive father’s dramatic antics: “Now come, Bruce, I don’t think you will be in want of an entertaining conversational partner - I’m pretty sure I saw Selina Kyle just now, talking with Leslie.”

Dick’s mischievous comment left quite the mark: To her surprise (and the boys’ amusement), Barbara observed the Bruce Wayne lower his gaze bashfully like a schoolboy, his cheeks taking on a slight variation of pink.

Tim grinned at Barbara, nodding sagely: “Every time.”

But before any of them could say anything else, a penetrating, shrill voice reached their ears:

“Ah, Brucie, there you are!”

Bruce tensed, looking extremely uncomfortable.

“If you’ll excuse me…,” he said apologetically to Barbara and the boys, before turning around to accept his fate.

Then, all of a sudden, Barbara observed how his whole demeanor changed, his posture relaxed, and a charming smile (that Barbara now could easily discern as fake) plastered on his face.

“Ladies,” he effusively greeted the group of females (led by Veronica Vreeland), earning him some excited giggles.

Barbara raised her eyebrows at this transformation.

“It still weirds me out when he does that,” Tim said, having noticed Barbara’s expression.

“It’s a little bizarre,” Dick agreed, by now already used to the strange ways of his adoptive father.

Barbara (and Tim) stared at Dick.

“... Okay, maybe a lot.”

Soon after Bruce had left their little group, Tim extricated himself as well, effectively turning their terrific trio back into the original dynamite duo. Dick and Babs consequently resumed their previous plan of joining the other couples on the dance floor, and ended up having a lot fun (at this point, Barbara wasn’t in the least fazed to find out that Dick was also an absolutely splendid dancing partner - was there anything he couldn’t do?).

They had been dancing for quite some time, not yet out of breath, but cheeks already slightly flushed, when Barbara became aware of that strange, unpleasant prickle at the nape of her neck. Familiar with this sensation and what it usually meant, she let her gaze stray from Dick’s face and let it shortly wander about the crowded room, before making eye contact with her partner again:

“Why do I have the feeling that we’re being watched?”

Dick grinned amusedly: “Well, I’m certain that we are cutting quite the rug here if I may say so. Which is definitely worth watching -,” Barbara rolled her eyes good-humoredly, “- but, as usual, your instincts are actually quite on the money-” with that, Dick artfully dipped her, a move that let her take notice of a woman with strawberry blonde hair and sharp eyes standing a little behind Barbara’s current position, “Vicki Vale seems to have taken quite the interest in us.”

Barbara frowned. She didn’t like the idea of being observed by the famous Gazette journalist, who wasn’t above reporting for the tabloids if she chose so.

Dick, who was studying Barbara’s face intently, was quick on the uptake and immediately asked Barbara in a low voice: “Wanna skip the rest of the event?”

The redhead couldn’t help but smile; her partner was almost ridiculously good at reading her moods.

Her smile turned into a cheeky smirk: “Is that offer for a private tour to all the best sock sliding places in Wayne Manor still standing?”

Dick grinned.

“Of course it is.”

“Then let’s get out of here.”

Once they had discreetly left the ballroom (with the help of Tim, who had distracted Vicki Vale long enough for Dick and Barbara to slip by the eagle-eyed reporter undetected), Dick began their little tour by leading Barbara to the unusually busy kitchen to swipe some cookies from Alfred’s “hidden” cookie jar.

“Provisions for the road,” Dick justified his actions with a grin, handing Barbara some of the most delicious cookies she’d ever eaten in her life.

The next stop on their itinerary was the absolutely breathtaking library of the Manor: this beautiful sight of rows and rows of bookshelves stocked with the most gorgeous, leather-bound editions of all kinds of genres was nearly enough to make Barbara cry; Dick was close to having to forcefully drag her away from this room so they could resume their tour.

“You asked for sock surfable hallways and you shall get sock surfable hallways,” he explained cheerfully, while leading Barbara back to the magnificent entrance hall, and up the grand staircase.

Reaching the top of the stairs revealed one ridiculously long hallway that probably connected up to fifteen different rooms.

“Tadaa,” Dick said, grinning, while making a theatrical gesture, “the second best place for sock surfing in the house - apart from the empty ballroom, that is.”

“That certainly is a hallway perfect for sock surfing,” Barbara agreed, grinning as well, “consider me impressed.”

Dick’s grin went from triumphant to goofy:

“Now, for a demonstration…”

Barbara watched Dick amusedly as he quickly undid his shoelaces and toed off his shiny dress shoes, pushing them to the side. He walked down the hallway a little further, to have more of a running start, before gleefully sliding the full length of the hallway, just coming to a halt right in front of the door on the end of the floor.

Barbara giggled.

Dick grinned: “Your turn.”

Barbara slipped out of her shoes and slightly lifted the hem of her dress to reveal her bare, sockless feet: “I’m afraid I’ve gotta pass on this one.”

“Nonsense,” Dick disagreed, carefully walking up to her, ”you’ve come all this way - I’ll borrow you some of mine; come on!”

And with that, he picked up his shoes with one hand and took Barbara’s hand with his other and led her towards the door on the opposite end of the hallway.

“Are you ready to enter the holy of holies?” Dick asked Barbara dramatically, pausing at his childhood bedroom door for effect.

“But you’ve already shown me the library…?” Barbara replied teasingly.

Dick pretended to give her a scandalized look, then opened the door.

Dick’s room turned out to be of moderate size, which surprised Barbara a little, after seeing so many of the enormous rooms Wayne Manor had to offer (at least Dick’s room seemed to have its own balcony, which was still a fancy feature in its own right). The walls were of a beautiful, calm blue and adorned with three posters: one movie poster of the Errol Flynn Robin Hood movie, one poster of the Haly Bros. Circus and another poster of the Flying Graysons (this one hung right above the bed).

The room was furnished with a queen-sized bed, a spacious desk, multiple shelves filled with lots of books, clutter, pictures of friends and family and a couple of trophies, a fluffy rug, and a dresser, which Dick headed for to get Barbara a pair of socks.

In the meanwhile, Barbara studied the contents of the shelves with utmost interest.

She giggled.

“Nice mathlete trophy,” she said in a teasing voice, “I hadn’t expected you to be that much of a nerd.”

Dick playfully chucked the rolled-up pair of socks he had picked out at Barbara. She caught it easily with one hand.

“It’s not like I’m the only nerd in this room,” he pointed out amusedly, winking at her.

Barbara grinned: “Touché.”

She put her high heels down next to the bed before she sat down on it to put on the socks. They were wonderfully soft.

“Besides, it’s not like I have been much of a beacon of exemplariness all the time,” Dick said chattily, while opening the balcony door.

He stepped over the threshold and pointed at the tallest tree nearby; Barbara could see that it had one branch hanging very close to the balcony railing: “I’d occasionally sneak out that way.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Barbara clicked her tongue admonishingly, while getting up to join Dick on the balcony. She peered over the balustrade: it was still quite some way down that branch; it would have required quite the gymnastics expertise to reach the ground safely from that height.

“You can take the boy out of the circus…,” Barbara and Dick found themselves saying at the same time, causing them to trail off and burst into laughter.

“So,” Barbara started again, once their laughs had subsided, “how many times does “occasionally sneaking out” actually encompass?”

“Two,” Dick admitted sheepishly, making Barbara giggle again, “and I got caught by Bruce one of those times - my punishment was to wash his cars; and please take notice of the plural here, for he has plenty of vintage cars in his garage, therefore making this quite the task… A very effective deterrent, though.”

“The end of a very short bad boy career,” Barbara pointed out, making Dick chuckle.

Over the course of their conversation, the two of them had assumed more relaxed postures, and were now leaning forward with their arms propped up against the balustrade, nearly touching. A sudden quietness had settled over them, and Dick and Barbara found themselves sharing this serene moment, doing nothing but overlook the vast grounds of the Manor.

The evening air was still pretty chilly, it being only early March, although tonight was special as in lacking that crisp coldness from the nights before: another sign that spring was just around the corner. There was not a single cloud to be seen and due to the remoteness of Wayne Manor, one could actually see the stars twinkling in the sky, making for a truly beautiful view.

Despite it being a more mild night than usual, Barbara couldn’t help but shiver from the cold.

Dick shifted and turned to Barbara, noticing the goosebumps on her bare arms.

“Maybe we should head back in…” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Barbara nodded.

“Yeah…”

Neither of them made a move to get back inside.

Then, slowly, as if there was an invisible force pulling her closer, Barbara could feel herself gravitating towards Dick, wanting, needing, to close whatever gap between them remained: her fists soon found the lapels of Dick’s tux jacket and his hands found their way to her hips, resting gently on them, spreading their warmth through the thin fabric of her dress… And when their lips met, Barbara could feel something fluttering inside her stomach and -

there was something else, something heavy. A something that made Barbara break away from that kiss, from that warmth, her eyes trained firmly on the ground.

She shuddered from the cold.

“There is something I’ve got to tell you first.”

Notes:

"Batman & Mr. Freeze: Subzero" : This chapter has been mainly influenced by the party scene in this animated movie: Veronica Vreeland and her flock of ladies are from it, for example. There is a really cute DickBabs scene on a balcony in it and the dress Babs is wearing is also borrowed from this movie.)

Batman: Dark Victory #9: Dick is shown to have climbed the chandelier; Alfred is worried that he (and the chandelier) are going to fall

Batman #54: Dick is shown to have broken the chandelier while trying to "fly" again

Gotham Gazette: Batman Alive? #1: In this issue, Vicki Vale notices how Dick and Babs are "exuding hot, unspoken tiger heat" which puts Vicki Vale on the track of figuring out the Batfam's secret identities actually

The Mathlete trophy is a nod to the episode "Schooled" from Young Justice, which shows a picture of Dick holding a mathlete trophy

Dick sneaking out of the Manor by climbing down a tree is a nod to the BTAS episode "Robin's Reckoning" and just in general, Dick has been shown to have snuck out the Manor/home in both Robin Annual #4 and Batman: Dark Victory

Dick having to wash Bruce's car is a nod to the Batman episode "The Breakout", in which Dick and Babs joke around/complain that Batman doesn't assign them really challenging cases, but would rather have them wash the Batmobile as if the fate of Gotham depended on it ^^

[kinsbin]

Mis-Messaged

Title: Mis-Messaged Ship: Alexys/John Doe [Joker] [Self Insert/Canon] Word Count: 2636 Summary: While spending time with her best friend, Alexys discovered that her crush likes her back. Bruce does his bet to set her up with John, but, what happens between them is up to them both.

A/N: A commission for @bad-blue-moon-rising​! I love their ship with Joker and it’s been forever since I’ve written for Telltale’s Batman series ;u; I hope you enjoy!

It was rare Bruce had a night in. Even more rare was it to spend it with Alexys, the two best friends sitting comfortably in arm chairs amidst the posh living room of the Wayne state. The fire roared in the fireplace, crackling and spitting out pieces of ash and wood through the vented chimney while the sound of rock music hummed low on the speakers of the stereo set at their sides. Bruce held a book between his fingers, flipping idly through pages as he read each line with easy diligence. Alexys had propped her laptop up on herself now, sitting in the chair so that her back rested on one arm and her legs were slung over the other. The nonsensical video game she had put up on the screen was simple and casual, a farming simulator involving cabbages and some sort of buy-to-win currency that ads would pop up for every twelve seconds. The thing about spending time with your best friend was, of course, the joy of spending it in complete silence. You had known everything about one another to the point of talking feeling useless. It was easier to enjoy one another’s company without forcing natural words between your lips. Alexys brushed back a strand of her hair as she sighed, tilting her head in an effort to angle the screen towards her better.

Ping...Ping!

Ping...Pingping-

“Bruce,” Alexys spoke through the gentle glass taps of alert noises, “Please look at your texts or put that phone on vibrate, I’m going to lose it if I have to listen to one more angry ping from that stupid thing.”

“Oh? Sorry,” He mumbled while reaching for his phone with a frown, “Guess I just get used to it after a while.”

“No you just have selective hearing,” Alexys smirked, “It’s like all the times I call you and you never pick up.”

“Low blow there, don’t you think? I am a working businessman.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Bruce turned on his phone and scrolled through the messages. Out of the corner of her eye, Alexys watched her best friend’s face for signs of just who it was he was texting. She watched his blue eyes scroll through word after word on the screen before them. Not even a few lines down and she caught his brows furrowing, lips curving into a frown so reminiscent of when he was batman that it almost worried her too much to ask just what it was. Concern for her best friend, of course, put itself forward more than anxiety in one way or another. Shifting, she pulled the laptop off of her stomach and sat normally on the chair, placing it down in her lap before gazing at Bruce with concern.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing I-”

“Bruce Wayne don’t you like to me, you know it doesn’t work.”

Bruce sighed and put his phone down on his lap, a hand running over his face as he gave her an unreadable look. It was as if he were debating just how to tell her what was on the screen.

“John Doe...Uh he-” He tried to find the way to word what he wanted to say properly before taking a breath and giving up, “Wanted my advice on how to ask you out.”

“WHAT!?”

Alexys dove across the chairs, her laptop resting on its side on the floor now in favor of her body aiming itself perfectly at Bruce’s phone. Bruce, in turn, lurched and quickly held it out of reach as she all but dived across his lap, grabbing at the device with a desperation only a completely shocked woman could truly muster. Her eyes were focused as she caught glimpses of his phone screen through the struggle. Not much could be seen, but, she saw enough heart emojis and crying faces to understand the intent of the conversation, and it all but brought a worse blush to her face as she was quickly rolled off of the billionaire’s lap and onto the floor, where she covered her cheeks with her hands while attempting to sputter out some sort of response.

“I-I-! What the fuck do you mean he wants to ASK ME OUT? Bruce, that’s not something you just TELL ME.”

“You ASKED ME to tell you what it was!”

Another groan left her lips, Alexys falling backwards as she let her head rest against the plush carpet of the room, staring up at the insatiably high ceiling as the wheels in her mind worked. “Does that mean he...likes me? Like...LIKE LIKEs me?”

“What are you, in seventh grade?”

“Answer the question, Wayne.”

“Well, yeah,” Bruce gestured to her, “Have you seen the way he looks at you each time you meet him or you come with me to somewhere? It’s...kind of really obvious. He makes you laugh with every other word because he’s trying really hard to.”

“It wasn’t obvious to me! Oh my god, what should I do? How should I say yes?! God I wish I could have heard him tell me it himself and-”

“Well you’ll be able to,” Bruce noted with a quirk of his head, fingers typing lazily across his phone as he double-tasked the conversation, “I just told him I’d meet him at a local bar in fifteen minutes. You can go instead of me.”

“WHAT!?”

“What?”

“DID YOU JUST SET US UP!?”

“You said you wanted to say yes!” Bruce gestured to her with a laugh, “I would have found a way to tell him ‘no’ if you had said you weren’t interested.”

Alexys shut her mouth, dragging her hands down her face as she groaned towards her best friend, who frowned at her and moved off of his chair. Hand out, he waited for her to take it before pulling Alexys up and off of the floor she had chosen to lay on. Bruce stood there with her, eyes sincere as they had always been with her, and he took a breath, “Just promise me you’ll be careful...This guy is...well, he’s something. I don’t know if the word is dangerous, but, it might be. I just want to make sure you’re safe, so, take my car. Take a tracker with you to, and text me when you’re home, alright?”

“You worry too much,” Alexys laughed, reaching out to hug her best friend with a sigh, “But I promise, I’ll stay safe. Thanks for...well, everything I suppose.”

“Don’t mention it,” Bruce laughed, hugging back, “No get going.”

A brief change of clothes later, Alexys found herself just outside of a local bar, a simple and small place just out of the way enough for a car of Bruce Wayne’s to go relativlely unnoticed, yet, decent enough to not feel too shady. Alfred eyed Alexys through the rear view mirror, his eyebrows tilting at her as she fiddled with her fingernails, chewing on them lightly before taking a deep breath and pushing her hand away to play with each other instead, her lips pursed as she prepared herself to get out of the vehicle.

“You can always return to the manor, Alexys,” Alfred’s easy voice echoed like a father’s from the front, “Master Bruce will understand.”

“Thanks Al,” Alexys smiled warmly, “But...I want to do this, I swear. It’s just...hard...knowing you’re meeting a guy who not only likes you, but, doesn’t know that you know he likes you AND doesn’t know that you’re the one he’s meeting its-It’s a lot. I don’t know if this will work.”

“If I may say,” Alfred hummed, “Any man who is lucky enough to have your heart will make it work with you, for both of your sakes.”

Alexys laughed, but nodded and finally stood to get out of the car. She entered the bar and gazed curiously around. It was nearly empty, a few patrons lingering in the corner booths with nachos and a couple of beers while the low hum of jukebox radio echoed softly across the decorated walls. The scent of light cigars and pool table chalk filled her nostrils as her eyes settled on the man she knew she was supposed to meet. He sat at the bar, hands busying themselves with stacking the variety of coffee creamer and small ketchup packets into what looked to be an intricate pattern resembling the eiffel tower. She felt herself smile as she watched him, the way his tongue stuck from between his lips as he focused on the task at hand was utterly adorable. The way his nose wrinkled with intense concentration made her heart skip a beat as she approached, feeling herself ease up in his very presence. It was as if his existence relieved her anxiety, fighting it back with humor and fun moments.

“H-Hi John.”

He paused in his movements, eyes widening and cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of red that she wasn’t sure if she had ever seen on a human being before. His hand shifted, knocking the tower just enough so that it came crashing down on his lap and across the bar. John cursed, eyes widening at the events that had just occurred before his lip stuck out in a pout as all of his hard work laid itself out before him. Alexys hurried next to him, catching some of the pieces that were trying to roll off of the counter completely and placing them back in the small holder that the bartender (now staring at them with a look of begrudging annoyance) had left out for other customers. She laughed and slid next to him on one of the seats, brushing some of her hair back, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you that bad.”

“You didn’t!” John argued back with surprise before another pause overcame in and he shrugged, “Okay, maybe you did a little bit. But...I mean...It’s just that-Where’s Bruce?”

There was a contemplative pause as Alexys debated ratting out her best friend for reading out his texts to her. She decided that she would spare him the wrath of his best friend via an explosion of upset text messages he would without a doubt have to put out and settled with a light shrug of laughter as she rubbed the back of her neck. “He said that he couldn’t quite make it, busy with work and all you know? He asked if I could go instead, since, I know you and he trusts me ‘n all.”

John’s gaze narrowed as if in understanding of the situation. Though, he was probably thinking that he had set the both of them up without either of them knowing versus Alexys having scrambled to steal away his phone in the middle of the living room, but she was fine with allowing that thought process to continue. Instead, he waved the bartender over and grinned at him.

“Two shirley temples please.”

Alexys laughed at this order, her hand reaching up to cover her mouth as she grinned through it. “We’re at a bar. What are we, twelve?”

“Childlike wonder is never a bad thing to have,” John explained with a grin, “Besides, who doesn’t like Shirley Temples?!”

“That’s valid,” Alexys agreed as she took a deep breath of air to stop herself from giggling too much, “Sorry, I’m so tired and that was probably funnier to me than it should have been.”

“What? Don’t apologize for something like that,” John hummed, “I love your laugh...It’s warm and...really genuine. I like it.”

“You...You do?”

John’s smile was warm on his lips as he looked away, his own hand touching the back of his neck to rub at the thin strands of hair on it as he flushed with embarrassment, “Yeah I...Like a lot of things bout you, actually. A lot a lot….Uh, that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to Bruce about, but, I guess talking to you about it would be easier face to face too um-damn-Maybe not as easy as I thought but-”

There was a pause as the bartender brought them their drinks, rolling his eyes at the apparent conversation that was taking place. John grinned back, Alexys matching the look as they both waved their thanks towards the man who clearly wanted nothing to do with the two sober beings in his bar at nearly past midnight.

“So you...Like me…” Alexys tried the words on her tongue, averting her gaze with a laugh, “I don’t get why but...That sounds like something. I mean-”

John reached out now, taking her face in his hands and bringing it to his. Alexys’ eyes widened as she was forced to stare into his, which were a strange seriousness compared to their usual light hearted demeanor. His gaze held her own, as if trying to ensure that she knew how serious he was, but those orbs flickered to her lips and then up again. He licked his own, Alexys swallowed at the action.

“No,” He muttered, “What’s not to get? I mean you’re...funny a-and cute and...Your nose does the most adorable little wrinkling thing when you laugh...And oh that laugh, you sound like you’re singing each time. Alexys I...liked you the moment I met you.”

She inhaled sharply, trying to process all of the compliments the man before her had just showered her in. Did he really think those things? Even though he had said it...Even though she had seen the texts on Bruce’s phone...None of it wanted to make sense to her. She was waiting for him to say he was kidding. For him to laugh and for her to be forced to laugh along. That was what he did, right? He joked...things were funny...was this funny?

As if sensing the doubt in her tumultuous mind, John took his chance.

Closing the distance between them, she could feel his smile as he kissed her, long and deep and moving his hands so that they were on her shoulders, just light enough for her to pull away should she refuse the motion or his feelings. She didn’t pull away, however. Alexys leaned forward, eyes shutting as she felt herself smiling back, the both of them entwined in a kiss that made them grin from ear to ear as they shared it with one another. He tasted like sweets and alcohol and she could have sworn she was drunk off of it as she found his hands in her own, holding tightly while they separated.

“Can you two please either finish your drinks or get a room?”

They looked up at the bartender, who looked like he was very, very tired of the events going on.

John laughed in return, an infectious sound that made Alexys join him as they nodded at one another and waved off to the bartender, who had moved away to simply let them go. Turning back to her, the man before Alexys gave a hopeful, shy sort of look as he kept his hands in hers.

“So that’s...an ‘I like you too’ I suppose?”

Alexys laughed again, giving his hand a squeeze as they hopped off of the barstools together. Standing on the tips of her toes, she gave the side of his face a light peck before tugging him towards the exit with a grin.

“It is. I...love you a lot, John.”

The words filled his stomach with butterflies as he ran forward and hugged her, swirling her around as they made it to the door and grinned happily at her, placing another kiss on her forehead.

“I love you too.”

Perhaps the only time they could be serious...was when they were seriously in love? Alexys was okay with that.

[lusilly]

streets of gotham: secret origins

finally a complete introductory fic for the Streets of Gotham 2 team: Colin Wilkes (Abuse), Ellen Nayar (Ember), Nell Little (Spoiler), Jordan Joyce (Jabberwock), and Niloufar Ghorbani (Seraph). (lucas comes later lmao)

Since Jordan’s got the most complicated backstory, xe has xyr own intro fic you can read here. The SoG2 team is featured heavily in Fiat iusticia and in Wheel in the Sky.

This fic was an exercise in Mark Waid’s advice on how plot is nothing more than setting upon which to hang emotion.........and that was Tough lmao. extremely unsatisfied with the ending. Relies heavily on story from Batman: The Black Mirror. Damian is about 16 here. My fav part of this is damian beating the shit out of a joker stan. Enjoy!

NAME:  Damian Wayne ALIAS:  Robin DATE OF BIRTH:  5 September 1996 (approximate) BLOOD TYPE:  O-  (Full Medical History) EMERGENCY CONTACT:  BW, DG AFFILIATIONS: Teen Titans, Team Ember EVAL: [File Encrypted] NOTES: |Robin| Eval needs to be de-encrypted. Any information contained therein cannot possibly be worse than not knowing |Nightwing| Yeah thats kind of a dick move B. Lol |Batman| Notes are to be relevant to the file in question not a space for airing personal grievances |Red Hood| Im airing my personal grievances here just to spite you. You suck |Batman| If this continues I will remove editing privileges for all of you |Red Hood| You still suck Editing on NOTES is locked

----

           Damian got up early; patrol had ended before two AM last night, the city quiet and still in the early winter lull. A cold snap had settled across Gotham this past week, creeping in from the bay. Though it did not snow, the clear skies brought the temperature to well below freezing, which led to slow nights on patrol. The heat of summer pushed people outside relentlessly. The cold, on the other hand, made criminals lethargic and cautious, preferring to stay inside with their families.

           So Damian rolled out of bed around nine in the morning, the sunlight shining into his window through blinds he had forgotten to draw last night. The first thing he did was take his phone from its perch on his bedside table and scroll through any new notifications. Both Iris and Lian had texted him. He responded to Iris’s but not Lian’s, then went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Not ten minutes later he was in the drawing room downstairs, where Titus slept before the great brick fireplace, which was empty.

           Damian patted his dog on the stomach, whistling through his teeth. “Come on,” he said, getting down on his knees and drumming his hands on Titus’s sturdy body. The dog lit up with energy, reaching up to lick Damian’s face, tail wagging furiously as he got to his feet. Damian scratched him behind his ears. “You ready for a run, boy? Come on, let’s get some exercise.”

           Alfred appeared, hot coffee in hand. “Good morning, Damian,” he said. “Taking the dog for a walk?”

           “Yes,” answered Damian, glancing around. “He’s been indoors too much lately because of the cold, he needs to stretch his legs.”

           “You too?”

           Damian offered Alfred a little grin. “Me too,” he agreed. “It’s slow out there.”

           “And here I thought that was a good thing.”

           “It is.” Titus bounded across the room excitedly, chasing his tail, ready for a walk. He started to paw at Damian’s leg, and Damian only held up one hand to indicate Stop. “Down. One moment, alright?” To Alfred, he asked, “Do you know what time my father got home last night?”

           Alfred gave sort of a shrug. “Not long after you.”

           “Oh,” said Damian. “When he wakes up will you tell him I’m heading to school later today? I’ve got an exam at three.”

           Alfred made a face of enthusiastic pride. “Your first university exam,” he said, sounding impressed. “In which subject, may I ask?”

           “Multivariable calculus,” Damian answered, kneeling down to rub Titus’s big head. “It’s simple stuff. A pre-req for applied math.”

           “Not finance?”

           Damian flashed that grin at Alfred once more. “I’m just testing out my options,” he said. “I have time.”

           “Indeed you do,” agreed Alfred, with an approving nod. “In any case, good luck and I shall inform your father as soon as he wakes. Which,” he glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway, and took a disapproving sip of coffee, “should be quite soon. He’s quite worse than you, isn’t he?”u

           Damian opened the French doors to the back garden. With a wave to Alfred, he said, “We’ll be back,” and he whistled for Titus to follow him, then took off jogging past the flowerbeds. Coffee in hand, Alfred watched him go.

           The morning was brisk, but Damian felt warm and alive underneath the early wintertime sun. Taking it slow, he scrolled through his phone, searching for an appropriate playlist, then tucked earbuds into his ears and his the phone itself into a holder at his bicep. Whistling once more at Titus, he took a wide berth around his vegetable garden, knowing that Titus was prone to digging around in it sometimes, upsetting his crops. From there he stayed close to the tree line, heading out across the Manor grounds. The route he liked to take eventually led to a field and a set of rolling hills littered with public paths; he preferred, however, to take a less intuitive path, slightly different every time and designed to get the most out of the slope of the hills.

           Damian took great joy in his morning runs with Titus: it was productive and refreshing and outside, instead of careful training in the facilities under the Manor, which, though state-of-the-art, could feel a little claustrophobic. It was good, he thought, to get out of the house for a little while, out from under his father’s watchful eye. This was the same reason why he’d been spending so much time with the Titans lately.

           Cutting through the edge of the woods, where the trees were sparse, Damian suddenly realized that Titus wasn’t following him anymore. When he glanced around, Titus was nowhere to be seen. He came to a stop and turned around, tugging his earbuds out.

           It was mostly quiet, except for the wind shuddering the tree branches. Damian whistled. “Titus!” There was no response. Muttering an oath under his breath, Damian jogged back down the path he’d just cut. “Titus!” he called again, searching between the trees on either side of him. “Titus, come!”

           His heart jumped as he heard suddenly a piteous whining, as if Titus were afraid of something, cowering in fear; with a little more urgency he headed into the woods, following the source of the sound. “Titus!”

           Off the beaten path, obscured by some low underbrush, the scene Damian found jolted his stomach, making him feel immediately sick before his well-practiced professional instinct took over. “Titus,” he hissed, approaching the dog, who laid whining beside the ugly sight. Grabbing Titus’s collar, he tugged the dog away, retreating to a nearby tree. Titus whined as Damian took out his phone, but Damian just said, “Sit. Titus, sit,” and the dog did so, albeit reluctantly.

           In Wayne Manor, Bruce Wayne’s personal cell phone, which sat neatly in a charging device by his bed, started to ring.

           Bruce, raised his head groggily from the mess of sheets and limbs in which he typically slept. Narrowing his eyes at the screen of the phone, which displayed an close-up selfie of Damian’s annoyed face that Dick had assigned to his civilian contact, Bruce started at it for a moment before reaching out and plucking it off the charger.

           “Damian?” he said, masterfully masking his confusion.

           “Father,” replied Damian shortly, heading back to the path by the edge of the woods. “Did I wake you?”

           “I – where are you?”

           “A few miles away from home, almost at Brentwood. I took Titus for a run.”            This was not unusual, but it was unusual for Damian to call home halfway through. Unsure what was happening, Bruce began, “Is…everything all right?”

           “I found a body,” he said bluntly.

           Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. “You what?”

           “Well, Titus found it, really. It was sort of tucked off the main path, we never would’ve seen it had I not decided to loop around past the Kai estate. A boy,” Damian informed his father automatically, pausing to bark, “Titus, come,” before continuing, “maybe my age or slightly older. Wearing a Brentwood uniform.”

           “Signs of assault?”

           “No,” answered Damian. “Dead for a few hours now at the very least, but I can’t determine COD. Suppose we’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report.”

           Sitting up in bed, calm and alert, Bruce began, “All right. Bring anything you’ve gathered back here and we can look into it tonight. Good work so far but for now the best thing to do would be to call the police-”

           Damian interrupted him. “I already did,” he said. “Father, I’m sorry, I think you may be misunderstanding me? I wasn’t actually calling about the body, I’m calling to ask if you can come pick me up.”

           Bruce blinked in surprise. “What?” he asked. “Why?”

           “Because I already called the police and they’ll be here any minute, and I’ll have to act all traumatized because of the dead body, and anyway you know I don’t like civilian encounters with police without you.”

           This more or less made sense, but it wasn’t what Bruce had meant. “What do you mean you aren’t calling about the body?”

           “Oh,” said Damian, as if he hadn’t even thought of this. “Well. It’s by Brentwood.”

           Again, Bruce did not immediately understand. “So?”

           Almost apologetically, Damian said, “A five mile radius beyond campus limits…isn’t your jurisdiction, Father.”

           It hit Bruce then with the force of a freight train: he, like a goddamn amateur idiot, had ceded actual turf to Damian’s pet side team made up of Gotham natives and sometimes headed by Damian’s closest friend in the city, Colin Wilkes, who boarded at Brentwood Academy on a Wayne Enterprises scholarship. The agreement itself had been a bit of a farce meant to keep the team out of trouble, given the specific area the Batman had permitted the team as their responsibility was located in the richest neighborhood in Bristol County, slightly outside Gotham city limits. He had not imagined that any terrible crime might go down five miles away from a wealthy private school, but in retrospect, of course it would.

           “Damian,” said Bruce matter-of-factly. “I appreciate your loyalty to your friends,” he didn’t want to legitimize it by saying your team, and besides the Titans were more Damian’s team in any case, “but even you need to admit, this is out of their league.”

           “This is one dead body,” answered Damian skeptically. “If that’s out of their league, they shouldn’t be doing this at all.”

           “Well, perhaps that’s a fair point-”

           “No,” said Damian shortly. “It’s not. You wouldn’t have given Ember her uniform if you really believed that.”

           This was true enough, but frankly Bruce thought Ember was the only member of that team capable of joining the fight, and ideally he’d absorb her into the Batfamily at large before she got too committed to her own team. But this was not a conversation he wanted to have over the phone, so he shoved the sheets off the bed and said, “Don’t move for now, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

           “Will you hurry, please?” Damian asked, sounding bored and slightly annoyed. “I hate calling the cops.”

           Getting out of bed, Bruce reminded him, “You should be used to it, it’s half of what we do on patrol.”

           “Yes,” muttered Damian, hearing the distant wail of sirens. “But I’m not exactly in uniform at the moment, am I?”

           Feeling a little awkward at the reminder of the constant presence of race in Damian’s life which Bruce could never really fully grasp, Bruce assured his son that he would be there very soon. As soon as he hung up Damian sent him a pin dropped into a map at his location.

           Bruce arrived not long after the police; a detective was talking to Damian, taking down notes. Titus got anxious around people he didn’t know, so Damian had his fingers hooked around his collar, keeping him close. The detective – a rookie who Bruce didn’t recognize on sight – had a few questions for Bruce, then patted Damian’s shoulder reassuringly. Taking Bruce aside, he recommended considering having Damian speak to a professional about the trauma of the sight he’d just witnessed, and Bruce nodded in what he hoped looked like naïve paternal concern.

           Damian coaxed Titus in the backseat of the car, then got in himself. Titus hung his big head in between the two front seats, panting from exertion and excitement.

           On the ride back to the Manor, Damian mercilessly mocked the police. “Now, this is so traumatizing, but you’ve been awfully brave – for Christ’s sake, it’s like none of them have ever seen a dead body before.”

           “Well,” said Bruce fairly, “most sixteen-year-olds haven’t, Damian.”

           “It’s not as if it was violent,” Damian pointed out. “There wasn’t even any blood or anything.”

           “Which is…curious,” said Bruce thoughtfully. “No external evidence of foul play. Suicide?”            Phone in hand, Damian replied, “I already sent photos to Colin, he should be able to identify him and pull his school records. We’ll check for a history of depression or mental illness, but my gut tells me a Brentwood student wouldn’t stagger into the woods to kill himself unless it was going to be uglier than that.”

           Bruce nodded; this made sense. “Could’ve been an accident. Alcohol poisoning, or an overdose.”

           “I’m leaning towards overdose personally,” answered Damian, texting something on his phone. “Colin’s files should have any record of drug activity at the school. I’ll meet up with him and the others tonight and we’ll get started.”

           There was an awkward sort of pause. Bruce began, “You know, if you or the rest of the team ever require any help-”

           As the car came to a stop in the Wayne Manor garage, Damian shook his head, interrupting his father. “You’re micromanaging,” he pointed out. “I told you, they’re never going to get better if you keep stepping in and taking over their investigations.”

           “I understand that,” replied Bruce, turning the car off. “I’m merely remarking upon the fact that they lack experience, and therefore could benefit from guidance.”

           “Namely, me,” said Damian, watching his father. “I’m their guidance.” He waited for a moment, eyes on Bruce, as if expecting confirmation. Little tink-tink-tink sounds came from the car’s engine as it cooled. “Right?”

           Bruce began, “You already have a team-”

           “You have, like, four teams,” Damian countered. “Not to mention whatever secret society you’re funding this week.”

           “A murder is serious business.”

           “You don’t even know if it’s murder yet.”

           “If it were-”

           “-then you still wouldn’t be in any position to take this from them. Just,” Titus stuck his head forward again, whining, and Damian reached out to scratch his face. “Unclench, alright?” Damian asked his father. “I can handle this.”            Bruce didn’t reply to this, so Damian got out of the car and opened the door for Titus, who happily jumped out and followed him back into the house.

           Later that day, Damian drove to Princeton for his first college exam. He finished early, and called Colin on the drive home.

---

NAME:  Colin Wilkes ALIAS:  “Abuse” DATE OF BIRTH:  9 December 1996 BLOOD TYPE: AB+  (Full Medical History) EMERGENCY CONTACT: Jane Brown LSW, Caseworker AFFILIATIONS:  Team Ember EVAL: Behavioral history of paranoia and violence in multiple foster homes, though likely a result of instability in childhood rather than pathological root. Experimentation by SCARECROW led to increased physical abilities through transformation which includes augmented strength (no evidence senses are affected) as well as moderate invulnerability. Venom appears to have had long-lasting effects on body chemistry despite its degradation.

Decent field skills complemented by extreme strength. Only cleared for patrol if transformed. hand-to-hand and weapons training negligible. Defense training and development of damage-resistant uniform necessary to compensate for tendency to take fire. Precision training vital for development of fine offensive skills.

NOTES: |Robin| Consistent attitude improvements since enrollment at Brentwood. Some instability with transformations likely due to a mental block, have seen improvement past 2-3 months

---

           “You’ve got to get a permanent HQ,” said Damian, in full Robin uniform, standing before a laptop computer in an empty Brentwood Academy classroom.

           “This is good though,” Colin insisted. “This way we’re close to the action, right?”

           “Well,” Damian replied, trying not to hurt Colin’s feelings. “Yes, though it really isn’t worth the lack of security or tech resources. Batman operates almost solely out of the Cave, and you know that’s a bit removed from the city.”

           Colin said, “I don’t have a house to stick a secret lair underneath, though.”

           “I mean, yes,” Damian admitted, nodding. “But the point stands. Besides, most of your team has trouble getting all the way out here. Spoiler’s bike can only hold two people.”

           “That works fine anyway, Jordan doesn’t need a ride.”

           With a long-suffering inhalation, Damian gently corrected, “Jabberwock, Abuse. Jabberwock. We use codenames in the field.”

           “Oh, yeah,” said Colin, clicking through some files on the computer. “My bad. Anyway.” He gestured towards the screen. “This is what I got so far.”

           “Aren’t we going to wait for the others?”

           “Oh, should we?”

           “Ideally, yes, we should. But if you’ve any sensitive information to share with me first,” he gestured at the screen, “by all means.”

           Colin hesitated for a moment, watching Damian. Then he began, “Well, you know how I was kind of sort of maybe dating Ethan a while ago? So it turns out-”

           “Abuse,” interrupted Damian loudly, holding up a hand. “I don’t mean – I meant sensitive information related to the case. You can call me and update me on your social life any time, so let’s try to avoid it while in uniform, yes?”

           A little hurt, Colin replied, “This is related to the case. The dead kid is Joey Fremont, OK, and his roommate is on the wrestling team with Ethan, and so a while ago Ethan asked me to go to one of the wrestling team parties after the meet, and I didn’t go ‘cause he was being weird cagey about us and I could tell he wanted to go as ‘friends’ and it was annoying because like I asked him out and everything so it’s not like he didn’t actually have like feelings-”

           Softly, Damian reminded him, “The point, please.”

           “OK, OK, so – Ethan heard from Joey’s roommate that he was dealing in some shady shit.”

           A frown creased Damian’s brow. “Define ‘shady shit.’”

           “Dealing,” Colin emphasized, as if that had made it obvious. “Like, drugs.”            This seemed a little far-fetched. “Joseph Fremont, seventeen-year-old trust fund baby, was a drug-dealer?”

           “Yeah. Some shady stuff.”

           There it was again, shady, Colin’s favorite ambiguous descriptor. Damian felt a migraine coming on. “We’re still waiting on the tox report,” Damian told him. “But it’ll be easier if we know what to look for. Do you know what he was dealing?”

           “Drugs,” said Colin.

           “What kind of drugs? Cocaine? Heroin?”

           “What the fuck, you think I know? I didn’t buy any shit from him.”

           This was going to be harder than Damian thought. “Do you know anyone who did buy it?” he asked. “Maybe Ethan, or someone else on the wrestling team?”            Offended, Colin told him, “Bitch, Ethan isn’t a fucking junkie.”

           “Right, since you have impeccable taste in guys.”

           “Wow,” said Colin, even more insulted. “That’s fucking rude.”

           Damian was saved from trying to apologize for his completely correct and true reading of Colin’s limited dating history by a knock on the window. “Cavalry’s here,” he said, heading to open the window.

           Ember and Spoiler slipped into the room. “We weren’t sure if we were supposed to use the door,” Spoiler explained. “We thought there might be cameras and stuff.”

           “Abuse disabled them,” Damian said. “And we’re far enough from the center of campus that security doesn’t patrol here.”

           “Oh, cool,” said Nell. She waved behind Damian. “Hey Colin.”

           Before Damian could correct her, Colin impressed him by chiming in. “Abuse,” he said, grinning at her. “Only codenames.”

           “Oh, shit, sorry!”

           “It’s OK,” murmured Damian, going back to the laptop. “Is Jabberwock coming?”

           “I haven’t heard from her,” answered Ellen, shrugging. “But I imagine if she was, she’d be picking up, um,” she gave a pointed pause, “you-know-who on her way over.”

           “Who?” asked Damian.

           “Voldemort,” said Nell, giggling.

           He looked around at Colin, expecting an answer. Colin made a beckoning gesture with one finger, and Damian went over to him and leaned in. “Niloufar,” he whispered.

           Damian pulled away, frowning. “Niloufar?” he echoed.

           Colin took great pleasure in going, “Shh! Codenames only!”

           “I don’t know who that is,” said Damian honestly. “Do they have a codename?”

           “Not yet,” answered Nell, taking a seat on one of the desks. “She said she liked Angel or something, I think.”

           “No, it wasn’t Angel,” Ellen said thoughtfully. “It was something Muslim I think. I can’t remember right now.”

           Damian hesitated for a moment, then said to Ellen, “Whether or not Jabberwock brings her, can you send me her information later? We’ll do a background check.”

           Ellen watched him for a moment, but beneath the scarlet mask her expression was indecipherable. “I can relay it to Oracle, if that’s what you mean.”

           It wasn’t exactly, but it would do. He nodded. “Now. Let’s get to business. Abuse, would you brief your teammates on the case?”

           Quickly, Colin got back to business. He did a decent job, though Damian interjected a few times with details that seem to have slipped Colin’s mind. Nell, in her caped eggplant-colored Spoiler costume, sat on one of the desks, whereas Ellen, her crimson-and-black uniform, took a seat, leaning forward over the desk thoughtfully. Her body language was tight and measured, inscrutable. When his mind wandered Damian found his gaze occasionally drawn to her, though it wasn’t really in attraction so much as curiosity. He still wondered exactly what she had done to prove herself to his father, who trusted her far beyond any other member of this burgeoning team.

           The specifics of the case were this: Joseph Fremont, seventeen years old, white male, five-foot-eight inches, approximately a hundred and ninety pounds, had according to his roommate never made it back to his bedroom on the night of November the thirtieth, and had the following morning been discovered dead one-point-eight miles away from campus. They were still waiting on the physical evidence, but Robin had called them all together tonight so they could hit the ground running. Colin’s revelation that Joseph Fremont might have been dealing was kind of disappointing to Damian, as it suggested that the kid might’ve just been sampling the product and accidentally overdosed. Not that he wished a murder had occurred or anything, but a good old-fashioned mystery would’ve been perfect training for the young team.

           When Colin told Ellen and Nell about the drugs, sparing them the details about how he knew, Ellen spoke up. “If he was dealing and there were no external signs of a struggle, don’t you think he probably just OD’d?”            “Perhaps,” said Damian, chiming in from his spot in the shadows behind Colin. “But we have to consider all the possibilities.”

           “What if his tox results come back positive for a shitload of heroin?” asked Nell.

           “Then we’ll rule it an overdose,” Damian told her, feeling like he was talking to a bunch of infants, “unless we find evidence that suggests otherwise.”

           “But what if it’s an actual murder but someone just like coerced him into taking a shitload of heroin so he died?”

           “That’s why we look into anyone who might have motive,” said Damian. “Even if this looks cut-and-dried on the surface, if there’s someone who would benefit from Joseph Fremont’s death, then we tug on that string. Tug hard enough, and something always unravels.”

           “The Fremonts are Wall Street money,” Ellen commented offhandedly. “I’m sure a lot of people would have motivation to target their family.”

           “Right,” said Damian. “Ember, you look into potential suspects. Colin, dig into the drug connection. Maybe something went awry with his supplier.”

           Nell asked, “What can I do?”

           “Stay plugged in to our contact in the coroner’s office,” Damian told her. “We need to know what killed Joseph Fremont. Until we have that, there’s only so much we can do.”

           “So you’re saying all we can do now is wait.”

           “No,” said Damian coolly, turning to Ellen. That blank red mask was starting to bother him, making it impossible to read her. “I’m saying you can look into potential suspects so we can get ahead of the game.”

           She watched him for a moment. “So you do think it’s a murder, though?”

           “I think it’s suspicious that our victim wound up two miles away from campus, in the middle of the woods,” Damian told her. “And I find it unlikely that no one knows any specifics about what occurred. Our job is to apply pressure until the cracks become evident, and then plug the leaks when we find them.”

           Ellen ran her hands down her long braid. “I think that’s a mixed metaphor,” she said.

           It wasn’t, though it admittedly was kind of clumsy. He ignored this comment, turning instead to Abuse. “I’ll find somewhere more secure to use as headquarters. In the meantime, collect your research. Remember to keep it all under secure encryption using the tech I gave you.”

           Nell raised her hand. Damian looked at her, then did a double take, then Ellen reached out and pulled her wrist downwards. “You don’t have to raise your hand,” Ellen told her.

           “Oh,” said Nell. “OK, sorry, but sidenote, are we allowed to use the computers you gave us for like, other things?”

           “They’re yours,” said Damian. “Use them for whatever you need. All of your encrypted files go to a drive that Batman and I can access, but other than that you can do what you want with it.”            “OK, cool,” said Nell. “I was just asking because I use it for homework.”

           Colin threw his arm around Damian’s shoulders, hanging onto his neck. Poking him in the ribs, he told Nell, “Just ask Robin for another separate homework computer, that’s what I did.”

           Though Nell’s eyes lit up, Ellen spoke before she could. Leaning back in her seat, she said smoothly, “I’m sure Robin doesn’t have the time to play sugar daddy to all of us, Abuse.”

           “No,” agreed Damian. “Fortunately Batman plays the part very well for you, doesn’t he, Ember?”            There was a silence so deep they could hear a pin drop. Damian felt belligerent and annoyed, and didn’t immediately regret the comment. He knew the grants and the scholarships and the job offers that had been extended to Ellen Nayar, and he didn’t think she had any right to sound so dismissive of his family’s generosity.

           Though Damian could not Ellen’s gaze behind her mask, she turned her head away from him first, indicative of breaking first.

           When she and Nell left, Ellen did not say a farewell to Robin.

---

NAME: Danielle Little ALIAS: Spoiler DATE OF BIRTH: 29 June 1997 BLOOD TYPE: O+  (Full Medical History) EMERGENCY CONTACT: Rhonda Holmes Little, Mother (Contact) AFFILIATIONS: Batgirl (Formerly), Team Ember EVAL: Promising but untrained. Investigative instincts are excellent, but more practice is necessary. Very young and inexperienced, though a strong devotion to local community and neighborhoods is a good foundation for future efforts. Potentially a place for her in the Batman Inc. hierarchy whether as an official agent or otherwise.

NOTES: |Robin| Not ready for patrol |Batgirl| She’s just as ready for patrol as I was when I first started |Red Robin| Yeah cause that turned out so well |Batman| Notes must be relevant to the file in question or I will suspend editing privileges

---

           As dusk arrived the next night, Bruce sat in front of the computer in the Cave as Damian worked on some complex tech designs at the workstation below the computer hub. There was a comfortable quiet apart from the usual whir of machinery and fluttering wings of the bats in the eaves. All at once, the silence was broken by a gentle beeping notification coming from both the computer and Damian’s phone.

           Not a moment later, Damian was skipping the stairs two at a time, practically sprinting to the locker room area where his uniform was kept. “Oracle,” said Bruce, hitting a button on the panel before him, “get Jim on the line.”            Damian emerged, in full uniform except for his mask though his cap was only half fastened and his boots weren’t laced yet, while Bruce was still on the line with Commissioner Gordon. “I’ll look into it personally,” he was saying. “I’ll be in touch.”

           Bruce closed the line and turned around in his seat to look at Damian, who stood there defiantly. He pointed at Bruce with one accusatory finger, then began, “You promised-”

           Stoically, Bruce replied, “This could be very dangerous, Damian, and it would be irresponsible to let a bunch of inexperienced teenagers deal with something of this magnitude.”

           “You promised,” repeated Damian stubbornly. “You told me this would be our jurisdiction, and that you would allow us freedom to pursue this mission on our own time.”

           “Us?” echoed Bruce mildly. “So as soon as the mission interests you, it becomes us rather than them?”

           Rolling his eyes, Damian headed down to the garage below, where his motorcycle was kept. Raising his voice to be heard, he called, “I’m their leader, so-”

           “Ember’s their leader.”

           Damian stopped on the staircase, then went back up so he could look at his father. “I’m their leader,” he said again, offended.

           Bruce shook his head. “This team is designed to be closer to the ground than we are. You don’t have their experience when it comes to the city itself.”

           “I patrol the city every single night,” Damian protested. “I know it just fine.”

           “That may very well be true, but you still don’t have their urban expertise.”

           “Urb-?” Damian broke off suspiciously, watching his father. Then he leaned against the rail of the stairs slightly and asked, “Is this a race thing?”

           Bruce glanced around at him, an eyebrow raised. “A what thing?”

           “Are you being,” he paused, didn’t know what else to call it, so went with, “…racist?”

           “What are you talking about?”

           “Urban is just one of those dog whistle words that means people of color,” explained Damian; he was taking a sociology class at Princeton, and he’d just read a chapter of a book about this. “And since this team is mostly that, you emphasizing that their street smarts and inner city experience feels almost as if…” he trailed off, feeling suddenly uncertain under his father’s gaze. “I’m just saying,” he said, unwilling to admit his doubt. “You may want to…think about the way you talk about them, is all.”

           Bruce watched his son, surprised. Despite the fact that Damian’s words weren’t exactly flattering, he felt an odd stirring of pride. He nodded. “Alright,” he said. “I will.”

           There was an awkward sort of pause, and then Damian headed once more down the stairs. Though it was just barely dark outside, he took his motorcycle to the hidden entrance to the Bunker, where he did some minor rearrangements and set up what basically amounted to parental controls on the computers. Satisfied, he alerted the entire team that they would be meeting beneath Wayne Tower tonight.

           This time, Jordan and Niloufar were there first. “Ms. Ghorbani,” he said, holding out his hand to the girl in the headscarf, “a pleasure to meet you.”

           Niloufar shook his hand warily. “We’ve met before,” she told him shortly. “One time you and Batman saved a school bus I was in from tipping off a bridge.”

           When in uniform, Damian got comments like that all the time. Though a school bus falling off a bridge was far more memorable than most of the everyday encounters he had with citizens of Gotham, it still didn’t ring a bell. “That sounds like us,” he told her, with a killer smile. She just watched him suspiciously.

           Jordan, who had been using her powers of flight constantly since they manifested, floated near the low ceiling of the Bunker. “I don’t like it in here,” she said. “Feels cramped.”

           “It’s merely temporary, Jabberwock,” Damian informed her, heading to the computer. “It’s not an ideal location for your team, but I needed some place with the technical capabilities to fill you in completely on the status of your mission.”

           “Our mission?” Jordan echoed. “You mean the dead kid from Brentwood?”

           Damian nodded, typing something into the computer. “Joseph Fremont.”

           Niloufar asked, “Is this about the results from the tox report?”

           The file on the computer unopened, Damian stopped and turned around to face her. “What do you know about the tox report?” he asked her.

           “I’ve heard things,” she said shortly.

           He eyed her, then began, “How do you-?” but before he could finish, the doors to the garage opened and Ellen arrived with Nell and Colin.

           “Hey,” said Nell breathlessly, her laptop underneath her arm. “I might have to leave early, I have a lot of homework to do.”

           “That’s fine,” Damian said, looking past Niloufar and Jordan at her. “There’ve been some new developments in the case and I just need to make sure we’re all on the same page about it.”

           “Hey,” said Jordan, floating upside-down, her ponytail hanging down from the back of her head, “I have a question.”

           Suppressing a roll of his eyes, Damian looked at her. “Yes?”

           “This kid OD’d, right?”

           “Yes,” repeated Damian, “and I’m about to get into the specifics of what exactly he-”

           “But like. Why should we care about him?”

           The silence that followed this comment deepened considerably, broken only by the hum and whir of the high tech machinery surrounding them. “Jabberwock,” he said, “if you have to ask that question, then maybe you shouldn’t be here.”

           Before Damian had even finished this sentence, Jordan was shaking her head. “No,” she said. “I mean like, specifically him. There’s a dozen cases of this same thing every day on my block, and no one’s investigating that shit.”

           Damian explained, “This death occurred in your team’s jurisdiction-” but Ellen interrupted him.

           “She has a point,” she said, glancing at Damian. “It does seem a little biased that we suddenly care about an overdose as soon as it happens to a rich white kid. And I have wondered before why Batman decided we don’t get jurisdiction,” she framed it in air quotes, “over our own neighborhoods, especially because Jordan’s right, this kind of thing happens all the time in the city.”

           “OK,” said Damian, trying very hard to exercise patience, “well. When one of your neighbors overdoses on recreationally-developed Joker Venom, then perhaps we can look into that.”

           A frisson of excitement went through the Bunker, eyebrows raising in surprise. “Joker Venom?” echoed Colin, sounding almost delighted. “Joey got offed by the Joker?”

           “No,” said Ellen, a slight frown on her face. When she watched Damian as intently as she was doing now, he could almost tune out the scar, imagine exactly what she might look like without it. “Robin said – recreationally-developed? You think this kid was using Joker Venom to get high?”

           Damian nodded. “It gets worse.”

           Seated at one of the specimen analysis desks, her laptop computer already open, Nell asked, “How could it get worse than the Joker?”

           Damian pulled something up on the computer screen. “A few years ago – back with the previous Batman – there was a case that involved a drug called diaxamene which was reverse-engineered to attack the part of the brain which controls emotion, blunting the ability to feel empathy.”

           “Turn them into sociopaths,” Jordan said, sounding almost impressed.

           “Psychopaths,” Damian corrected. “But, yes. Essentially.”

           “Diaxamene,” echoed Niloufar, her gaze far away behind her thick glasses. “That sounds familiar. Didn’t it have something to do with a baby formula recall?”

           Clearly surprised that Niloufar knew this, Damian stopped short and looked around at her. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “The perp claimed to have dosed baby formula, though no evidence could confirm this. There was a recall just in case, though, which led to a shortage.”

           “Yeah, I remember,” said Niloufar, nodding. At Damian’s curious look, she finally added, “My younger brother was a baby at the time. I remember formula got really expensive.”

           Without replying to this, Damian nodded, then looked at her for a moment longer.

           Then he returned to the computer screen. “It looks like small amounts of Joker Venom were added to the reverse-engineered diaxamene. Because Joker Venom produces effects similar to psychopathy before resulting in death, diluting it with the diaxamene can reproduce the same feeling while decreasing its lethality.”

           “He still died, though,” Nell pointed out.

           Damian nodded. “It’s called an overdose for a reason, Spoiler.”

           “Oh,” she said. “Right.”

           “The modified diaxamene is a pharmaceutical, though,” said Niloufar, considering this. “It’s supposed to function long-term, not for a temporary high.”

           “Exactly,” said Damian. “For a young person like Joseph Fremont, the mild Joker Venom would have a slight narcotic effect while the diaxamene, if he even knew it was part of the drug, would be – nothing more than a placebo. At first.”

           Ellen nodded. “So what his death tells us,” she began, “is that this drug is on the market. That people are using it, and the more they use it, the more psychopathic they become.”

           “Yes,” said Damian, feeling an odd rush of pride at how quickly the team put this together. “That’s the real problem here. Someone’s pulling the same stunt as the baby formula plan, but aging up their demographic.”

           “Why not cut it with coke?” asked Jordan, seriously. “Or dope or something?”

           “’Cause it’s Joker Venom,” Ellen said, looking over at her as if this were obvious. “It has sex appeal.”

           Nell giggled, and Colin asked, “What about the Joker says sex appeal to you?”

           “Ember’s right,” said Damian, shutting the others up. “How many of you have seen firsthand some result of the Joker’s crimes?”

           Everyone except for Niloufar raised their hand without hesitation, but Niloufar eventually followed suit, making a noncommittal kinda sorta gesture with her hand.

           “Joseph Fremont never lived in the city,” Damian continued. “If you live in the wealthy suburbs your whole life, the Joker is something of a myth, and as a result anything with some proximity to him has a certain thrill to it – like forbidden fruit. It’s the perfect new drug to introduce to a privileged private school like Brentwood.”

           “Plus rich white boys are already a little psychopathic,” Jordan added.

           Damian decided to give her that one. “And that.”

           Despite this, Ellen didn’t seem fully satisfied. “But no one bothers to do a full tox report on a bum who OD’d in an alley in Midtown,” she pointed out. “This drug could be way more rampant than we thought.”

           Considering this, Damian answered, “True, but we haven’t seen the resultant wave of crime or violence you’d expect from that.”            “That’s assuming the drug has been out there for long enough. And Gotham streets are always full of crime and violence. How would you be able to tell the difference?”            He shook his head. “There’s no difference on patrol.”

           “You haven’t been on patrol all that often lately, though,” Colin said fairly, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “You’ve been with your other team a lot.”

           Inwardly, Damian cursed Colin’s lack of filter. Ellen’s eyebrow cocked, but it was Nell who asked, “What other team?”

           Jordan grinned at him. “Are you cheating on us, Robin?”

           “It’s the Teen Titans,” he said stoically. “Yes, I am frequently away with them. But Batman and Oracle keep a careful record of nightly criminal activity, which has not shown any major spikes lately.”

           “What’s Superboy like?” asked Jordan, legs crossed, sitting in air. “Just like a mini Superman?”

           Chris was in fact very dissimilar to his adoptive father, so Damian replied, with a hint of annoyance, “No, actually. Now if we can get back to business-”

           “What about Arsenal?” asked Nell, from her computer. “She seems cool.”

           With a knowing grin, Colin added, “Not as cool as Impulse, huh, Robin?”            Damian shot him a dirty look. “Let’s try to focus, shall we?”

           “Ohh,” said Nell, laughing. “Wait, Robin, is she your girlfriend?”

           For fuck’s sake. As he opened his mouth to shut this down for good, Ellen mercifully came to his rescue. “Come on,” she said, sounding sympathetic. “Don’t tease him, Spoiler, that’s mean.”

           Which, naturally, set his blood boiling again. “Ember, please,” he told her. “It’s fine. Now. Back to the case?”

           She gave him a wry, enigmatic smile, but nodded all the same, gesturing for him to continue.

           His face felt warm, and he felt stupid for allowing himself to feel even the slightest bit self-conscious. “Some excellent thinking happened tonight, team, so thank you for that. Now that we all know where we stand, it’s time to get serious about this case.”

           Doubtfully, Colin asked, “We weren’t serious until just now?”

           “I mean we have a lead,” said Damian quickly. “That’s all. Niloufar, Jabberwock, I want you two looking into other recent overdose cases throughout the city, see if we’re missing something.”

           “Seraph,” said Niloufar.

           Damian blinked. “I’m sorry?”

           “Seraph,” repeated Niloufar. “That’s my codename. I mean, it was Hafaza, but then we figured that was a little harder for people to remember and the key to a good codename is its memorability, right? Like, branding.” She paused, a little awkward. “So. Seraph.”

           He watched her for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. Seraph, then. Usually the codename is accompanied by a uniform, though.”

           Apologetically, she admitted, “I’m probably not…super useful in the field.” At Damian’s expressions, she explained, “I failed P.E. last year.”

           Damian only had the vaguest notion what P.E. was, but he waved it aside. “Fine,” he said. “If you do need a uniform, Batman and I can help. Abuse,” he said, turning to Colin. “Have you dug up anything else at Brentwood?”

           Colin shook his head. “Not really? I think Joey’s roommate was clean, actually. He wasn’t dealing anything hard, just weed. I lit up with him the other day and he told me everything. He’s kind of fucked up over it actually, it’s kind of sad.”

           “Great,” said Damian. “Generally I would request that you try to avoid partaking in illicit substances, but otherwise, sure.”

           “Robin,” said Jordan, with a grin. “C’mon. It’s just weed.”

           “OK,” said Damian, ignoring this. “Keep pushing, Abuse. If you need backup, call me.”

           “Or me,” offered Niloufar. When Damian glanced at her, she added, “I go to Brentwood too. So I can help with that.”

           This was a relief; Colin was competent enough in the field, but his investigative work was still spotty. Damian had been considering an undercover mission in Brentwood himself to get the intel they needed, but if Niloufar also attended the school then she might be able to bolster Colin’s mission. “Perfect,” he said. “Seraph, you get double duty – work with both Jabberwock and Abuse.”

           Niloufar practically glowed at the extra responsibility.

           “Ember, Spoiler, you’re going to be investigating the Joker connection,” he continued. “Ember, I understand you have some familiarity with Arkham? This is your chance to demonstrate that. Meanwhile, I’ll-”

           Just then, he realized Nell’s hand was up in the air again.

           “Spoiler,” he said tiredly. “I’ve told you this a dozen times, you don’t need to raise your hand to ask permission to speak.”            “Oh,” she said, lowering her arm. “Sorry! I didn’t want to interrupt.”

           “It’s fine,” Damian told her, waving this away. “What is it?”

           “Would it be possible for me to sit this one out? I’m failing geometry.”

           Damian blinked at her. “You’re failing what?” he asked.

           “Geometry,” she repeated. “Tenth grade math.”

           Damian, who had mastered geometry when he was seven, felt suddenly and abruptly out of his depth. “Oh,” he said. “Yes, of course. That’s fine. All of you, never hesitate to tell me if you feel like you’re taking on too much. It’s fine. Civilian responsibilities come first.”

           There was an awkward sort of pause.

           Then he restarted, “Ember, I suppose that means I’ll be with you. We’ll also look at the previous case regarding diaxamene, but I’ll need a few days to round up my resources on that. I’ll contact you when I’m ready.”

           “Fine,” said Ellen. “Anything else you need to update us on?”

           Thoughtfully, Damian looked back at the screen. “No, I don’t think so. We’re dealing with a high tech trafficking ring by the docks again so if any of you find any unfamiliar weaponry or anything let me or Oracle know. Oh,” he said, turning around to face them again. “And I suppose I should warn you about something.”

           They all leaned in a little, as if intrigued by the hint of danger.

           Almost regretfully, Damian informed them all, “Batman is likely going to try and edge in on this case. He takes everything involving the Joker very personally, so I can almost guarantee he’ll try to take over. At the very least he’ll try to insert himself in an observational role.”

           “That’s not so bad,” countered Jordan. “Batman’s welcome to observationally roll me whenever he likes.” Colin laughed, obviously in agreement.

           Damian tried to keep his expression level. “My point is,” he restarted, “this is your mission and you all can take care of it perfectly well without his help. Don’t let him take this one from you.” He paused, looking around at them. “So. We’re all clear?”

           “Super clear,” agreed Colin. “I’m gonna head back to school and get a jump on this.”

           “Hold on,” said Niloufar, her gaze swiveling around towards him. “That’s not fair, I don’t board at school so I won’t be able to help out until tomorrow.”

           “Um, I just said get a jump on it,” Colin pointed out. “I didn’t say I’d solve absolutely everything so you don’t have anything to do.”

           “Abuse is right,” added Damian. “He can probably get a lot more done after hours than you can during classroom time. I’m sure he’ll fill you in on any developments in the morning.”

           Niloufar shot a glare towards Colin, but he shrugged and relented. “Yeah, for sure.”

           “We’ll get started, then,” said Jordan. “If we find anything out we’ll ping you or share it on the vigilante cloud or whatever.”

           “Thank you,” said Damian, as Jordan and Niloufar began to leave. “Good luck.”

           After them Colin headed out to return to Brentwood and Ellen, the only one of the team cleared for patrol on her own, also took off. Damian went over to where Nell still worked on her laptop. “If you need a tutor,” he said, peering over her shoulder, “I’m happy to help.”

           “You kind of already are,” she told him distractedly, focused on her work.

           He raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

           Glancing at him, she explained, “I’m going to the Neon Knights center in my neighborhood for tutoring, so it’s cool. I guess I meant your family’s already helping out.”

           Damian stared at her for a moment. Though he knew rationally that the entire team had enough information at this point to deduce Batman’s identity and therefore his own, it was still a new and unfamiliar feeling, like danger. It set him on edge, despite the fact that they never would have let Nell or the others into the game in the first place if they didn’t trust them enough to be discreet.

           “Sure,” he said, straightening up. “Though I shouldn’t have to remind you not to talk like that when we’re in uniform.”

           This seemed to confuse her, as she finally took pause to glance up at him. “But…nobody’s here.”            “I know, but it’s a matter of developing a habit. If the mask is on,” he pointed to his face, “then I’m Robin. Only Robin. Do you understand me?”

           She nodded. “I got you.”

           “Good.” He hesitated, then added, “If you’d like you can stay here to do your work. I can program everything to shut down and lock up after you leave.”            This too drew her gaze away from the computer. She looked at Damian with big eyes, surprised and a little touched. “Wow,” she said. “For real? That would be super great.”

           “OK.” He shrugged, feeling a slight twinge of self-consciousness he normally only felt around Iris. He tried to push that out of his mind. “It’s no problem. And again, let me know if you need help.”

           “Yeah,” she said, beaming at him. “I will.”

---

NAME: Jordan Aguilar Joyce ALIAS: Wonder Girl / Jabberwock DATE OF BIRTH: 17 March 1995 BLOOD TYPE: B+ (Full Medical History) EMERGENCY CONTACT: Maya Aguilar, Sister (Contact) AFFILIATIONS: Wonder Woman, Team Ember EVAL: Flight, augmented senses and strength from Themysciran heritage. Will follow-up with Diana. Deeply resistant to authority, but loyal to team. Need to develop discipline before regular patrol is instated.

NOTES: |Robin| Wonder Girl should not be listed as an alias nor WW under affiliation. Jordan has made it clear where she stands where it comes to the Amazons |Black Bat| Shes nice |Red Hood| How come cass doesnt get the Relevent to File in question spiel |Red Robin| Cause shes the favorite |Black Bat| :)

---

           “So Abuse and Seraph managed to get a lead on the Brentwood supplier – turns out a few of the older boys had been recruited by someone called the Dealer.”

           “Not very creative,” replied Ellen through her commlink, peering down at the city from the corner of a tall roof.

           “Yes,” answered Damian, “particularly because we dealt with someone using that name a few years ago, around the same time as the diaxamene case. In fact, the man who reverse-engineered the diaxamene actually bought outdated Joker Venom from the Dealer.”

           “Oh,” said Ellen, a little taken aback. “Then – that should sort of blow the case open, right? It’s the same guy.”

           “Impossible,” said Damian grimly. “The man in question has been locked up in a mental facility for years.”

           “In Arkham?”

           “No. I believe it’s somewhere in Chicago, far away from here. Besides, the version of the Joker Venom found in this new drug isn’t old or decayed at all, it’s very new, something we haven’t quite seen before, impossible to build up a resistance to. Enough of it would probably poison even the Joker himself.”

           “If our guy can reverse-engineer a prescription drug, I’m sure he could figure out how to update Joker Venom. And if he’s not at Arkham why are we even going there in the first place?”

           “Because,” Damian answered shortly, “sometimes you have to play with vermin to sniff out a rat.”            This was cryptic and annoying, and beneath her mask Ellen rolled her eyes. “OK. I can meet you there in an hour if-”

           “No need,” he said, just as the sleek and quiet hum of an energy-efficient stealth motorcycle came buzzing down the alley beneath the building on which Ellen stood. Robin stopped the bike, got off, and waved at her.

           She let out a sigh, then made her way down on the fire escape, jumping the last few feet. “How did you know where I was?” she asked, as he got back onto the motorcycle.

           “The tracer Batman put in your suit,” he answered; when she gave him a look, refusing to get on the bike with him, he grinned a little and added, “I’m kidding. But only a little. When you’re on a direct line, Oracle can pinpoint your location. If you toggled a private line or turned off your commlink, we’d lose you.”

           “Wouldn’t want that,” muttered Ellen, finally relenting and climbing onto the back of the motorcycle, behind him. She sat further back than was entirely necessary.

           They went most of the way in relative silence. They’d worked enough together – Damian had spent enough time training with her – that it wasn’t particularly awkward, but there was an odd degree of discomfort that neither of them were used to. When they made it to Arkham, stowing the bike in the woods behind it, Damian asked, “That reminds me, when are you going to get a motorbike of your own? You can’t rely on rides from Spoiler and Abuse and me forever.”

           “I don’t have my license,” she explained. She wanted to add, And I can’t afford one, but she knew that he would offer and insist and that would be unfortunate.

           “Oh,” said Damian, as if this hadn’t occurred to him. “Well. You don’t really need one, in our line of work.”            “Thanks,” she said, though her smile was not visible beneath her mask. “But I’m already toeing the line as is. I’d prefer to break as few laws as possible.”

           “She says,” he added, grinning slightly as they headed towards Gotham, “as we break into a private mental facility in order to interrogate a patient.”

           “He’s a criminal,” she replied smoothly. “Not a patient.”

           Damian shrugged. “They all are.”

           This wasn’t true, and Ellen wanted to fight him on it, but this wasn’t the time or the place. With the help of Robin’s gadgets and expertise, making it into Arkham was easier than it had ever been for Ellen – he did it with such nonchalance and finesse that it seemed positively casual for him. That sort of annoyed her.

           They made it to the Wayne Ward, which is where the most dangerous criminals were held, cut off from the rest of the world by thick steel doors. Somewhere in one of the cages, someone sang a children’s song. “Little Bunny Foo-Foo, hopping through the forest…”

           Another inmate moaned, “Shut the fuck up.”

           Damian brought her to an unmarked cell that looked no different from any of the others, and put his hand on the door, behind which the Joker still sang. “Scooping up the field mice and boppin’ them on the head…”

           Quietly, he asked, “You ready?”            She nodded, but didn’t speak. Looking away from her, he punched a series of numbers into the keypad by the door, and it slid open.

           He gestured for her to enter, and she did. He followed behind her, and the steel door clanged behind them.

           A pale man in an Arkham uniform sat cross-legged facing the wall across from them. “Down came the good fairy, and she said…”

           “Joker,” said Damian.

           The Joker’s head lolled back on his shoulders, his dirty green hair hanging down from his scalp. He did not look around.

           “Ah,” he began, his voice sickly sweet. “It’s my second-favorite little birdie. You’d be third favorite,” he said, almost reasonably, “but the dead one came back, and that’s no fun.”

           “Joker,” repeated Damian. “What do you know about a new version of your Venom?”

           Though he still did not turn around, the Joker made an unpleasant sound in the back of his throat, as if displeased. “None of that faker stuff. I’m no street corner dealer, little Robbie! I only have big plans, big shows, big-” he threw out both arms theatrically; in his left, he held a crowbar stained with blood, “-drama.”

           Without hesitating, Damian moved forward and grabbed hold of the crowbar, kicking in the Joker’s elbow as he did so. As Damian inspected it, the Joker started to laugh, then collapsed and rolled around on the floor so he was facing the door.

           “Where’d you get this?” asked Damian stoically, raising the crowbar.

           “Beirut,” answered the Joker.

           Damian shook the crowbar. “Whose blood is this?”

           “Yours,” answered the Joker. “Robin’s. Doesn’t matter which one, best not to get attached,” he looked past Damian, as if addressed Ellen directly, “they’re just gonna break your heart and move on. They always do.”

           Uncertainly, Ellen glanced at Damian, who only stared at the Joker.

           He raised the crowbar, and hit the Joker across the face with it. Again, the Joker laughed. “What do you mean that fake stuff?” asked Damian. “So you know someone’s dealing.”

           “Everyone’s always dealing,” Joker answered, with a shrug. “You know, dealing, coping, the human condition.”            “How do you know about the drugs?”

           The Joker lunged suddenly, throwing himself at Damian, grabbing hold of the crowbar tightly. Ellen instinctively moved to help, but Damian dodged, gripping the crowbar tightly and wrenching him away so that the Joker lost his balance and fell, half laying on the ground, still clutching the crowbar. He laughed and laughed.

           “The drugs?” he screeched, ecstatic. “You mean the Xanax? Oh, no, you mean the painkillers? Or are you talking about the meth, because that was what really made her spiral, huh? Just took a little while to get there, step by prescription step, and then all of the sudden bam!” His laughter turned higher, more frantic. He held up one hand in the gesture of a gun and pointed it right at Ellen’s face. “Right in the kisser!”

           Horrified, Ellen stared at him, frozen. It took Damian a moment to realize what was going on, and then he kicked the Joker square in the chest, sending him reeling back to the floor. “I miss Divya!” he called, as Damian, turned around returned to the door, taking Ellen’s wrist in his hand as he did so. “She was so much fun! Good stories! She missed you bad you know, she missed her beautiful son, her beautiful little-”

           A name came out of Joker’s mouth that Damian didn’t know, but he could guess what it was. “Come on,” he murmured to Ellen, who said nothing, her face obscured and made unreadable by her mask. As the Joker laughed and laughed and laughed, Damian led Ellen out of the Joker’s cell, ensured the door was closed tight, and they retreated out of Arkham. After a while Ellen pulled her hand away from Damian’s. He said nothing until they were outside.

           In the darkness, he turned to her heavily.

           “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have brought you in there.”

           “No,” said Ellen, shaking her head. “It’s fine. I had to meet him eventually.”

           “I don’t know how he knew that about you.”

           “It’s fine,” repeated Ellen, with a little more urgency. She tried to smile at him from underneath the mask, but obviously he couldn’t see it.

           Damian watched her cautiously for a moment longer, then suddenly jerked his head around, obviously hearing something at his commlink. Then his gaze lengthened past Ellen, behind her, and under his breath he muttered, “For fuck’s sake-”

           Despite the fact that Batman, from behind Ellen, should not have been able to hear this, he growled, “Language, Robin,” and Damian resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

           Ellen turned around uncertainly; she had only very infrequently been in the presence of both Batman and Robin, and didn’t really have the hang of their dynamic yet.

           Batman stood impassively before them both, watching them. “Are you here to talk to the Joker?” he asked, as if reserving judgment.

           “We already did,” Damian told him. “He didn’t have anything useful to say.”

           Thinking this was underselling the encounter a little, Ellen added, “He seemed to know a version of his Venom was being used on the streets,” Damian gave her an urgent look, like betrayal, so she continued, “but Robin’s right. He didn’t sound like he was involved in or even really approved of its production.”

           Batman gestured at the crowbar in Damian’s hand. “What’s that?”

           “A crowbar,” answered Damian.

           Batman only watched him.

           Damian held it up. “A man known as the Dealer tried to auction off an item just like this a few years ago,” he said, almost defiantly. “Nightwing brought it home, but he never entered it into evidence. He just got rid of it.”

           “Why?” asked Batman.

           “So you wouldn’t find out,” said Damian, “for obvious reasons.”

           Ellen wasn’t sure what that obvious reason was, but she just glanced in between Robin and Batman, sensing the tension there.

           Stubbornly, Damian continued, “The Joker was a red herring last time and I believe it’s the same thing this time around. We should be focusing our efforts elsewhere.”

           “Hn.” Batman headed past them, towards Arkham. “I’ll talk to the Joker.”

           As Batman passed, Robin reached out and physically took hold of his arm. “No,” he said. “You won’t.”

           Batman twisted around to look back at Damian, and there was a moment of deadly, pin-drop silence.

           “It’s my case,” insisted Damian.

           Batman glanced up at Ellen. “It’s her case.”

           Beneath her mask, Ellen’s eyebrows shot up. Reluctantly, Damian let go of Batman and turned to her. “Fine,” he said. “Ember. What do you think? Do you want a second opinion on the Joker, or do you think we should be able to proceed on our own from here?”

           There was no expression on Batman’s face, but then again Ellen didn’t think there was ever really any discernible expression on Batman’s face. Once more she glanced in between Batman and Robin, before finally admitting, “I…think we should be OK.” To Batman, she said, “I’ve studied your case files and I don’t really think this fits the Joker’s M.O. Right now selling drugs to rich kids sounds a lot more like this Dealer character, or maybe, um, what’s his face, that guy who poisoned the diaxamene.”

           Damian winced slightly when she said this and she suddenly feared she’d said too much; maybe there was something he’d been trying to keep from Batman. Though she didn’t really think that was all that smart – Robin’s pride be damned, this was about solving the case, not who got the glory of figuring it out.

           Batman watched her for a moment, then nodded. “I expect a mission report,” he said.

           “Of course,” responded Damian sourly.

           Without looking around, Batman added, “I meant from Ember.”

           Damian looked almost ready to blow a gasket, but he kept his mouth shut and nodded. Batman lingered for a moment longer, then swept away.

           There was an awkward sort of pause. Damian turned and headed back to where the motorcycle was stowed in the woods. “C’mon,” he said.

           She followed him, secretly a little pleased at this indication of Batman’s trust but also not wanting to push Damian at all. It was a weird place to be, staying quiet for fear of hurting Robin’s feelings – but then again, he was only a kid, at least a couple years younger than her. There was no need to be cruel.

           A minute or so after he revved the bike and they started heading back towards the city, he asked, “Are you hungry?”            His words came through clearly on her commlink, and yet she was still certain she had misheard. “Um. Sure?”

           “I know a place,” he continued, taking a sharp left. “Up by Amusement Mile.”

           Amusement Mile meant carnival food of some sort probably, which was fine by Ellen. Late at night as it was, the boardwalk was still all lit up neon, but Damian avoided that, heading instead for the less touristy area. There was a little shop – not much more than a booth – where he ordered falafel. Ellen got a kabob. The woman working there spoke warmly with Damian in a language Ellen didn’t know, but eventually she picked up that the woman was refusing to accept payment when Damian tried to pass it over the counter to her. He just grinned and stuffed a twenty dollar bill into the tip jar, and the woman laughed.

           They sat together on the rail of the pier, which was already closed for the night. She lifted her mask to eat, then took it off completely, leaving only a domino mask around her eyes.

           “Hey,” she said, nudging him a little. “Are you OK?”

           He looked around at her, confused. “What? Why?”

           “Your dad was kind of harsh on you. He didn’t really need to be, I know you have more experience at this than I do.”            For a moment he said nothing, just watching her. Then he looked back down at his falafel wrap. “You shouldn’t refer to him as my father when we’re in the field,” he said. “Things like that are supposed to stay in a civilian context only.”

           “Mmm, be careful about that. Everybody knows Robin is either Batman’s son or something a whole lot less wholesome, so I really think you should take what you can get.”

           She smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back, only looked at his wrap unhappily.

           When he didn’t reply, she too looked down at her food, picking at it. She hadn’t been that hungry, but would’ve felt stupid turning down free food.

           Softly, she asked, “How do you think he knew all that about me?”

           Damian glanced at her. “Who?” he asked. “The Joker?” She nodded, and he considered this for a moment. “He knows everything about everyone. Don’t take it personally. He knows how to get under everyone’s skin, we’ve all been there.”

           “He knew my…” she trailed off. “He knew my mother’s name.”            He gave a shrug. “She was in Arkham, right?”

           “Yeah, but – not in the Wayne Ward. Not with him.”

           “No?” asked Damian, with mild interest. “What was she in for, then?”

           Glowering, Ellen muttered, “As if Batman doesn’t have a file with all the sordid details.”

           “He doesn’t,” answered Damian. “Or at least not one I have access to.”

           For a while, so long that Damian didn’t think she was going to answer, Ellen said nothing. Then, her eyes fixed out across the black water of the ocean, waves lit by moonlight, she said, “She…was transferred. For the Wayne Enterprises drug rehabilitation program.”

           “Ah,” said Damian, nodding. “Yes. I understand that whole project was – a massive PR disaster.”

           “You could call it that,” Ellen agreed. “It’s what happens when rich people throw money at problems and expect results. At any cost.”

           “We didn’t know it was going to go as badly as it did.”

           “I know.”

           “Arkham’s always been a mess. We really did want to reform it into something good. Something productive.”

           “I mean, it was productive,” said Ellen, her voice sharp. “Lobotomizing addicts did help them kick the habit, it just also had the unfortunate side effect of, well, I mean, lobotomizing them.”

           There was a short silence. Damian asked, “Is she alright?”

           “Kind of,” answered Ellen shortly. “She’ll be in assisted living for the rest of her life.”

           “I’m sorry.”

           “It’s fine. Probably not even your fault. She OD’d a couple times before, so she wasn’t in great shape to begin with.”

           “This can’t be an easy case for you.”

           “Why?” she asked, looking at him. “Because it has to do with drugs?”            He returned her gaze, then gave a little shrug.

           “If I couldn’t handle an overdose now and then, Batman wouldn’t have given me the mask.”

           “Why did he?”

           Ellen leaned forward slightly, setting aside her food and holding the blank scarlet mask in her hands. She shook her head. “When you figure that out,” she said wryly, glancing at him, “let me know?”

           When they finished their food and headed back to Damian’s motorcycle, Ellen nudged him again. “Hey,” she said. “Thanks for not asking.”

           He didn’t know what she meant. “Not asking what?”

           She gestured across her face, at the diagonal scar there. “If this was what she was in for.”

           Damian had of course assumed this, but he had been pointedly trying to ignore the scar at all costs since he met Ellen, so he’d avoided saying it outright. For some reason the scar across her face reminded him of his own hidden scar down the length of his back. How he got that was a sensitive story, and he didn’t imagine Ellen’s was any less sensitive.

           He took her back into the city, and they parted ways for patrol.

---

NAME: Ellen Nayar ALIAS: Ember DATE OF BIRTH: 26 August 1993 BLOOD TYPE: A+  (Relevant Medical History) EMERGENCY CONTACT: Kiran Kaur Nayar, Grandmother AFFILIATIONS:  Green Arrow II (Former), Team Ember EVAL: Mastery of basic defensive techniques at a young age provides a solid foundation for future training. Has a tendency to fall back on defense when cornered, relying on tools to compensate. Capable of much more but struggling to balance training as well as other civilian commitments; requires more investment both in and out of uniform. Significant pain tolerance. Easily identifiable due to the scar and also hair/body type, any uniform designs must compensate.

Strong field skills, hand-to-hand improving and introduction of nonlethal weapons going well. An apparent preference for the staff though she lacks martial arts training in that area. Sharp mind and eye for puzzles. Potential for leadership role assuming increased confidence in her abilities. Imperative to firm up her loyalties or risk alienation. Family history of addiction.

NOTES: |Robin| Hand to hand is fine but she needs to work on weapons and tech. Uniform needs an upgrade, face mask restricts breathing |Red Hood| She smokes

---

           “I have good news,” said Oracle, on the screen, “and bad news.”

           “Good news first,” said Nell, at the same time Damian said, “What’s the bad news?”

           They looked at each other, and then Damian gestured for Nell to continue. She beamed at him and asked, “Good news?”

           “We got a lead on our guy,” said Oracle, a big globular green head taking up the screen in lieu of her real face. “The one who reverse-engineered the diaxamene.”

           Ellen sat up a little straighter, alert. “I thought he was in some mental facility somewhere.”

           “Yeah,” continued Oracle. “That’s the bad news. I, uh – had a friend in Chicago drop by to see him.”

           “Oh?” interrupted Damian, with a tone that sounded unlike him. It was half intrigued, half snide. “Interesting. What kind of friend?”

           “Just a friend,” she said snippily.

           Damian just made a face, but didn’t protest. Ellen glanced at him, wondering what that was about. “What’d he have to say?”

           “That’s just it,” Oracle told them. “It wasn’t our guy, just some decoy checked in under his name.”

           “A decoy?” asked Niloufar, a frown on her face. “For how long?”

           “Presumably since he checked in,” said Oracle darkly. “Which means James has been out this entire time, no doubt plotting his next step for years.”

           At the name, Damian lifted his head slightly, as if surprised she would use it. He leaned against the wall of the Bunker, a little away from the others, his arms crossed over his chest. “James?” asked Colin. “Is that his name?”

           “Yeah,” sighed Oracle. “OK, confession time, you guys.”            The green icon which represented Oracle disappeared from the screen, replaced with blackness and then suddenly a crystal clear image, as if a window to another room. An older woman with ginger hair and glasses on sat before them, computer glare lighting her up.

           She waved at them. “Some of you have met me,” she said, “but I guess it’s time to make this official. My name’s Barbara, but I’m still O in the field, OK?”

           Nell and Niloufar looked a little starstruck; even Colin seemed impressed. “OK,” said Jordan, glancing with what may have been a tinge of jealousy over at Niloufar. “What does that have to do with our case?”

           With a look that was tight and worried, almost apologetic, Babs continued, “The guy we’re looking for – his name is James Gordon, Jr. His dad is Commissioner Jim Gordon of the GCPD.”

           Everyone’s eyebrows raised in surprise, except for Damian. He watched as Jordan asked, “Gordon? The cop?”

           “Commissioner,” Damian corrected, echoing Babs.

           “Didn’t he retire?” asked Ellen, glancing around at Damian, who shook his head.

           “He was on leave a few years ago, that’s all.”

           “Yeah,” continued Barbara, nodding. “He took some time off after what happened with James the first time. I mean,” she paused, adding, “first is relative, but – anyway. Here’s where it gets personal. Jim Gordon is my dad.”

           In a little bit of awe, Nell asked, “So this guy is your brother?”

           Making a face, Babs said, “Kind of.”

           “Kind of?” echoed Jordan derisively. “How can it be kind of-?”

           Abruptly, Damian noticed Niloufar; she kept glancing in between him and the screen suspiciously, as if she was just putting something together. “What?” he barked at her.

           Again, her gaze flickered in between him and Barbara. “You’re Robin,” she said, then pointed at the screen, “she’s Oracle. Aren’t you two…?” she trailed off. “Does that mean Commission Gordon is your…dad…too?”

           Damian just stared at her for a moment, arms still crossed over his chest. Then he pointed at the screen, and asked doubtfully, “Do I look like I’m related to her?”

           “You could have different moms,” offered Nell helpfully.

           Rolling her eyes, Jordan said, “Come on, Nilou, everybody knows Robin’s dad is-”

           Both Damian and Babs said, “Jabberwock,” and even Ellen added a scolding, “Jordan.”

           At these reprimands, she threw her hands up in surrender. “Nevermind.”

           “OK, so,” said Nell, turning back to the computer screen. “If we’re pretty sure it’s this James guy, then we at least know where to start, right? When was the last time time he was in Gotham, and did he have any favorite haunts? We can start there.”

           A little taken aback by Nell’s sudden professionalism, Damian snapped his gaze away from her and back to Babs. “Spoiler is right,” he said. “We’ll dig into all the leads we have on James Gordon Jr.”

           “This is the guy who poisoned the baby formula, right?” asked Ellen doubtfully, glancing around at the group of them. Returning her gaze to Babs on the screen, she added, “Of course you know more about him than I do, Oracle, but somehow that kind of crazy complicated scheme just doesn’t seem to fit the M.O. here. Why would he downgrade to selling to rich kids?”

           “Actually,” piped up Niloufar, “we went through a couple overdose cases in the city over the past few months and came up with three positive reports for the same Joker Venom-diaxamene hybrid that was found in Joseph Fremont’s body.”

           “We?” echoed Damian sharply, watching her.

           Instead of shrinking under his gaze, as Damian had expected, Niloufar turned to look directly at him, straightening up slightly. “Me and Jor- Jabberwock.”

           Damian watched her for a moment, then his eyes flickered over to Jordan, who nodded.

           “So it’s not just Brentwood,” said Ellen.

           “But it’s still a valid point,” said Babs, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “James is more psychological than that. I don’t really see him getting off on handing out drugs like some kind of common pusher.”

           “You think he’s working with someone,” said Damian.

           It was Colin who spoke up then, from where he was leaning against one of the specimen analysis tables. “The Dealer,” he said earnestly. They all paused and looked around at him, and he returned their gazes, nodding slightly. “It’s gotta be this Dealer guy,” he continued, “the one who’s been selling to the older kids at Brentwood? That’s his partner.”

           Babs considered this, twisting her lips thoughtfully. “That would make sense,” she admitted. “James can’t exactly hang around the schoolyard, but he could manipulate someone younger into working for him. He manufactures, the Dealer distributes.”

           “Then that makes things a lot easier,” said Nell. “If this Dealer guy’s younger, then he’s more inexperienced, which means he’s more likely to slip up.”

           “Exactly,” said Babs, nodding. “I think the important part now is to split up-”

           Behind everyone, Damian cleared his throat loudly.

           When the others looked around, he seemed a little apologetic. But on the screen, Babs hesitated for a moment before letting out a short sigh. “It’s your team’s case,” she admitted. “This is really important, you guys. Batman’s really taking a leap of faith by trusting you with this one.”

           “They’ve earned it,” said Damian, in protest.

           “Yeah, but.” Babs shrugged, her empty hands turned upwards. “This is Batman we’re talking about. It took him about ten years to even start trusting me.”

           “Well,” said Jordan shortly, shooting a slightly too-friendly grin up at Babs, “all that means is that Batman’s one stupid motherfucker.”            “OK,” said Damian loudly, moving forwardly to the computer. “Thank you, Oracle. Send anything you’ve got our way, we’ll get ahead on this.”

           Before she said anything else, something else seemed to occur to Oracle, and she said, “Oh, one more thing. Which one of you keeps saving your math homework to the encrypted file database?”

           There was a beat of pause as Damian turned to glance around at his team. Nell was staring up at the screen with her mouth in a little ‘o’ shape; Ellen nudged her. “That – might be me,” she squeaked, obviously humiliated. “I’m sorry! Robin said we could use the computers he gave us for homework!”

           Damian tried not to roll his eyes as Babs explained, “You absolutely can, but you don’t need to put it in the encrypted file drive. Just leave it on your desktop or something so it doesn’t get uploaded to our databases.”

           Mortified, Nell nodded. “Sorry,” she said, again.

           “It’s fine,” Babs told her. “Anyway, I’m here if you guys need anything. Keep me updated.”

           “We will,” promised Damian, and then the screen before them went blank. In the white glow of the Bunker, he turned around to face them all. “Jabberwock, Abuse, Spoiler,” he began, with no hesitation, “you three need to fan out, comb the city for James Gordon Jr. He’s got to be hiding somewhere. Take a look at the information Oracle sent, and then head out. This is our top priority for the time being. Ember,” he added, turning to her, “you’re with me.”

           Snidely, Jordan muttered, “Wow, what a surprise.”

           Glancing at her then back at Ember, he explained, “We need to figure out who this Dealer person is. If he’s dealing in Gotham, then it can’t hurt to check in with Red Hood.”

           Already, Ellen was shaking her head. “Hood doesn’t let his people deal to kids,” she told Damian. “If the Dealer’s been selling to Brentwood students-”

           “Based on Seraph’s intel, he’s been dealing on the streets as well. Anyway, I’m not saying Red Hood will know who the Dealer is, just that he may be able to point us in the direction of any suspicious activity lately.”

           Ellen considered this, then nodded. “Is he in town?”

           Damian nodded. Earlier that week the entire family had gathered to celebrate the final night of Hanukkah; Bruce wasn’t particularly religious, but as he grew older he started to take every opportunity he could to gather everyone under one roof. This had been the first Hanukkah celebration at the Manor Jason had attended since before his death. He had spent most of the night messing around with Damian and Cass, more or less refusing to talk to Bruce directly. All things considered, it went well.

           Anyway, Damian knew that Jason was still in Gotham because he’d been in a group chat with him, Cass, and Stephanie since. Steph, offended that she hadn’t been invited, had been alternatively demanding all the details and simultaneously assuring them she wouldn’t even have gone anyway.

           Instructing the others to review Oracle’s information then spread out across the city, he made contact with Jason before riding out into the dark streets with Ellen on his motorcycle behind him. “Hey,” she said, her commlink transmitting her voice clearly into Damian’s ear despite the rushing wind, “what’s your deal with Red Hood?”            He didn’t answer right away. “What do you mean?”

           “He’s, like. One of you guys, right?”

           “Oh,” said Damian, taking a sharp right turn that nearly scraped the side of their legs against the street. He had thought she was speaking emotionally, as if she could detect faint strains of annoyance he thought he’d gotten past. But Ellen knew his identity and that of his father, so he wasn’t shy about admitting relation. “He’s my brother,” he told her, his voice a whisper in her ear. They entered the old block of Midtown, edging into Red Hood territory. “Adopted brother, actually, not that it really matters.”

           Ellen knew vaguely of Damian Wayne’s adopted brother, but she hadn’t realized he and Red Hood were one and the same. “Damn,” she said. “The papers would have a field day if they realized the founder of Neon Knights was a drug lord on the side.”

           This took Damian by surprise; he glanced back at her, confused, and then realization dawned on his face. With a laugh, he slowed the motorcycle, drawing close to their destination. “No, not that brother. Red Hood is older than him.”

           After a beat of hesitation, Ellen asked, “I thought the other guy was Nightwing?”

           “He is,” sighed Damian, pulling the motorcycle to a stop in a tight alleyway. Getting off, he explained, “Not very many people know this, but I actually have four siblings. Three brothers and a sister.”

           “Oh, shit,” said Ellen, impressed. She too got up, slipping off the bike. “And I thought you were an only child.”

           “In fairness,” he said, shooting a grin her way, “I do act like one sometimes.”

           There was a loud thump before them, and a red helmet shone in the darkness as Jason Todd descended from the fire escape above. “Sometimes?” he echoed, teasing. “More like all the damn time.” He jerked his thumb at Damian and to Ellen, he said, “Kid’s insufferable.”

           While Ellen gave Jason an uncertain smile, Damian got straight to business. “You heard about our case?” he asked, his voice low.

           Jay gave a shrug, shaking his head slightly. “Rumors, mostly. I heard some evil assclown is selling Joker Venom pills to kids.”

           Damian nodded. “We’ve pursuing all the leads we’ve got, but we’re trying to pinpoint a distributor. What do you know?”

           “Nothing, really,” admitted Jay. “Nobody on my payroll goes anywhere near kids, definitely not all the way out to the suburbs. Besides, I have kind of a,” he paused, and though Ellen could not see his face behind the helmet, she imagined she could hear him smiling, “thing when it comes to the Joker, so most of my people know not to touch that shit with a ten-foot pole. Sorry,” he said, and he sounded genuinely apologetic. “Wish I could help more.”

           “It’s fine,” murmured Damian thoughtfully, taking this in. “Have you caught anyone selling to kids lately? Maybe this is someone you dismissed?”

           But Jason was already shaking his head. “Nope,” he said. “My reputation is pretty well-known by now, Robin. People don’t usually try and test me.”

           Glancing in between the two heroes, Ellen moved slightly forward. “Is there anyone who left your operation lately, maybe for unrelated reasons? I don’t think a street pusher goes straight to working for a supervillain, if you know what I mean – it’d make sense if our guy had some exposure to you and yours before he ever made it to where he is now.”

           Jason considered this for a moment.

           And then he let out a very small groan. Though the helmet obscured his expression, Damian’s pulse quickened, sensing and impending revelation. “Yeah,” said Jay, nodding ruefully. “Now that you mention it, yeah. There was this one kid – I didn’t exactly, like, kick him out, ‘cause he never really did anything wrong, but he was just…” he paused for a moment, as if searching for the word, “…creepy. Not like, in a big-bad-supervillain anyway, but he was just kind of a creep. A lot of the women who worked around him had…complaints. He never did anything,” he added mildly, “but they just got weird vibes from him. Women’s intuition, huh?” Ellen heard the grin in his voice, and imagined he may even have winked her direction.

           “Anything else?” she asked.

           “Yeah,” answered Jay, his voice turning serious once more. “This guy – his name’s Scott Morrison, he’s maybe your age, Ember. But I caught him following me around on patrol a few times. Not following,” he continued, qualifying himself, “but – showing up in suspicious places. Like he memorized my route, which is weird enough, but then he’d start asking if I ran into any of the Big Bads. He asked me about Joker maybe once before I put my fist through his front teeth.”

           Disappointed, there was a reprimand in his voice when Damian began, “Hood-”

           But Jay just laughed and held up his hands. “Wasn’t that bad, li’l wing, just scared him a little. Anyway, haven’t seen him since then.” Damian nodded, but before he could say anything Jay added, “OH! I almost forgot – there was this one time, super fuckin’ weird, I kind of tuned it out.”

           At this, Damian and Ellen exchanged looks. “What happened?” she asked.

           “OK,” he began, leaning in slightly and lowering his voice. “Now this is super weird, and don’t tell your old man, Robin, ‘cause it’s the kind of thing he’d whoop any of our asses for – but one time, I got, you know,” he mimed gunshots with both hands, “beat up, a little, and I was bleeding all over the place try’na find somewhere to hang out and lick my wounds, and I swear to you this guy – I caught him, like, on his hands and knees on the ground following me with a fucking sponge in his hands.”

           Both Damian and Ellen stared at him. “A sponge?” Ellen echoed, with a hint of disbelief.

           “Yeah,” said Jay, nodding his head. “A fucking sponge. Blood is literally dripping off of my body, and he’s on the ground sponging it up. It was like, the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.”

           More heatedly than Ellen really thought was necessary, Damian demanded, “And you just let him take it? Why didn’t you tell Batman about this?”

           “Because,” answered Jay, rolling his head in a way that suggested he was also rolling his eyes, “no motherfucker’s dumb enough to try and clone me. You and your dad-” he broke off, glancing at Ellen, then corrected, “-I mean, the Big Man, sure, but me? Nobody gives a shit.”

           “It’s protocol,” said Damian stubbornly, but Jason shook his head.

           “Believe me, this guy wasn’t smart enough for anything like that. He was just fucking creepy.”

           There was a suspicious pause, and then Damian asked, “When did this happen?”

           “Like, maybe a month ago? But he quit working for me before that, maybe half a year or so.”

           Ellen glanced at Damian. “That fits,” she murmured. “Our first recorded overdose was almost four months ago. That leaves time for recruiting and initial distribution.”

           “Right,” said Damian, with a nod. The expression on his face was still severe. “Hood, we’ll need all the info you can get us on this Scott Morrison character.”

           “He used to have a place over in Midtown,” Jay said. “I think it was a motel or something, nothing permanent. Riverview, or something?”

           “Riverview,” repeated Ellen, with an urgent look towards Damian. “That was on Oracle’s list.”

           With a nod, Damian touched the commlink at his ear. “Thanks,” he said to Red Hood, and then into his comm he said, “Spoiler, come in.”

           Returning to Damian’s bike, they headed back through the city. By the time they reached Riverview Boarding House, Spoiler was waiting for them in Room 7. “I talked to the owner,” she said, as Ellen and Damian entered the room. “Somebody’s kept up-to-date on payments, but he hasn’t seen anybody come in or out for a couple weeks now.”

           “Probably since we started investigating,” said Ellen, as Damian moved forward to search the room. “He knew we were on to him and wasn’t about to get caught with his pants down.”

           “Robin,” said Nell, watching him search the walls for hidden compartments. He glanced around at her, and she jerked her head towards a door in the wall. “The closet.”

           For a moment he did not move, only stared at her. And then he turned to the rickety wooden door, and he opened it.

           Peering in behind him, Ellen made a face. “Gross,” she said.

           Damian said nothing, taking in the sight before them: a veritable shrine to the Joker, littered with newspaper clippings and amateur art and low-res photos printed from the internet. In the center, there was a small Robin action figure, the kind of thing sold at tourist traps in Gotham. The plastic Robin’s limbs and his head were all removed from his body.

           Gravely, Damian said, “He’s a Joker fan.”

           “That explains why he’s working with JGJ,” offered Nell, from behind them. When both Ellen and Damian glanced back at her, she clarified, “Uh, James-Gordon-Junior. He needed a snappier name.”

           Looking back at Damian, Ellen said thoughtfully, “It does explain the connection. Gordon used the lure of Joker Venom to recruit Morrison as his Dealer.”

           Still staring at the shrine, Damian’s brown skin had gone wan with disgust, and his lips were pressed tightly together. “I don’t understand these people,” he said lowly, then he stood up, getting to his feet. “The Joker is responsible for the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands of people. He’s a criminal. He’s not funny, he’s not interesting, and I don’t understand people who find him compelling.”

           “Yeah,” agreed Nell sympathetically. “I mean, the guy’s basically a terrorist.”

           Ellen caught the brief flicker of emotion across Damian’s face, a momentary tell that betrayed how much Damian disliked that word. Still; Ellen didn’t think Nell was wrong. “This is good, though,” said Ellen, to Damian. “It means we can bait him.”

           Damian paused, then, very slowly, he turned around to look at Ellen.

----

           “No,” said Bruce, shaking his head.

           “It’s an hour, tops,” Damian insisted, leaning against the computer’s control panel in the Cave. “The entire team will be on top of him the whole time. It’ll be fine.”

           “No,” repeated Bruce, shaking his head. “You are not removing the Joker from Arkham custody for any amount of time. He is in solitary confinement for a reason, he’s too dangerous-”

           “A hour,” Damian repeated, practically begging his father. “Tightly contained and surveilled. It’s the easiest way to smoke out the Dealer.”

           “The easiest is not always the wisest,” said Bruce shortly, “and I will not permit you to play games with a dangerous criminal. He always has a plan, and he’s bested you before.”

           “But the entire team-”

           “My answer is final,” Bruce told his son. “Harleen is out on parole, perhaps she may be of some help.”

           As if disgusted by this suggestion, Damian began, “I’m not retraumatizing Doctor Quinzel on the off chance that she completes Scott Morrison’s Joker fantasy. Most Joker-philes like him think she’s a meaningless distraction anyway.”

           “I’m afraid I cannot allow the alternative, Damian. It’s too dangerous.”

           “We’re so close.”

           “Then find another way.” Bruce’s voice was not unkind as he said, “I believe in you, and I believe in your team. But this mission has already exposed you and Ember to that monster enough. It isn’t going to happen again.”

           For a moment, there was silence in the cave except for the constant whirr of machinery and the far-off drip of slowly-forming stalactites. There was a profound tension between father and son, thick enough to slice; Damian was once more angry that his father was blocking the team’s ventures, and yet Bruce would not budge. There was no compromise here.

           On the specimen analysis table, unceremoniously contained in a plastic box, the crowbar remained. Bruce had not been sure what to do it, and so as he ran his tests he had kept it there in full view for all to see. Mercifully, Jason had not ventured into the Cave the last time he was here.

           A part of Damian wanted to tell Bruce about Scott Morrison, known Joker fanboy, on his hands and knees, sponging up blood. He wanted to tell him that he’d dug up records that someone fitting Scott Morrison had made a clandestine visit to the Joker’s cell in Arkham, presumably leaving him with a gift. He wanted his father to know that the crowbar was a complete plant, and if the crust of bloodstains on its curved end matched Jason Todd’s, it wasn’t because this was the weapon that had been used to kill him.

           But Damian was still a sixteen year old, and he was still petty. Perhaps Bruce was being especially strict because of this painful reminder of his own failure at the Joker’s hands, but Damian was just spiteful enough to keep this small knowledge from his father anyway, let him simmer in his own guilt and shame.

           “Fine,” Damian said curtly. “Then any further deaths due to this Dealer character are on your conscience, Father.”

           Later, he updated Ellen on the situation via commlink while on patrol. She sounded somber. “So that’s it, then?” she sighed. “That plan is out.”

           “Hm? Oh, no,” said Damian, leaping from one rooftop to another, his boots absorbing most of the shock of impact. “We’re still going to do it. We just need to keep it a secret from Batman.”

           “What?”

           He fiddled at his commlink. “Ember, can you hear me? I said we need to keep it as secret from Batman.”

           “No, I heard you, I just – that’s impossible.”

           “Not impossible,” he corrected, “merely difficult for the inexperienced. Luckily you have me, and I happen to be extremely adept at keeping secrets from Batman. You have to learn that kind of thing,” he told her, offhandedly, “when you live in a house with him.”

           “Breaking the Joker out of Arkham is a little different than sneaking out to meet your girlfriend, Robin.”

           Without hesitation, Damian said coolly, “That’s not what I meant.” It had been, actually, almost exactly what he meant. “All I’m saying is that I know him well enough to anticipate where he’ll be watching. We do this quickly and effectively, and it’ll be over before he knows it.”

           “That’s…optimistic.”

           “I have been told I have a very glass-half-full demeanor, yes.”

           Ellen laughed, and despite himself Damian caught himself grinning. “If you say so. When’s it going down?”

           Good question. Damian considered this, standing above a stone gargoyle, scanning the cold city streets below him. “The longer we wait, the more drugs the Dealer gets out on the streets.”

           “Fair enough. What’s the plan?”

           “Meet the others at the Bunker. I’ll explain everything there.”

           When all was said and done, it did take a little more time than Damian had anticipated. The first phase was dependent on the speed and inertia of rumor, which was spread both throughout Brentwood via Colin and Niloufar and throughout the rest of drug-dealing Gotham by Jason and a select few on his payroll. The rumor spoke of an anniversary: the birth of the Joker, or the rebirth, rather, when a man was swallowed by acid and spat back out as something else. It was a trap, designed to target the biggest Joker fanboy who frequented those circles, who, of course, naturally knew the apocryphal location of that fateful warehouse.

           All they needed was one night. It had to work perfectly, smooth as silk, precise as clockwork; but Damian had faith in his team. Well. Ember’s team.

           Ellen herself was stationed at the warehouse, staking it out. Colin and Nell were off on the other side of the city, waiting for their cue; Niloufar was spearheading operations out of the Bunker, and Jordan was with Damian, her speed, strength, and flight, a necessary part of his plan.

           Hidden inside the bowels of Arkham Asylum, Jordan hovering slightly above him, Damian watched the seconds tick by on his mask’s lens display. For a minute or so, there was nothing but tense silence.

           And then Damian touched the commlink at his ear. “Abuse, Spoiler,” he said, “you’re good to go. Seraph, how are we on security?”            “All disabled and looped,” came Niloufar’s voice, without hesitation.

           “Perfect,” he replied. “Ember, Jabberwock’s on her way.” He nodded towards Jordan, then took the lead, expertly navigating through the high-ceilinged halls of Arkham, avoiding guards.

           In his cell, the Joker was still singing. “Little Bunny Foo-Foo, hoppin’ through the forest…”

           Disabling the door’s security, Damian gestured for Jordan to take over. “Go.”

           She did so, wrapping her arms roughly underneath the Joker’s shoulders and heaving him up and out, shooting back the way she and Damian came, disappearing into the night. The Joker’s fading laughter echoed in Damian’s ears as he locked and secured the door once more, then slipped away, hoping no one would notice Joker’s sudden silence.

           As Damian headed back out to where his motorbike was stowed, he checked the open channel; the shit had, to put it delicately, apparently hit the fan, and Batman was barking orders at other Gotham heroes following an incident on the other side of the city, which meant he was far away from Arkham and from the docks where their plan was about to go down.

           It took him almost twenty minutes to make it to the warehouse. Leaving his bike some ways away, as he approached the empty, abandoned building he was certain he could hear that faint, familiar laughter. Their trap was lain.

           He found Ellen and Jordan in the rafters, high above the walkways which crisscrossed above vats which were now mostly empty. Jordan had dropped the Joker in one which had a foot or two of (probably?) nontoxic sludge at the bottom, and his laughter was so manic and so loud that its reverberations started to hurt Damian’s ears. He activated the dampeners in his commlink, relying on his teammates’ comms to hear them.

           “Nice work,” he told them both. “Abuse and Spoiler gave us an hour, tops. After that Batman resumes his normal patrol around the city, but we caught him as far away as we could, so it should be at least another hour after that before he realizes there’s anything amiss.”

           Though Ellen’s face was obscured, the sound of her voice betrayed her concern. “So Morrison better show up in the next two hours.”

           “He will,” said Damian, watching the dark and empty walkways below them. “He won’t be able to resist the lure of legend, and there’s no way he’ll stay away once he hears that.”

           “No kidding,” muttered Jordan, following his gaze.

           “That’s still leaving an awful lot to chance,” Ellen added, sounding uncertain. “The timeline seems kind of arbitrary, and I’m still not completely sure why we needed the Joker himself for this anyway? Seems to me we could’ve just used, I don’t know, a recording of his voice or something-”

           “Ember, please,” said Damian shortly, waving away her concerns. “I know what I’m doing.”

           “Yeah, OK,” she replied, maybe a little insulted. “I don’t doubt that, Robin, but I’m pretty sure Batman said that this isn’t your team, it’s mine, and part of me is starting to think the only reason you wanted to go get Joker in the first place was because your dad told you not to-”

           But before Ellen could continue or Damian, suddenly livid, could open his mouth to defend himself, Niloufar’s voice echoed in all of their ears. “Someone’s approaching the warehouse,” she told them, via commlink. “Good luck, you guys.”

           They didn’t reply, because at that moment they heard the big sheet metal door to the warehouse creak open. All at once, the Joker’s laughter suddenly stopped.

           Scott Morrison was not at all what Damian had been expecting. He was somewhere in his twenties, tall, slim, good-looking. His blond hair was gathered into a topknot, and he wore wide-brimmed glasses which appeared to have no magnifying effect on his eyes, and so therefore were probably only worn for the aesthetic appeal. Both he and Ellen shifted uncomfortably at the same time, perhaps coming to the simultaneous conclusion of, Oh no, he’s hot.

           “Hello?” he called into the vast warehouse, which Damian thought was a pretty stupid move. He went to the stairs which led to the walkways above the giant but now-empty vats, climbing them slowly, cautiously, peering around. “Joker? Mister J?” he called, which caused Damian to cringe slightly and Jordan to whisper, “Yikes.”

           Morrison continued, making his way across steel catwalk, his hands on the railing on either side. “I heard you laughing,” he called. “Are you here? Joker?”

           A low, sickly chuckle emanated from one of the vats. Morrison’s eyes went wide behind his fake glasses, and he darted across the walkway, leaning over the railing.

           The Joker leered up at him. His voice was low and frightening, like a purr in the back of his throat. “Who’s asking?”

           “Oh, shit,” said Morrison, in obvious excitement. “Holy fuck, OK, oh my God, Mister Joker, woah. Hold on,” he said.

           Morrison dug into his pocket, and Jordan muttered, “Oh, Christ,” as he took out a phone and literally posed for a selfie.

           “Oh my God, Mister Joker, big fan,” said Morrison, once he’d taken the picture. “Like, holy shit, I can’t believe this is actually happening-”

           Ellen gently nudged Jordan. “Go,” she whispered, but then Damian held out his arm.

           “Wait,” he said.

           In disbelief, Ellen blinked at him. “We have him,” she whispered angrily at him, “he’s right there, if we don’t move now then the Joker could tip him off to this whole operation-”

           But Damian was already shaking his head. “Wait,” he said again.

           This infuriated Ellen. Jordan just gave her an apologetic look and a shrug. Knowing Robin was the most experienced vigilante between the three of them, she forced herself into silence.

           In the vat, up to mid-calf in a thick yellowy-gray sludge, the Joker just stared up at Morrison, unimpressed. “Big fan, huh?” he echoed. “What era?”

           Morrison stared down at him. “Uh, what was that?”

           “What era?” repeated the Joker, sounding as petulant as a child. “Nicholson, Ledger, Leto? Who was your favorite?”

           “Um,” said Morrison uncertainly, “uh, no, sir, I think you misunderstand me, I’m just saying that like, you know, out of Batman’s whole rogues gallery, out of, you know, out of everything in Gotham that makes up the soul of this place – I mean, you’re it, man! Your presence is stamped into the very fabric of Gotham City! You’re everything!”

           There was a silence. The Joker stared up at him. “Not very funny, are you?” he asked, his lip jutting out in a pout.

           “What – I mean, no one’s as funny as the Clown Prince of Crime! But, like, I do have some stand-up material, if you like, want to hear?” He paused anxiously, then began, “OK, so, like, here’s one – why does Batman’s sidekick keep getting younger and younger?”

           Sounding bored, the Joker drawled, “’Cause the older ones keep dying.”

           “No,” said Morrison, “but – that’s funny too. No, it’s ‘cause – ‘cause he’s Robin the cradle. Get it? Like robbing?”

           There was a long, tense silence. And then the Joker let out a chuckle. “Hey, kid,” he called up, “that is pretty funny.”

           Beside her, Ellen could feel Damian tense, his entire body coiled tightly. He was aching to jump into action, she could tell. She didn’t entirely understand why he hadn’t already.

           “Hey, kid!” Joker called once more. “Why don’t you come on down here, and tell me a couple more of those funny jokes you got there?”

           A flash of uncertainty crossed Morrison’s face. “Oh, I – I don’t know-”

           “Aw, come on,” said the Joker, kicking around at the sludge under his feet. “Hey, wanna hear another one? What did Batman say to Robin before they got in the Batmobile?”

           Jordan leaned over and whispered, “I know this one!”

           “Get in the car, Robin,” said Joker, and then he wheezed with laughter, breathless in his own hilarity. A grin spread across Morrison’s face. Once more he dug into his pocket for something, then pulled out a plastic baggie full of pills. He snagged three or four out of the bag, and stuffed them into his mouth, swallowing them down.

           Then he climbed up on the railing, and he jumped down into the vat below.

           He hit the bottom with a sickening crunch, and let out a yelp of pain. “Got him,” muttered Damian, but once more he stopped Jordan from moving. “Wait.”

           The Joker stalked towards Morrison, who misinterpreted this as intent to help him up. “No!” he barked. “No, no, no! This is good! Pain is good, it’s freeing, like chaos of the mind!” He let out a loud, manicured laugh, as if it were something he practiced in the mirror. “See, Joker, man, I get it! I get you, the big joke behind everything, the ultimate gag! Laugh in the face of an indifferent universe! It doesn’t matter anyway, so why not try to burn as many bridges as you can on your way out, right? We all die in the end!”

           “That’s not very funny,” said the Joker.

           “It’s all funny!” insisted Morrison, as the Joker slowly neared him, like a shark stalking his prey. “That’s the point! It isn’t real! It doesn’t matter! That’s what makes the joke so damn funny-”

           The Joker grabbed Morrison’s topknot; his wide grin, usually so gleeful, was downturned into a comical frown. Though the slimy sludge at the bottom of the vat was only about a foot high, he shoved his face into it, sticking a knee on Morrison’s back to keep him down. Morrison started to struggle wildly, his shouts unintelligible as the ugly goo slipped into his mouth and nose.

           “It’s like babies in bathwater,” the Joker said, cocking his head, watching Morrison struggle. “Never understood it! You leave the kiddies alone for two minutes and suddenly they’re floatin’ on their bellies like a bunch of goldfish. How do they drown in that!” He let out a guffawing, belly-deep laugh, which sent a chill down Ellen’s spine. Pushing Morrison’s face deeper into the sludge beneath him, he roared, “It’s not that deep!”

           At that, Ellen disregarded her orders and moved. She leapt onto the steel walkway, sprinted down towards the vat, and jumped in, her feet landing squarely on Joker’s shoulders, knocking him off his feet. As Morrison lifted his face and gasped for breath, the Joker turned around to see her, and his face lit up. He laughed maniacally, gleeful.

           “Look who’s back!” he screeched. “How nice! How soon! Tell me, how’s Mama?”

           Ellen drew her fist back to throw a punch, but in a split second, the Joker had disappeared; she glanced up to see Jordan spiriting him away, presumably back to his cold cell in Arkham. There was a squelching thump behind her, and she turned around to see Robin glaring at her. As Morrison coughed, Damian said, “I had it under control.”

           Pointing towards the pathetic figure on his hands and knees, Ellen said, “Joker was going to kill him.”

           “He was going to scare him,” replied Damian pointedly. “Nothing like a healthy dose of trauma to cure you off your obsession with a criminal like the Joker.”

           Still wracked with coughs, Morrison’s head swiveled towards Damian, sludge dripping down his face. “S’not a – criminal – he’s an – artist-”

           Damian turned around, looking only mildly interested. He kicked at Morrison’s torso with his boot, and the man toppled over. “The eight-year-olds finger-painting at Neon Knight Centers are artists,” he told him. “The Joker’s just a two-bit con man who somehow stumbled into mythologization.”

           Gasping for breath, Morrison refused this. “He’s the – beating heart – of Gotham City! He’s Batman’s binary star! He defines the Batman!”

           Damian grabbed the man’s collar and swung a leg over his head so his feet stood on either side of him. His gloved fist connected solidly with the front of Morrison’s face. “He’s not that interesting,” Damian said shortly.

           “Where would Batman be without the Clown Prince of Crime?”

           Again, Damian punched him. “In better mental health than he is right now, that’s for sure.”

           “Who would he be? He’s the Batman’s greatest match! His greatest foil! The only other man he’ll ever truly understand!”

           His fist connected for a third time with Morrison’s face, and Damian looked over his shoulder to address Ellen. “People use that one a lot,” he said, sounding genuinely perplexed. “It really says something concerning about how people interpret empathy and intimacy in male relationships.”

           Once more Morrison attempted that terrible, overly-practiced laugh, and Damian turned around again to hit him in the face again. It was then that Ellen moved forward, placing a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “As satisfying as this may be,” she told him, sympathetically, “we’re here to get information out of him, remember? We need to know about Gordon.”

           “Gordon?” echoed Morrison; there was incredulity in his voice, even through the blood running out of his mouth. “J-James Gordon?”

           “That’s the one,” said Ellen, turning to him. “Junior, that is. Is he the one who’s been supplying you with the modified diaxamene?”

           “Diaxamene?” he repeated, but Ellen was already digging through his pockets for that plastic baggie full of pills, which she quickly found and removed. “I don’t know what the fuck diaxa-what is, that shit’s diluted Joker Venom!”

           “Yes, we know,” said Damian shortly, clearly still irritated. “You’re the one they call the Dealer, aren’t you?”

           “I – I don’t know, man, James just said to tell people that!”

           “James,” said Ellen, seizing hold of this. “He’s your supplier, isn’t he?”            His whole body trembling, he tried to nod, but it came out looking more like a seizure. Spittle gathered at the corner of his mouth, and his skin was quickly draining its color, turning pale. Quickly Damian pulled open one eyelid, inspecting his pupils. Tightening his grip on Morrison’s collar, Damian asked, “How many pills have you taken tonight?” Morrison started to shake violently, his eyes rolling back into his head, and through his teeth, Damian snarled, “No!” Removing one hand from Morrison’s collar, Damian flipped open a compartment on his utility belt, popped the cap off a tiny syringe, and plunged it into Morrison’s neck.

           “Anti-Venom?” asked Ellen. Damian nodded as Morrison’s shaking subsided, and he grew limp in Damian’s grip. “Robin,” she said, lowering her voice. “You can OD on diaxamene too if you take enough of it. The Anti-Venom may not work.”

           “Maybe not,” grunted Damian, “but it’ll give us more time.” He shook Morrison bodily by the collar, and the man’s head lolled on his neck, his eyes blinking out of sync. “Scott Morrison,” he barked, “we know you’re the Dealer, and we know you’re working with James Gordon, Junior. Listen to me. Tell me where he is, and I’ll do my best to save your sorry life. If you have nothing to give me, then I will leave you here, and you will die alone in a warehouse where no one will find your body for weeks, if not months, and you’ll go to your grave knowing that Joker himself thinks you’re not fucking funny. Now,” he said, his voice calm and collected. “Where is James Gordon Junior?”

           Something was catching in Morrison’s throat, making it impossible to reply; Ellen had a suspicion that it was vomit, his stomach protesting against all the poison he’d swallowed. Incapable or unwilling to form words, he merely lifted his hands, and he pointed out of the windows which lined the walls, just below the ceiling.

           Damian paused, then he twisted around, following the direction of Morrison’s finger. Ellen did as well, but she didn’t understand: all that was visible out of the window was the night sky, stars faded above the lights of the city, and the shooting spire of the tallest building in Gotham City – Wayne Tower.

           Grabbing Morrison’s hair, Ellen hissed, “Is this a game to you?” but Damian had already let him go, shooting his grappling hook out onto the walkway above.

           He touched the commlink at his ear. “Seraph!” he called wildly. “Seraph, come in!”

           Something dropped into Ellen’s stomach as she understood. Following Damian, she sent out a 911 call with Morrison’s location and status, then quickly followed Damian onto his bike. Niloufar had never responded to Damian’s call, and when he tried Jordan, he heard nothing from her either.

           As they raced through Gotham, Ellen asked, “You think Gordon knows about the Bunker?”

           “Maybe,” murmured Damian. “I know he knows about my family, and he knew about Batman back when we were based out of the Bunker. It’s a tease, Ember, don’t you get it? The diaxamene, the Joker Venom, the dead child so close to the Manor? He’s been playing us this whole time.”

           “How?” asked Ellen, confused. “What do you mean?”

           The bike shot into the secret entrance to the Bunker, and Damian was off of it immediately, sprinting into the main computer hub. “Seraph!” he called, looking around wildly, but there was no one there. “Seraph!”

           Before them, the computer screen glowed a blank white. Something blared on both Damian and Ellen’s comms, Batman sending out an emergency signal for something going down at Arkham. “Jabberwock,” said Ellen to Damian, fear tight in her voice. “Something’s gone wrong-”

           For a moment, Damian did nothing. On either side of him, he squeezed his fists tightly, gloves still stained red with Scott Morrison’s blood.

           Then he turned to Ellen and said, “We can’t leave. Gordon’s here.”

           “Where?”

           Damian gestured for her to follow him, then took her through a set of doors she’d never seen open; he peeled his mask off his face, then lowered his eye down to a retina display. It blinked green, and an elevator opened. He held out one hand as if to say to her, After you.

           “Where are we going?” she asked, unmoving.

           He shrugged, then stepped into the elevator first. “The Penthouse,” he said shortly. “It’s where Nightwing and I lived back when he was Batman. If I’m right, it’s where Gordon’s set up camp.”

           In disbelief, she finally boarded the elevator with him. “And how is it possible that none of your fancy security features ever picked up on anything up there?”

           “I don’t know,” said Damian shortly, pressing his mask back onto his face. The elevator moved so rapidly with such sudden force that Ellen almost stumbled. “But it’s stupidly obvious – where’s the one place we would never look? Right under our noses, of course.”

           Ellen glanced up at the ceiling of the elevator. “Or – above our noses, I guess,” she mumbled.

           They emerged in a hallway; Damian jogged to the door and took off his glove, pressing his thumb against a scanner, and then he said aloud, “Voice recognition, Damian Wayne,” and the lock of the door let out a little click.

           Lowly, Ellen asked, “If your security’s so tight, how’d he get through?” but Damian ignored her, pressing his gloved hand against the door and pushing.

           The Penthouse was dark, but a light was on down the hallway, coming from the kitchen. When Ellen and Damian entered, a voice called, “In here!”

           With a wary glance at each other, they followed the source of the voice. Turning the corner into the big modern kitchen, they found James Gordon Jr. sitting at the counter, glasses on his face, a spoon tucked into a pot of yogurt.

           “Hi,” he said, waving at them. “Hey, it’s nice to finally meet you, Damian.” To Ellen he said, ���I don’t know who you are,” then continued, “Nice digs, huh? Dick could’ve decorated more probably, but personally I like it.”

           “Where is Seraph?” asked Damian, his voice flat.

           “If you mean the girl downstairs,” James answered, scooping up a spoonful of yogurt, “she left a while ago. Probably to help her friend with the Joker.” Blandly, he looked at Damian. “Really nice of you to break him out and everything for me, Damian. I didn’t even have to lift a finger.”

           “You’re done, Gordon,” Damian told him. “Your operation is shut down.”

           “What operation?” asked James, looking mildly interested.

           “The drugs.”

           “I don’t have any drugs,” said James, innocently.

           Damian stared at him, his expression stony and unreadable.

           “Go ahead, search the place,” James continued. “Not a lot around here except some personal mementos. Sorry for squatting, but, hey, life’s tough when everyone thinks you’re a psychopathic murderer, right, Damian?”

           Color dropped out of Damian’s cheeks, then suddenly rushed back in, flushing his brown skin. Sensing they had to take control of this situation, Ellen stepped up. “We’ve got you, Gordon,” she said simply. “We got the Dealer, too. We know what you’ve been putting out on the streets.”

           “I haven’t been putting anything on the streets,” James said smoothly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

           Feeling a surge of anger, she suddenly sympathized with Damian’s fury. “Scott Morrison-”

           “-OD’d,” said James flatly. “Right?”

           Damian and Ellen exchanged a look. For all they knew, Morrison had died before the paramedics reached him.

           “Scott Morrison was a crazy man with a Joker fetish,” James said, with a shrug. He ate a spoonful of yogurt. “Nothing to do with me.”

           “The diaxamene-”

           For the first time, a hunt of frustration entered his voice. “Any idiot could’ve gotten ahold of that. Haven’t you heard, Miss Nayar? Prescription pills are all the rage nowadays. Oh,” he added, picking up a remote from behind him, pointing it at the television on the wall. “Would you look at that.” A Breaking News broadcast played, informing viewers that a potential catastrophe at Arkham Asylum had narrowly been avoided, and the Joker, who had mysteriously vanished from his cell, was back in custody.

           James smiled at Damian and Ellen.

           “All according to plan,” he said.

           Damian’s eyes were glued to the screen, slightly in shock as the news showed shaky video footage of a slim figure shooting into the sky, holding someone else in their arms. It was obviously Jordan, and it looked like she was carrying Niloufar, who had covered her face with her headscarf against the cameras. Despite himself and the absurdity of the situation, he somehow found himself taken by surprise that they had managed to solve the situation on their own, without his help.

           James Gordon Jr. did not fight back. He did not protest; when the police came, they arrested him, but found no evidence of wrongdoings in the Penthouse except, obviously, trespassing. Later, into his commlink, Oracle informed Damian that they were holding her brother temporarily, but they may not have enough solid evidence to put him away.

           Meanwhile, Ellen got a quick status report from the other members of the team, then checked on Scott Morrison. He was alive, but comatose.

           As the late nighttime hours began to bleed into the impossibly early morning, Damian and Ellen sat on the rooftop of a building, their legs hanging down over the side.

           “I know – technically – we won,” said Ellen, peering down at the city streets below them. “So why does it still feel like we got played?”

           “It usually feels like that,” Damian told her dully, without looking around at her. “Especially with filth like the Joker and Gordon, Junior. It always feels like there’s something we missed.”

           “We didn’t need to take the Joker out of custody.”

           “No,” agreed Damian. “I…suppose I just hate it when people think the Joker is bigger than he is. He’s a lowlife criminal. I wanted Morrison to understand that.”

           “I think that’s the problem,” said Ellen, glancing around at him. “It…strikes me that you really can’t take these things personally in this business.”

           Damian didn’t answer for a moment. Then, slowly, he got to his feet. “I understand that,” he announced, with some finality. “But…I don’t think it’s right to remove your own feelings out of these kinds of situations. I think that’s how you end up like Batman.”

           “And that’s a bad thing?”

           “It’s the worst thing,” he told her, his gaze flickering over to her. “A terrible option. The bad ending.”

           “I don’t know,” she challenged, with a shrug. “He took care of this city for a long time before you came along. Maybe he knows something you don’t.”

           This obviously troubled Damian. He bade her farewell, and then he made his way back to Wayne Manor, arriving in the Cave just as the very first edges of dawn began to break. His father was already there, seated in his throne before the computer, as always. Damian noticed the crowbar was gone from its place on the specimen table.

           He removed his mask on his way up from the garage, passing his father at the computer and heading in the direction of the stairs that led up to the house above. Before he reached them, though, he paused, and he turned around.

           “Father,” he said.

           Bruce moved only slightly, glancing over his shoulder.

           “I’m sorry,” he admitted, like pulling teeth.

           For a moment, nothing happened. And then Bruce turned back to the computer, his fingers clacking away on the keyboard. “What are you apologizing for?” he asked. “You won.”

           “The Joker-”

           “Is back in Arkham.”

           “But I-”

           “Maybe you made mistakes, Robin,” said Bruce, still facing the screen, “but your team was there for you, and they took care of it. I was impressed with Jabberwock and Seraph in particular tonight. Jabberwock should do very well on patrol, though I believe Seraph would benefit from a more permanent headquarters.” On the screen, Bruce flipped through a series of safehouses he’d long kept on reserve. “The Haven, perhaps?”

           Damian gaped at his father. “Headquarters?” he asked. “Patrol? You mean to say – this is it? You really trust them?”

           “I trust you,” said Bruce, “and I trust Ember. That’s got to be enough for now.”

           Still, Damian felt discontent. “Father,” he began, “I still think – if we had just-”

           “Ifs and should haves are poison, Damian,” said Bruce, without looking around. “You won. Red Hood and some of his contents are working on getting Gordon’s drug off the streets, but without a supplier, it should dry up on its own.”

           “And Gordon?”

           “From what I hear of him, he’s no criminal mastermind. He just likes toying with people. If he can, his father will put him away.”

           “His father,” echoed Damian, trying to ignore the obvious parallels suddenly rearing his mind. “I imagine you might be feeling some…empathy, for his situation.”

           “None at all, Damian. None at all.”

           Damian rolled his eyes, then turned to head up into the Manor, taking the stairs two at a time.

----

NAME: Niloufar Ghorbani ALIAS: N/A / Seraph DATE OF BIRTH: 16 October 1996 BLOOD TYPE: O+ (Full Medical History) EMERGENCY CONTACT: Nazanin & Mahmoud Ghorbani, Parents (Contact) AFFILIATIONS: Team Ember EVAL: Observe for further development of metahuman abilities

[winchester-with-wings]

Adjusting, Part 1 / (Second Chances series)

Bruce Wayne x child!reader fic!

Author: my sister, @faithtrustandpixiedust95

Summary: You’re living at Wayne Manor, getting used to your new family with Bruce and Alfred. But everything changes when being Bruce Wayne’s new daughter proves dangerous.

Word Count: 4009

Warnings: anxiety, dealing with childhood trauma

A/N: reader is about 6 years old. My sister is writing her fics all in the same universe but each one has a different title and are broken into parts cuz she’s a writing monster! She’s got me all jealous writing 6k+ fics in one go! LOL

*Disclaimer* I did not write this. My sister, Sam, did and I am posting this with her permission.

Sequel to “Shattered Beginnings”

You had gone home from the hospital with a new dad 2 months ago. After going through such a horrible experience, you couldn’t help but feel just a little bit lucky.

Most kids who had been orphaned at your age had to go through a completely different ordeal than what you were currently going through. Yes, you had lost your parents and almost been killed too, but it was different.

You didn’t have to go to an orphanage. You didn’t have to interview with couples that wanted to adopt you. You didn’t have to go through the process of being rejected or dismissed as a kid becoming a part of a family. You didn’t have to go in and out of foster homes and experience the turbulent life it could sometimes be. You had been ‘lucky’ in a way.

You had gotten what you had deemed to be the “Warbucks Express Package”. You were just like Annie! Adopted by a billionaire and given a whole new life.

Of course, you didn’t have the curly red hair that Annie had and your “Daddy Warbucks” wasn’t bald and he wasn’t that old.  His name wasn’t “Warbucks” either; it was Wayne…Bruce Wayne.

Bruce had saved your life on 2 different accounts now too. He saved you that day on the bridge and he saved you again when he decided to adopt you.

You were extremely grateful to have had this man pop into your life. You were just a little kid, but you knew a good thing when it came along and Bruce was a good thing. You knew he was going to take care of you. You knew he was going to keep you safe. What more could you have asked for in deciding who was going to raise you after your parents had died?

Two months had gone by since the bridge nightmare. You were getting close to getting your cast off of your arm. Unlike Bruce, who only needed his cast for six weeks, you needed to have yours on for 10 weeks. It had something to do with being a little kid or something, so Bruce says.

The cast had been an inconvenience. You were already a clumsy kid, having a big bulky object on your arm just made things worse. Let’s just say after two weeks, Alfred, Bruce’s butler, had made the wise decision of moving any fragile antiques to higher ground where you couldn’t accidentally knock them off their perches to shatter into pieces.

Bruce had you moved into Wayne Manor in a day. You didn’t have much to move from your old home. He had given you your very own suite. It was a princess suite; it was a large room with a massive walk in closet and a private bathroom.

For a six year-old, this room was a house in itself! But Bruce and Alfred both agreed that it was the perfect room for you because it allowed you enough room for when you got older to have your own space. You wouldn’t have to move rooms when you became a teenager, you could just redecorate.

For now though, the room was empty, Alfred told you to choose a theme and to leave it to him. You didn’t know what you wanted just yet though, so he bought a basic metal bed frame with a large comfy mattress that you would grow into, as you got older.

It was a hard first week in Wayne Manor.

You were having a lot of trouble sleeping in your room, or at all for the matter. Every time you lay down to sleep, you couldn’t get images of that day on the bridge out of your head. You had been having horrific nightmares that were exhausting you.

Bruce had taken a week off from work to help you adjust to the Manor and to your new life. He knew you were going to struggle with grief and the trauma you experienced, especially at night. He was trying his best to help you.

That first night at Wayne Manor, he let you sleep with him in his big bed. You had put on the movie that Bruce bought you in the hospital and watched it until you fell asleep in Bruce’s arms. He provided comfort and that safe-haven you so desperately needed.

After a few nights of this routine, he tried to have you sleep in your room. You had made it a couple hours before the nightmares and screaming had started and you crawled back into bed with him. This pattern continued until you were able to make it through most of the night by yourself in your room with a nightlight and your stuffed turtle.

You were making slow progress. Bruce and Alfred were trying to get to know you better. They had been spending time with you, asking you questions, doing things together that they thought you might enjoy.

It was when you and Bruce went out in public the first time that the reality of what had happened really hit you. He had taken you out for lunch downtown. You guys were spotted at a local ice cream parlor when paparazzi swarmed the two of you, asking non-stop questions and taking pictures with their bright flashing cameras.

They were screaming at you, asking about your parents, asking about Bruce being your new dad, asking you about the Joker and what he did. You were looking around trying to find a way to escape the chaos, you felt trapped and started to curl in on yourself. Your logic of curling into a ball to escape the outside world seemed to be the only way to evade the intruding masses of people.

You were scared to have been swarmed, it was very overwhelming and Bruce saw the distraught look on your face and the change in your body language. He picked you up and tried his best to shield you from the crowd as you left the ice cream parlor and headed back to the Manor.

When you pulled up in front of the mansion, you barely waited for the car to stop before you opened the door and started running. Bruce got out of the car and followed after you calling out your name, but you didn’t hear him because of how hard you were crying from processing the questions that had bombarded you back at the ice cream shop.

You wanted to run from the questions, you wanted to run from the reality of the answers to those questions. Running seemed like the only thing to do at the moment. So you just ran on the grounds, heading for the forest that bordered the property.

Running was awkward with your cast, it threw you off balance and you kept bumping off of the trees you ran around, snagging just a bit each time. It was difficult to see through all the tears and your thoughts were clouded, so you weren’t thinking about where you were. You had run as fast as you could and you were out of breath after a while.

You slowed down and eventually stopped in a small clearing of the woods. You were breathing hard and trying to calm down. You looked around yourself and confusion slowly spread through you as you realized you didn’t really know where you were. You didn’t know which way the house was and the sun had slowly started to set.

You slowed your breathing and tried to focus. You were coaching yourself, “Calm down, Y/N. You’re still on the grounds of the Manor. Think. You can figure this out, which way did I come from?”

You were trying to get your bearings when you decided to just stop and sit down on a log near you. You had gotten your breathing under control and had stopped crying. You took a deep breath in and smelled the thick air of the forest. It smelled so fresh and crisp. The leaves rustling in the trees relaxed you and you took in the beauty of the place you were now sitting.

It was calm and comforting. The warm colors of the leaves changing hues and the earthy feel of it all was so soothing. You kept taking in deep breaths through your nose just so you could smell the nature around you. A peace fell upon you that you hadn’t felt since before your parents had died.

You heard leaves crunching behind you and you turned to look at the source of the noise. Bruce was walking through the trees towards you. You wondered how he found you and how long he had been standing behind you before deciding to walk over to you. Once he reached you, he sat down beside you.

“You found a pretty good resting spot here, Squeaker,” he said as he broke the silence. You grinned at the use of the nickname.

“I’m sorry I ran away,” you said as your grin morphed into a thin line. You weren’t quite sure what his response was going to be.

“It’s alright. I own all these woods anyways; I know them from my childhood. I knew you would be ok. Besides, I find that running helps to clear the mind. As does being a part of nature,” he said with a small sigh. You noticed he was taking in the same deep breaths that you were. He was enjoying the woods just as much as you were.

“I think I found the theme I want for my room,” you chirped with a small smile spreading across your face as you looked around you.

Bruce looked down at you with the same small smile, “Woods theme it is, then.”

Once you had returned to the house, you sought out Alfred to tell him about your afternoon in the forest. You told him that you wanted a woods themed room, the more rustic the better.

It took Alfred a week to have your room done and he made a special deal of unveiling it to you. He blindfolded you and he and Bruce directed you into your room.

It was incredible; it had the same soothing features of that spot in the woods. Your furniture was made out of old logs and there was a whole mural wall painted to look like the woods were an extension of the bedroom. Alfred beamed with pride and Bruce just stood there, just as impressed with it as you were.

Everything tied together perfectly except for one thing, the small sea turtle sitting on your bedspread. It was a vibrant tropical green that stood apart from the warm colors of the design. You smiled at your stuffed animal and ran to jump on your bed.

After those first few weeks, adjusting to your new life seemed to come easier.

You were sleeping better now that your room had its soothing aura. You were more open with Bruce and Alfred when it came to talking and doing things.

You would meet with a counselor once a week to help you process your grief and your trauma and Bruce was right next to you every step of the way.

He would take you to his office where you were able to re-adjust to being around people. You were learning how to deal with the attention that came with being Bruce Wayne’s new daughter.

There was a lot of attention too. Everywhere you went, people would take pictures of you and Bruce and bark questions at you from afar. Accompanying the title of Bruce Wayne’s daughter was the title of being Bruce Wayne’s vulnerability too. People would try to exploit you any way they could, taking pictures without permission, selling them to magazines and newspapers, trying to get a rise out of you or Bruce when out in public to try and make their 15 minutes of fame. The constant issues were endless and they tested Bruce’s patience and his temper. He now had a weakness that could be used against him for his money if people were ever desperate enough, and knowing Gotham, people were always desperate.

He coached you on how to manage the press always being around, meeting people of high business stature, and basically just always being in the spotlight. He always observed how you were handling it each time, knowing when he needed to step in and protect you from the societal vultures. You were his little Squeaker and it was when people tried to put their hands on you and pull you away from him that things would go too far. He was very protective of you.

The press was obsessed! They couldn’t seem to wrap their minds around the sudden change in the “Prince of Gotham”. How could their playboy, who filled their gossipy tabloids with rumors of affairs with models and ridiculous behaviors, become a calm and mature adoptive-father? It confused the hell out of them, but they loved covering it in their prints.

A particular article from the Daily Planet seemed to be the only one that took the change in stride. Kent, the Daily Planet reporter, hit the nail on the head as to the explanation of the sudden change of heart in Bruce Wayne.

Here was a reckless businessman and womanizer, who went through the same traumatic experience as the little girl he saved. The playboy had to “grow up” in a matter of seconds and take life seriously for once and it was on that bridge that he did. Now instead of spoiling women and himself with his money and fame, he used it to help this little girl that he got so connected to. Bruce Wayne was finally starting to resemble the image his father had in Gotham, a responsible business and family man. All it took was a near-death experience, at least according to the press.

The only reason Bruce kept up that persona before you came into his life was to protect his secret. He had to have a believable story just in case anyone ever accused him of being the Batman.

He had been Gotham’s Dark Knight for about 5 years now since he had returned from his training. When he left Gotham, he had been 18. In the press’ eyes, he had left his city behind him to live out his rebellious stage of life. When in reality, he had been training all around the world under several masters to learn and perfect the many different forms of martial arts for 3 years.

He returned to Gotham when he was 21 to take over the role as acting CEO of Wayne Enterprises, but he still had his rebellious ways about him. He also picked up his second job when he returned, being the Batman. He was playing his con to Gotham perfectly until the day on the bridge.

After that day, he had a reason to change his con…you. It worked perfectly for him actually because he was getting tired of playing the “billionaire playboy” at 26. With his midnight hobby, he had strained his body a lot for his age and being the reckless womanizer was an exhausting charade.

Slowing down to be a dad was a nice change of pace that he openly welcomed. He enjoyed his time with you.

To Bruce, being a dad helped him. He was so focused on giving you a good life that he didn’t have time to sulk like he used to. He started to enjoy himself and was truly happy, which he hadn’t been in a long time. Being Batman had always had its stresses, but now having a kid around Wayne Manor helped to ease the stress by separating his time between being a dad, being the Bat, and being the businessman.

He hadn’t told you of his secret even after living with him for two months now. He hadn’t gone on patrol the first few weeks during the adjustment period, but once things calmed down, he went back out.

He made a modification to his suit to accommodate his cast for the few weeks he still had it on. He would go on patrol late after you had gone to bed and he knew you would stay asleep. He always wanted to make sure he was there just in the slight chance you would wake up, so he moved his patrols to later in the night.

You hadn’t really suspected anything apart from seeing scrapes and cuts every now and then, but you knew Bruce was active.

He would work out a lot and sometimes you would join him; not in the working out part, but in the adding to the challenge part. Sometimes you would sit on his back when he would do push-ups or you would hang from his arms while he lifted you, there were even times that he’d use you as the weight itself to lift during his exercises.

It had been a fun part of bonding, but there were times he would train in other ways that were more aggressive; you had just assumed the blemishes were a result of that training that you weren’t allowed to be present for.

Sometimes he would be so tired he could barely stay awake for dinner and whatever activity you did afterwards, but you thought he had nightmares like you did and it kept him up at night making him tired the next day.

Other than that, you were oblivious to the fact that your dad was Batman.

It wasn’t until the week before you got your cast off that you found out.

You had had a good night with Bruce. Alfred had made spaghetti with Italian sausage for dinner, it was your favorite and after dinner you and Bruce were going to watch a movie.

He was sitting in the theater room when you snuck up on him and shot him in the ear with a foam dart from your nerf gun.

For only being 6 years old, you were pretty accurate with the toy and loved having nerf battles with him. He would always add a level of excitement to it by creating some sort of obstacle course with the furniture.

When he felt the dart hit his ear, he knew they were no longer going to watch a movie. Instead he lunged for the toy gun that was sitting on the couch from the previous battle.

He heard you giggling and was about to fire his own dart, when another one hit him square in the forehead and then bounced off and onto the floor. He laughed and you giggled right along with him.

You guys were running around the manor shooting each other with the toys until you ran out of darts and decided to attack him instead. He caught you in his arms and started tickling you in the familiar places he had discovered in the many nights you guys had roughhoused.

You were laughing so hard, trying to escape his tickle-assaults. You were trying to get words out, but they just weren’t forming. You kept stuttering in between laughs, which only made Bruce laugh too. You both had fallen to the floor in the middle of the tickle-fight. He had you in his arms squirming in laughter, you were no match for the grip he had on you.

“St-stop! Ahaha, nooo!” You were squealing and laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. “Dad, stop!”

It had just slipped out, but it was enough to surprise Bruce that he had ceased tickling you.

You were breathing heavily with a big dopey smile on your face from laughing so hard, when you gasped and looked at the surprise on his face.

He was looking at you with this loving smile on his face; like he had just heard something he was waiting years for.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that,” you said hesitantly.

“No, don’t be sorry. It’s ok to call me that if you want to,” he slowly said trying to read the look on your face.

“I—uh, if you don’t mind it, I—you feel like my dad…you are my dad, I mean you did adopt me after all, what else would that make you?” You were sincere in your words and you realized how good it was to say that word, dad.

“I like the sound of dad,” he said, smiling at you, “I love you, Squeaker.”

It had been a long time since you had heard someone say they loved you and it sent warm fuzzy feelings through you. All you could do was wrap your arms around his neck and hug him as tight as you could as you whispered into his ear, “I love you too, Dad.”

Your nerf war and tickle fight had lasted for quite some time. Alfred had been watching the two of you battle it out; he had been taking pictures, unbeknownst to you two. He had been taking pictures since you had arrived at the manor; he was creating a memory book and wanted every happy memory to live on in those pages. This moment between a dad and his daughter was worth several pictures in the book.

He put the camera away and walked into the room where you and Bruce were laughing about the mess you both had made. “Miss Y/N, I do believe it is time for bed. Would you like your cup of mint tea ready for you in your room?”

You looked at Alfred and the small smile he had on his face, he was trying to hide his joy of the moment you and Bruce were sharing and it just made you smile more. This man was just as much your grandpa as Bruce was your dad.

“Yes, Alfred. Tea sounds nice before bed, thank you. I’ll be there in a minute, I’m gonna help Dad clean up the mess we made.”

Alfred’s breath hitched at hearing you call Bruce dad, he had to clear his throat before he could talk again. “Very well, Miss Y/N. I’ll have it sitting on your nightstand.”

You looked back at your dad and threw a foam dart at him and laughed before you stood up and started cleaning up the room. Bruce chuckled at the dart thrown in his face and then looked at Alfred and just smiled and nodded in a form of pride at his new moniker.

You drank your tea while talking to your dad before he tucked you into bed for the night.

“Hey Squeaker, just so you know, I’m gonna make a run to my office after you fall asleep. I forgot my work laptop and I need to do some work before tomorrow. So if you wake up and I’m not here, I’ll be back soon. You’re welcome to climb into my bed if you need to ok?”

“Okie dokie, Papa. Drive safe. I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Yeah, Sweetie, I’ll see you in the morning. Sweet dreams, sleep well.” He kissed you on the forehead, handed you your turtle and then gave you one last good tuck, before leaving your room and turning the light off behind him.

He was going into the office, that’s for sure, but it wasn’t the office downtown, it was the one in the basement. He went down to the Batcave and got ready to go out on patrol.

Gotham was one of those cliché cities; it was always storming at night. For such a broken city run down by crime, it seemed the weather put effort into matching it. It was pouring rain outside with flashes of lightening and thunder sounding off every few minutes.

Bruce pushed away a concern that the storm would wake you up while he was out. He had to focus, he had heard about an arm’s deal going down that night that he was on his way to investigate. The last thing this city needed was more thugs with guns and knives.

Part Two

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[i-am-the-sage]

Chapter 5: Inamorata

(Author’s note: Please enjoy and leave feedback!💕)

Masterlist

Inamorata- A person’s male lover.

Frost led Iris into the building, there was no line outside of this one. Inside the club was more elegant than the one from the night before. There were men in full suits smoking cigars, their arms wrapped around women that wore fur across their shoulders and gaudy diamonds around their necks. They sat at small round tables as the watched a woman on stage singing while dancers swayed to her voice on smaller stages scattered through the audience.

Iris wore a tight purple dress that hugged her curves with matching crocodile skin heels. Her hair fell past her shoulders in curls that bounced every time she moved, a chunky gold chain clung to her wrist. On the chain was a small diamond encrusted J, she had no idea why it was there but she didn't pay it any mind.  

She watched the dancers flow to the woman’s voice like the music was an extension of themselves. These dancers weren't like the ones at the club, the moved in the most gracefully seductive way. They looked like sirens luring the men in the club to their deaths. Frost walked away as Iris kept her eyes glued to the dancers, their moves were hypnotic. She walked closer trying to get a better look when she bumped into a man walking in the opposite direction.

“I’m so so sorry—“ She was face to face with one of the most respected crime lords in Gotham.

“D-don Falcone…” Her eyes widened in shock as she stood there staring at him. She bowed her head cast her eyes down, terrified of what he might do to her.

“Don’t worry about it, enjoy your night.” He gestured to the bartender and then continued out of the building. Iris took a deep breath walked over to the bar where a martini was sitting on a napkin waiting for her. She sat on a stool and turned to watch the women perform. 

“The boss is ready for you.” Frost seemed to show up out of nowhere. She followed him out of the showroom to an elevator with gold doors that they took it all the way up to the top floor. He led her down a short hallway where at the end was a door leading into an office.

“Wait here.” Frost turned on his heel and shut the door.

‘You’re kidding.’ 

Iris rolled her eyes and walked around the office stopping at the bookshelf, looking over the small collection of literature. The wall opposite to her was made entirely of glass, she walked towards and found that the office was overlooking the entire showroom. She sipped at her martini as she watched the women continue their show, a few of them danced elegantly with giant pink and white feather fans others were serving drinks to the customers.

Bored with the show she turned around and walked over to the desk. There was an abundance of folders and paperwork spread out, she set her glass down on a stack of papers and threw herself down onto the chair.

‘Mwahaha, who’s the boss now?’

Swiping the glass off of the desk she began to spin in the chair like a happy child, giggling to herself. She spun and spun until she heard someone clear their throat at the other side of the room. Expecting to see the “boss” she stopped on a dime only to find that Frost was standing in the doorway, a stern look on his face.

“The boss had some business to take care of, I’ll be driving you home.” Iris stood up pouting, downed the rest of her drink and strutted out of the room past Frost. 

‘All done up for nothing.’

When she got back downstairs, Iris walked over to the bar and ordered two shots of tequila before leaving the club. She stopped outside of the club and looked up and down the street trying to pick a direction to walk in. Just as she was taking a step she was forced to stop when Frost grabbed her arm.

“What!?” She spun around and snatched her arm away from him. 

“Look, I’m trying to do my job. Just get in the car.” He opened the car door that Iris hadn't noticed was sitting in front of the club. 

‘Who does he think he is, telling me what to do?’ “You tell your boss that I do what I want.” Iris stalked up to him getting in his face then she whirled around effectively slapping Frost with her hair and made her way down the street. She passed bar after bar unsure of what to do now that her plans were ruined. She took her phone out and dialed Bruce’s number, it rang a few times before he picked up.

“Iris?” 

“Hey Bruce.” She perked up hearing his voice.

“What’s up princess?” 

“Are you, um, busy?” Wincing a little at her question.

‘What're you a child?’

“Just finishing up some work, what’s up?” She stopped at a cross walk and watched as two drunk women struggled to make it across the street, falling over each other in a fit of uncontrollable laugher, then she got an idea.

“Well, I’m downtown and I was wondering if you wanted to go and grab some drinks?” She shut her eyes and crossed her fingers while she waited for his answer, silently hoping that he'd say yes.

“Of course, where are you?” Iris jumped up then looked up and down the street searching for a bar. She saw one that looked promising down the street and made her way toward it.

“We can meet at this bar called The Sizzle.” Iris said looking through the window. It seemed like was good enough for Bruce but not too high strung that they would judge her outfit. She looked down at her wrist and took the chain off, tossing it in a nearby trash can.

‘Take that you ass!’ 

“I’ll be there.” Iris hung up the phone and walked in. She walked up to the bar and ordered a long island ice tea then went and found a booth to wait for Bruce it didn't take long for him to show. She looked up from her phone and saw him walking into the bar;  a smile spread across her face as she waved him over.

“Mmm, what now Mr. Wayne?” Iris sipped at her second drink and watched as he thought about what they could do. He rubbed his short salt and pepper beard, playing with drink. He looked around humming, dragging the process out.

“Are you hungry?” He said looking at Iris with a knowing smirk. Taking another sip of whiskey and watched as giant smile spread across her face.

“I’m starving!” She jumped up from the table and pulled on Bruce’s arm trying to pull him out of his seat. He laughed at her as he got up and placed his arm around her shoulder, they left the bar. Bruce pulled her closer and kissed the side of her head as they walked to the parking lot across the street. He let go of Iris to open the car door for her and she slid under his arm.

“Such a gentleman.” Iris flashed a smile at him before he shut the door. She watched in the mirror as he walked behind the car, Iris leaned over and opened the door for him.

Bruce grabbed Iris’ hand and held onto it the entire drive out of Gotham. She didn't know if it was the alcohol or not but she felt happy with Bruce, he was a true gentleman. Iris leaned her head against the window and watched the city pass her by, Bruce began to stroke her hand with his thumb and she sighed happily, shutting her eyes.

‘This is just what I need.’

“Bruce, where are we?” Iris sat up and looked out the passenger window, she had her head rested on his shoulder hugging his arm. They passed through a massive iron gate and followed the road up through the woods. The trees opened up and she could see a giant building maybe three or four stories high, it almost looked like an abandoned warehouse in the dark.

“You’ll see.” He looked over at her and smiled warmly.

They pulled up in front of the building, it reminded Iris a lot of the older buildings in Gotham. Bruce got out and opened her door, as she stepped out she craned her neck back and looked up at the building. It was dark and intimidating excluding the lights that shone through the darkness.

“What is this place?” She looked back at Bruce then to the mysterious building. Iris was a little disappointed, she hadn't eaten anything since Bruce brought her the croissant that morning.

“Open the door and find out.” He extended his arm toward the building, inviting her to try as he leaned back against his car. There was a slight smile on his face which made Iris feel better about what was going on.

‘What is he playing at?’

“Um, okay.” Iris glanced at Bruce then slowly began to walk toward the front door. She placed her hand on the knob and looked back at Bruce who was still leaning against the car. She turned the knob and the door popped open, without looking back she opened the door and stepped all the way in.

Her jawed dropped as she looked around, it was like she’d just stepped into Buckingham Palace, it beautiful the floors were entirely white marble. In front of her was a grand staircase with an exquisite rug that screamed the renaissance, above her head hung an obscenely large crystal chandelier.

“Welcome to Wayne Manor.” She turned to Bruce then back to the rest of the house. Her heels clicked on the floor as she walked to staircase, she ran her hand along the smooth wooden railing.

“You live here?” Iris said in awe, spinning in a small circle trying to see everything at once.

“This is it.” He stood by the door watching her still smiling. 

“Bruce its amazing.” she stopped spinning and stared at Bruce in disbelief.

“Would you like the grand tour?” Bruce strolled up and offered his hand to her. 

She placed her hand in his and he whisked her away. He took her all over the first floor showing her the various works of art that he had on display around the manor. They were walking down a long hallway when Iris looked into his office and saw a grand piano that sat in the far corner.

“Do you play?” She walked in and sat down at its bench.

“A little.” Bruce walked over to join her. He sat down as she placed her fingers on the keys, running them up and down softly not producing any sound.

“Master Bruce.” An older gentleman walked into the office wearing a white apron over his suit and a towel draped over his forearm. His hair was purely grey and his face was set in a neutral expression.

‘A butler?’

“Iris this is my dear friend Alfred. Alfred this is Iris.” Alfred made his way over to Iris, taking her hand in his, he gave her a warm handshake. 

“Welcome, ‘friend’ of Master Bruce.” He smiled knowingly at Iris and Bruce.

“Dinner is served.” He led Bruce and Iris into the dinning room. At one end of the table there were two place settings and covered platters waiting for them. Bruce walked over and pulled Iris’ seat out for her, as he took his own, Alfred removed the covers to reveal the meal underneath.

There was a whole roasted chicken on a bed of roasted rosemary potatoes. Next to the chicken was a bowl of garlic and herb macaroni, sautéed asparagus with caramelized mushrooms, a basket of steaming rolls and an open bottle of white wine.

“This smells amazing, did you make all of this?” Iris took a deep breath taking in the delicious smell that was now filling the room. She could feel her mouth begin to water as she stared at the all of the food in front of them.

“I had a little help.” Alfred looked a little surprised at her reaction, he smiled and politely bowed his head.

“Please do enjoy the meal.” With that Alfred left Iris and Bruce to their meal. Bruce poured her glass while he waited for her as she finish serving herself. 

Well into their dinner, Bruce leaned over and poured Iris another glass of wine. She was already tipsy from the drinks she had before, now she was borderline drunk. Her cheeks flushed  red as she watched Bruce filling her glass.

‘Everything he does is amazing’

“I have something to ask you.” He placed the bottle back down and looked over to Iris.

“Anything Bruce.” She took a sip of her wine and watched him.

“I’m hosting a fundraiser, in a couple of days, and I would like you to come.” Bruce sat back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. 

“You mean as your date?”  She set down her glass and leaned into him.

“Yes of course.” He smiled at her.

“I don’t think I have enough money for one of your fundraisers.” Iris leaned back on her chair and crossed her arms.

“You don’t have to spend any money if you don’t want to, I just want you by my side.” She couldn’t help but blush at what he said, a smile crept across her face. “But I don’t have a dress—“

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll have everything for you, all you have to do is show up.”

“Yeah, okay.” She said after taking a minute to think about it. Going to an event like this with Bruce could be fun or maybe a total disaster but she was excited to find out what it would be like to officially be on the arm of Bruce Wayne. 

“You know, you could stay here and get ready when its time for the fundraiser.” Iris froze, she hadn't been expecting anything like that to come out of Bruce’s mouth. After all, its only been a few days since they met.

“W-what do you mean?” She reached for her wine glass, accidentally knocking it over. The wine ran all over the table and between the dishes. Nothing could have been more embarrassing than this moment. Bruce didn't miss a beat, he grabbed his towel and hers and mopped up the spill.

“I mean, you staying with me for a couple of days or maybe just that night or tonight.” 

‘Is her serious?’

“You want me to stay the night?” Iris looked at him through her fingers

“Something like that.” He smiled coyly then reached over, moving her hands from her face; he brought her hands to his lips and kissed them both. Iris watched him closely trying to force herself to make a decision.

“You don't have to stay if you don't want to.” Iris looked down her hands, still in his, and made her decision. 

“I want to stay.”

@suckerforsmilex