#should Tiffy’s bike be called the Bird-Cycle - yey or nay

[fordarkisthesuede]

The Tolls of Justice - Chapter 7

Goooood morning, darlings!  It was a longer wait than I wanted to give you, but I hope this absolute monster of a chapter is alllll worth it for what we’re leading up to! :3c

Important Spoiler Tags:  self harm, paranoia, playing with knives, discussion of mental illness, bonding through near-death situations, omg Billionaire Playboy Vigilante Bruce Wayne has That™ kind of drawer what a surprise

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[Chapter 7:  Drawing the Strings]

Wayne Manor was too big. John figured he could walk the whole length of it in the time it would take to let Bruce deal with everything being set up for his fancy-schmancy party.

He was okay with not going. It wasn’t like he wanted to actually be in the enormous unused ballroom, all dressed to the nines. Or be on Bruce’s arm for any miniscule part of the evening. Or get to try to be normal-ish for once. It made sense for him not to go, what with a wannabe-killer on the loose. He knew that as soon as he’d realized he was in Wayne Manor and not in some weird fever dream made from various Arkham-brand drugs.

But hearing he wasn’t wanted there in the first place was different. Not so much from calculating, logical Bruce, who might have his best interests at heart - but from Alfred?

He felt the stirrings of the mysterious beast under his skin. It had been kicked hard in its cage and now it was angrier than ever. It was as if it had been staring Alfred down from behind its bars of bone and flesh, teeth bared and growling low since he saw him in the kitchen that morning - and it was lie Alfred could see it, somehow, and stared back as he shoved a pancake into John’s hands with his compliments like that would make things better.

John would be lying if he said it hadn’t made a fraction of a difference – Alfred treated him like he would any other guest to their face. He was polite and seemingly neutral, and even tossed a joke out about Bruce’s life juggling trick. It was enough to remind John that this was Bruce’s father figure he was dealing with and not a stranger, and he should do his best to get along with who could – in the slimmest possibilities of a good future – be his eventual father-in-law.

But the knowledge that Alfred didn’t think he should be around other people kept sitting in John’s head. It sat there in the kitchen, and in the oversized dining room, and back in the kitchen as John very carefully dried the china and attempted to make conversation about Alfred’s journey across the world in-between mentally running through a list of all the mob hits ever made on 13th Street. Bad thoughts were easy to drown out when he was thinking about other things, but as soon as he was left on his own it came back.

Alfred doesn’t want me here, the thought cycled in again as John stepped into the elevator down to cave. It was the one place he could surround himself with Bruce’s presence without the man actually being there. He doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m dangerous around people. Shadows passed over his face. 

He knew Alfred was right. Does anyone want me here, with my bloody hands...? 

John looked down at them. They were clean, but sometimes he felt like Lady Macbeth trying to scrub away the guilt that seeped a permanent red into her conscience. He squeezed his fingers into fists, feeling the short nails dig a little into his skin as his wrist muscles flexed. 

The wrists that Bruce had held not long ago, while lying on him with all the weight of the world packed in mostly-sculpted muscle. He flicked his tongue out, tasting his lips; Bruce’s flavor was all gone, and only maple syrup from breakfast remained, but he was sure it happened. There was no mistaking Bruce’s firm grip.

Bruce does, John countered himself, flexing his hands in a squeezing motion again. Bruce doesn’t care what Alfred thinks. I’m his best friend. He loves me.

He woke up alone. He woke up in the guest room Bruce had given him last time. He had to think carefully about where he was and had snatched the phone off the nightstand to prove to himself that it was Saturday.

...he SAYS he loves me. He left me alone. 

But Bruce had kissed him. Been real. John clutched his bandaged forearm, squeezing hard and feeling the fabric beneath his fingertips. He was there, in the elevator, heading towards the Batcave.

But Bruce had also lied to him before. He lied to Alfred very easily. He didn’t want Alfred to know I was with him.

Why would he do that? Why would he hide John away? Why would he not tell his father his boyfriend was there? Only if…

John squeezed his bandaged forearm harder. His gut had told him so the moment Alfred had finished his sentence from behind Bruce’s bedroom door:  Alfred didn’t know about Bruce and John’s relationship.

He’s ashamed of me.

He wanted to talk to someone about it. Badly. So badly it gnawed at his stomach. 

But of course Mickey and Devi were busy, and Dr. Song would practically say she told him it would happen and tell him to go wherever it was St. Dymphna felt would work for the time being, and John would sooner talk to Harley than go through that mess. Tiffany and Iman wouldn’t understand, and he didn’t think their budding friendships were at that level of emotional intimacy.

The elevator gave a little ding, and John felt his head start to clear with the first breath of cave air. Solid mixed metals and rock, live bats, fresh water, Kevlar cleaner - yes, this was all Bruce. Bruce in his truest form. Logical Bruce with his sweet heart that bled underneath the layers of armor he kept to hide and restrain it all.

Bruce loving him was unquestionable. He was an idiot sometimes, hiding things for his mysterious, inane reasons, but Bruce loved him. He had to. So Bruce might be embarrassed or ashamed of him, but…!

He won’t be for long. 

Sure, he could do something outlandish like kidnap Bruce without letting anyone else be wise to it and prove how clever and deserving he was of Bruce’s time and attention and love as he gave him the heavy pet-down they both deserved to indulge in, but it wouldn’t go over so well when John wasn’t officially released into the wild with the sanity stamp on his hand.

Solving at least one of the cases on Bruce’s desk, though? That was sure to earn him points. Hell, Alfred would undoubtedly be impressed, too. 

He had a lot to catch up on. He glanced over at the Batcomputer and thought about everything.

The Wednesday Nighters’ deaths at The Lot club were mysterious, but the gang seemed to have a lead on that, what with the idiot whose card was “stolen”. It wasn’t impressive enough if John puzzled the rest out.

His own attempted murder was intriguing, but there wasn’t much to go on. Unless Tiffany could show him the exact spot she lost the shooter in... If she did lose them and it wasn’t some very elaborate scheme to- 

Don’t go there, John. You know what the doctors all say about your little paranoid thoughts.

And while he could just throw their advice out the window like they seemed to do to him, he knew they were right. Thinking someone he knew (someone he was growing to like, and was sure he could get the feeling in return if he tried, no less) was out to get even with him wasn’t very progressive. Tiffany had trusted him enough to gamble on following a lead. She didn’t toss his phone over the edge of the building when he’d given it to her. She tried to chase the shooter and got her precious drone smashed to bits as a consequence. She didn’t even pull that weirded out face at the breakfast table...well, he was pretty sure she hadn’t, anyway.

The more he thought about it, the Chandis instance seemed to be connected to Cat-Lady, if the video was to be believed, and John had a feeling that it wasn’t a coincidence that both his and her attacker were wearing masks. And Selina’s looked peculiarly like a Batman knockoff.

Yup, first-in, first-out was the way to go, really. He’d just have to figure out where she was staying and then figure out a way to get there. 

It was only two things. He could manage that.

He was going to march over to the giant supercomputer when he caught a flash of movement in his peripheral vision:  Tiffany. 

For the second time, he found himself finding her in an unlikely place when her back was turned.

She’d brought up Miss Kitty-Witty. She would know exactly where she was. And John, having managed to coax her into working with him before, would surely be able to do it again, as long as he could keep his face straight.

Tiffany was in the little rogue gallery, her phone pressed to her ear. She seemed to be wearing her motorcycle gear from last night, sans the helmet; he could see some of the plating looked a lot like that of the Batsuit, but in a matte midnight blue. She was clearly planning on going somewhere...

John snuck closer, walking on the outside of his heels to lessen the noise.

“I told you, Barb’, I’m not with a guy. If I was, I wouldn’t be so tired when I come back home... Of course my Mom knows where I am; even if I wasn’t with her I’d have to text her. I mean, she’s been getting better, but… Yeah, it’s just work stuff.” Tiffany stepped closer to John’s case. What could she want from there?

Or was John just being paranoid and she was actually going for something else, like Harley’s hammer or Frieze’s ice-ray?

“Oh, uhh… I don’t know. It might be a couple of days. At least I paid rent already.” Tiffany was right in front of the old Joker items; his old belt, his grappling gun, and the razor-sharp Jokerrang. She reached up and snatched his grappling gun off the little pegs Bruce used to keep it in place. Her sixth sense was pretty shitty if she didn’t know he was right behind her by now. “Yeah, I’ll text you if anything interesting happens. Really, Barb’, I don’t know what you expect to-”

“Nice, isn’t it?” John asked from behind her.

Tiffany gave a yelp that echoed against the expansive cave walls as she swung the gun behind her in an arc - it would have hit him in the head if he hadn’t leaned back in the nick of time. John stumbled backwards a step, laughing at the wide-eyed shock on her face. He knew it was loud, but it wasn’t as if anyone else was down there to complain, so he didn’t bother muffling it.

John could hear the voice on the phone shouting in alarm. “No, Barbara, I’m okay, it’s just...one of my colleagues scaring me,” she explained, still frowning over at John. “Yeah, I’ll call you back later.” She hung up, stowed the phone in her pocket, and shoved his arm hard. “Don’t DO that! You scared the shit out of me!”

 John bit his lip to try and stop the titters in his throat. “You were on the phone! You wouldn’t have noticed my text!” he explained half-truthfully, “Nice reflexes, by the way. You’ll be like a little Bat in no time! Or would it be a batling...? A Mini-Bat?”

She didn’t seem to find the funny side to that. 

John cleared his throat, unsure of what else to say until he realized he should have apologized by now. “Um, ‘sorry’. That’s what I’m trying to say.” He stood straighter. “So - Bats won’t let you play with his toys?”

“Uh… Not exactly.” Tiffany shifted her weight and tried to cross her arms, only realizing the gun was in the way too late and having to put her hand on her hip instead. “Bruce…suggested I borrow it from you. Since you’re kinda stuck here,” she said with a shrug.

Ah-ha. She was heading out on a little mission - visiting the Cat, perhaps, in Bruce’s place. “Well, the man’s got a point… Kinda wished you asked first, though, Tiff’. It might be in Bruce’s fancy case under his fancier house, but it’s still mine.” She shifted uncomfortably. John supposed he should play nice and not glower. “But I suppose I could let you borrow it -” he rocked back on his heels once, thinking quickly - “if you let me come with you. You’re going to see the Cat, right?”

“You want to…” Her already dark eyes darkened further. “Did Bruce put you up to this?”

What a suspicious-aloysius. Clearly Bruce had her a short leash. “Give me some credit, Tiff’, I have a life outside of following him around. Though it is nice when he gets that cute proud face when I do something right…” It always gave him a nice little rush of mood-enhancing chemicals to his head, seeing that face...but he was getting off-track. And Tiffany was starting to pull her weirded-out face. “But I didn’t even know you were heading there for sure until just now.”

She seemed to be analyzing him. Thinking. Asking herself if he was lying. She could easily just take the thing and run; she might be shorter than him but the suit showed off powerful legs, and who said she couldn’t fight him? Bruce might take John’s side over hers, or he might take neither. Could she trust him? Would she?

“Let’s say I do,” Tiffany said, staring him down, “What are you planning on doing?”

“Outside of asking questions? Ha, I’ll wing it!”

The dark blue woven curls of her hair swung slightly with the tilt of her head. “And what if you do something stupid?”

“Like, accidentally hit myself in the head with the grappling gun stupid? ‘Cause I’ve done that. Really hurts!” She wasn’t finding that funny. Okay. “Ohhh, you mean whoops there’s a knife in Cat-Lady’s liver, how’d that get there stupid!” He laughed at his own joke, hoping she’d turn that serious line into a tiny smile. “I’m not an idiot, Tiff’. I learned my lesson,” he beamed, holding up his scarred hand and wiggling his fingers to draw attention to it, “I won’t be shiving anyone any time soon.” Well… “I mean, unless she tries to kill you,” he added sensibly, “Then it’d be a lot more socially acceptable.”

Tiffany blinked in confusion. “Are you expecting her to try and kill me? I didn’t think she’d be that testy about a couple of questions from a stranger.”

“I just figured that with Riddler being her ‘friend’ and all…” He could see the grim understanding growing behind her eyes. The ‘R’ word seemed to have been the trigger. “I mean, I don’t think she knows it was you, but...if she did? She might try to.”

“I see…” (He could tell she did. Though what hue she was seeing it in wasn’t for him to know.) “How do I know you won’t tell her when my back is turned?”

He supposed he could, if he felt cruel enough. “You haven’t given me a reason to,” he shrugged, “so my lips are sealed!” He made a zipping motion over his mouth as he gave her a wink.

Finally, she was actually smiling. Even a small one was better than nothing. “Alright, you can come. But you do anything stupid and I’ll test my roundhouse kick on you.”

“Hm, mhm mm-?!” He mimed grasping at his throat and unzipping his mouth and gave a dramatic gasp. “Whew, hard to breathe like that!”

Tiffany gave a slight titter as he laughed at his own joke. Hers was just a little ha ha ha - that was as much as he could’ve asked for. “John, you could breathe through your nose.”

“And what, ruin the bit? Not on your life.” John checked a little box off of his mental list of ways to win her over. He was getting there. “So, when are we going?”

She glanced him over very quickly. “Uh, you’re planning on going like that?”

How else would he go? Makeup took too long to apply. He’d stand out no matter what he did, with his complexion. “She already knows what I look like, Tiff’. If I pull out a disguise now that’s just another leg she could get up on me later.”

To his surprise, she reached around the back of his case and pulled a long piece of purple cloth off a large plastic hanger and tossed it his way. “If you fall off the bike without something on your arms they’re gonna get shredded to ribbons. And you’ll be...slightly less conspicuous with that.” 

John held up the fabric, feeling how heavy it was in his hands, and recognized it instantly. The purple leather trenchcoat he’d worn last year. “Ooh!” He gave it a firm shake and slid it on, instantly feeling the weight sink into his shoulders. He could smell something like mild fabric soap, which meant Bruce had kept it fairly clean. That sweetheart. “Oh, I missed this. I’ll never get why that vampire cosplayer just traded it away…” It was a little thick, really designed for the fall more than the summer. The buttons that made up the double-breasted style were dull black, but he could fix that later. “I need to put in some vents,” he mused, following Tiffany down to the parking pad below. He could hear his ankle boots click slightly on the metal steps, reminding him of when he and Bruce had left for their little missions last year. “How many do you have in that suit? It has to get hot in there.”

“Ten. Bruce’s suit has more, you should look at it later.”

He patted his pockets. Pretty flat. “You wouldn’t happen to have any extra gloves, would you?”

“Yeah, but they’re not going to fit you.”

Upon closer inspection, the sleek motorized bicycle was really built more for one than two. The elevated seat on the back had small handles on the sides for the passenger - or easily-strapped bag - to hold onto. “Uh, you know I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before...”

“It’s okay, I’ve never had a passenger before.” Tiffany tucked the majority of her hair into a tight fitting hood that reminded John of knight’s chainmail. “Just hold onto the handles and lean with the bike if we turn. I need to start it before you get on.”

“What, no holding onto the driver like they do in the movies?”

Tiffany gave him a look. He’d seen it before on Harley when he’d asked what he didn’t realize was an ‘inappropriate’ question - an odd sort of angrily tired, like she’d been asked it too many times before, but had almost gotten used to it. But of what exactly he couldn’t understand; he’d never seen a guy give that expression to help explain it. “You try and I’ll kick you off the bike.”

“Okay, point taken. Handles only.” 

Tiffany was trying to find a spot on the bike for the grappling gun. She had a couple of little side compartments that John figured was for drones or her controlling tablet. There was a D-clip on what must have passed for her utility belt that could probably hold it, but John had deep pockets and freer hands.

“You want me to hold onto that?” He held out his hand, “Even I know you shouldn’t shoot ‘n’ drive!”

She plopped it into his hand, seeming somewhat annoyed she couldn’t find a spot elsewhere. “Only while I’m driving.”

It was nice and cold, and just the right amount of weight for a tool that could zip him almost anywhere. Now all he needed was a Batarang in his pocket... He did have that nice rainbow-hued knife Devi had given him; he supposed that was close enough, so he slid it from his pants pocket to his coat and heard a little clink.

It had hit a plastic tube that read Number 45, Wine under a torn brand name label. “Ha! I knew I left the spare somewhere.” 

Tiffany was digging around in the little trunk hidden under the backseat. John shuffled to kneel in front of the little side mirror by the controls. 

He hadn’t worn makeup since last year, either. It was one of those socially-unconventional things that made people everywhere look at him uncomfortably - and as much as he liked attention and making people question their own ideas of what was ‘fashionable’ and ‘normal’, he did kind of prefer finishing his recovery in peace. Being lynched in a mental ward with shitty excuses for protection wasn’t his idea of a good time, let alone worth ruining his record of good behavior. 

John rolled the lipstick on; it was a color bordering on the fine line between dark purple and red. The kind of color he wanted to smear over Bruce’s collar. Color over the inevitable purplish bruises and lines of faded scars. Mix with fresh cuts until the reds were indistinguishable and staining white sheets as they tumbled together, blurring the lines of taboo and illicit...

“Here,” Tiffany yanked John out of his thoughts by handing him an open-faced helmet. It reminded him of more of an old-fashioned army helmet than anything. She blinked, slightly surprised by the slight change in appearance. “Uh, there’s no visor, but I did find a bandana for you.”

Heavy white cotton. It could use a good coat of paint… “...are we ganging up on a piñata?”

“What?” Tiffany scoffed, the corner of her mouth upturned just a little, “John, you use it to cover your mouth. Unless you want to swallow a boatload of mosquitos,” she pointed out with a smirk.

“Point taken,” he grumbled, tying it around his neck.

Tiffany slid on her helmet and started the bike with a rumble of the engine while John was still working the helmet’s strap. He��d only just settled on the back of the bike and Tiffany took off like a shot, causing him to grin anew and clutch the handles like he was riding the old haunted house ride back in the abandoned amusement park, grinning anew.

Clearly, Tiffany and Bruce had something else in common.

*~*~*~*~*

To put it mildly, the Motel 11 on Augury Road was the sort of place that seemed to have a pest problem.

John just didn’t know what kind of pest. Arkham always seemed to have rats until his last two years. The run-down halfway house he’d been in the first time he was released had roaches in three sizes. The Old Five Points station John had kicked around for a few months had a bit of both, plus mice, spiders, and The Pact, depending on where you walked.

This place was still a step above all that, of course; it offered freedom, secrecy, hot water, and quiet.

Not too quiet. People clearly stayed there, and the freeway entrance wasn’t too far; John could hear the rush of cars speeding like they were all Batman on a Friday night call.

Tiffany parked her bike in a discreet out-of-the-way corner in a nearby alleyway and stashed their helmets in the tiny trunk as John took in the sight of the motel’s parking lot. 

Selina Kyle had reversed into her parking place so the traffic cameras couldn’t read the plate. There were no markings as to what model car it was, but the sleek dark windows and shiny black finish told John that it was expensive-ish and thus primed for stealing. Or stripping, depending on the area’s hoodlums. He was surprised it hadn’t been touched yet.

“How do you know which room’s hers?” John asked as Tiffany fiddled with her tablet. One of her miniature drones - he was so tempted to name it! - was already zooming towards the building like a little bird.

“Electronic record says someone named ‘Frieda Baast’ checked into room 14[B1]   late last night. Preeetty sure that’s her,” she smirked up at him briefly before watching her screen again, tilting it to fly the small drone, “Plus, she parked close to it.”

John hovered over her shoulder a little, watching the camera zoom around the place like a bee. It looked empty at first, but John saw lumps at the end of the bedspread. “Looks like she’s taking a cat nap.”

Tiffany gave him a look. “Ha ha.”

“What? It’s an easy jab!”

“Speaking of easy,” Tiffany snatched the grappling gun out of his pocket and clipped it to her belt, not bothering to even say ‘excuse me’, “she’s only got two exits.”

“Yeah, the front door and the back window. Duh.”

“Exactly,” she continued with an air of a new orderly, “You go around the back in case she tries to run for it.”

John felt offended at the very idea. There was no way he was going to fit through that back window. Tiffany was clearly going to try and hog the glory of confronting Cat Woman by herself.

Telling Tiffany they should switch places wasn’t a good idea, though. She’d take immediate offense, and even if he threatened her, they’d be fighting before they got to the real problem at hand. No, this would take compromise.

“How about we both go in the front door and use your little kit to guard the back?”

She wrinkled her nose and raised her right eyebrow. “Kit?”

“Yeah!” She didn’t get it. Of course. He rolled his eyes; he didn’t like explaining jokes. “Your last name is Fox, you built the drones - so, your kit. A baby fox!”

She didn’t look impressed. “Oh.”

“Doesn’t it have a laser or miniature flamethrower or something on it? It’s got that little tube under the lens.”

“No, Charlie is only a surveillance drone. That piece is so he can connect with Foxtrot in the field. We don’t need that, though,” she waved off as if his curiosity didn’t matter, “You’ve got a good point, we can both cover the main exit better. And she doesn’t know it’s only for surveillance.”

“Charlie? Ha, what happened to Alpha and Bravo?” he joked. “Wait, does Charlie surf?”

“Alpha was the prototype I made for Br- Batman until it…exploded,” she winced, looking away as if she didn’t want to think about it, “Bravo is what he uses in the field now. I’ve got Charlie, and Delta is the backup in the bike. Batman has the larger drones stashed around the city. And they’re all waterproof, but I wouldn’t say they surf.” Tiffany slid on a large pair of rimless yellow-tinted goggles that looked almost like they were taken from a movie. A small green square lit up in the corner of a lens, and John saw small text crawl across the yellow glass as what looked like a diagram flashed up for a moment.

“Woah.”

“Cool, huh?” Tiffany puffed up in pride. “I’m a few steps ahead of the industry. No big deal.”

“I’d say it’s a pretty big deal!” John flattered, actually meaning it. “You got any other surprise gadgets up your sleeves?”

“What, and ruin the fun?” She lightly smacked his shoulder. Friendly, not bruising, accompanied by a warm smile that reached her eyes - John had scored some points. Clearly, the old adage about catching flies with honey was onto something. “Come on, Selina isn’t going to lay around and wait all day.”

“She will if she’s been in the catnip,” John joked, striding next to Tiffany as they snuck their way around to number 14.

Tiffany could now see the camera feed in her right eye; a little controller in her own wrist gauntlet controlled the drone movements once the tablet was put away on her belt. It was incredibly impressive, but John wondered if it wasn’t a little distracting to be watching a camera and where she was walking. It would be worse if she were fighting or taken by surprise…

John decided to stay on the camera’s side. There was no helping her if she couldn’t see from both sides.

It was tempting to burst in unannounced, but Catwoman wasn’t just using her name for a cute pun on her burglary tendencies – he’d seen her dance with Bruce as nimbly as her namesake. So of course if they couldn’t break in to get the door open, they’d just have to get her to come out.

The easiest way was her car. Anyone who gave a rat’s ass about the safety of their primary method of escape checked on their car alarm.

John remembered Batman’s stunners, and how Bruce had started carrying around one in his pocket since ol’ Scarecrow got put away. He knew they packed a serious punch; he’d been hit with one of those, back when…

No. No no no. Not going there today, Johnny-boy.

John shook his head, telling himself he’d have his little traumatic flashback at a different time. It didn’t quite help, only bringing back that after-zap feeling and the image of Ace Chemicals’ control room, which frustrated him, and that made him gnaw on his bottom lip for something to do and squeeze the knife in his pocket really hard.

“Uh...you okay?” Tiffany asked, stopping him without touching him. He almost wished she did, so he knew for sure she was there.

“Ha ha ha! No!” he answered, feeling more annoyed at everything, “Of course not! Why do you think I was in the funny farm for so long, hmmm?”

It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it was. But he was pissed at himself, at his stupid brain for acting up at the wrong time, for not being able to make that memory better than it was because Bruce probably wouldn’t go for a little safe recreation and they kept getting interrupted, damn it, could things not go his way for fifteen full minutes?!

He grit his teeth. There was no use staying angry for things neither of them could control. “Sorry,” he ground out. “I’m just…” He couldn’t explain it. She wouldn’t get it.

Or would she? Surely she had nasty little memories of where she was last year, too. He knew he caused one of those. His doctors always said he should open up to others. Share the experience.

“It’s just one of those stupid thoughts. The ‘hey, guess what you did a long time ago, boy-o? Let’s relive that,’ kind. It’s not fun.” He breathed in. He was outside, in Gotham, with all its car exhaust and leftover hot dogs covering the rot that seemed to make up the city’s foundation. It was better than Ace or his old cages; at least he could clean out some of the mess by himself. “They just come in at random, sometimes. I’ll be...” 

Not fine. It was what Bruce said all the time. And not ‘normal’, because he never would be. 

“I’ll be okay.”

Tiffany looked sympathetic. Or was it empathetic? Both? She looked at him less judgy and more understanding, and that was all he wanted. “You need a minute?”

“Nah. I was just thinking we need to set off the car alarm and kinda wanted a taser to do it.”

“Oh. We don’t need that.” Tiffany waved over her shoulder for him to follow as she took position by the door, the material of her hood now covering her mouth and nose. John slinked under the window and stood on the other side.

John watched as - quick as he could say ‘Rawhide’ - Tiffany took his grappling gun and fired at one of the headlights before retracting the clattering metal teeth with a snap of a button and clipping it to her belt by its’ jaws.

Like back in his room, half hidden in the dark, John was counting beats. Feeling his heart drum along a little, excitement building in anticipation.

The door opened partway, and Tiffany met his eyes for the briefest second before they spun on their heels to block the doorway and push forward.

“Selina, how are you, can we come in, thanks!” John rushed, pushing the door wide open.

Catwoman was just as fast and nimble as he remembered; it made him wish he’d brought some of his old playing cards along. She rushed straight to the bathroom window and unbolted it as fast as lightning - only to find the drone flying there, the lens right at eye level with a little red LED blinking to life.

Tiffany had her hand poised over the little controls at her wrist. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she taunted, “Unless you want impromptu laser eye surgery.”

Selina turned to face them partway, looking more pissed off than he’d ever seen her. She had cut her hair short and dressed in tight fitting black and white; John could see something slightly protruding above her lower back, which likely meant a knife. She was dressed for combative self-defense, some instructor might say. But like everyone else, she had bags under her eyes - and they weren’t leftovers of eyeliner. In fact, there wasn’t a trace of her usual style. There was only a glowering resentment and an obvious pressure bearing down on her shoulders. He could see the tension in her brow and jaw and wondered what it was that made her hate them that much.

“Fine, you got me.” Selina stared him down; he could practically see possible escape plans swirling behind her eyes. “What do you want?” 

John could not resist a joke with an opener like that. “Oh, you know - freedom, a little niche of my own, a sunset dinner with Bruce overlooking the city...and my own cotton candy machine,” John answered, enjoying the confusion twisting her face into something less threatening, “But I’d really like some answers.”

“I see.” Selina shot a glance over to Tiffany, not seeming to recognize her. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” she said sarcastically, giving her a short once-over. “You must be Bats’ side-kick. Or have you gotten yourself mixed up in this crazy clown’s delusions?”

John could practically feel his dislike for her grow, simmering in the front of his head. What did she know about him? Or even the basic definition of a delusion, for that matter?

Tiffany seemed to have bristled a little less. “It doesn’t matter who I work with. If I don’t hear what I need to know, making your little hideout a beacon for trouble will be the least of your worries.”

“What, don’t you have a cute name to go along with the rest of the crew?” Selina taunted, not looking like she was enjoying it.

John held his gaze steady on the stealthy Cat, though his mind was already wandering to what Tiffany’s reaction would be. She supposedly wasn’t in the cave half the time anymore, and with the obvious costume change she’d likely not be calling herself ‘Oracle’ now. What would it be? Spoiler, as a homage to her original purpose of spoiling criminal’s fun? Batgirl, in mimic of her mentor? Something to allude to her range of skills, perhaps…Spectrum[B2] ? Or some word beginning with ‘T’?

“Robin. Now step away from the window,” Tiffany commanded, side-stepping close to the drone as Selina moved closer to the edge of the bathtub. 

“Hm, cute. Hope that’s not your real name, Robin.”

Selina looked very much like a cat itching to stretch its claws by the birdfeeder. It made John antsier, and he had half a mind to shove her into the bathtub and hold her there until he got the answers to the questions sitting in his gut.

Calm down, Bruce’s voice echoed in his head from a distant memory.

Sweet, rational Bruce would be right. She might kick him away, and a fight wouldn’t give him anything they actually needed. His impulses had to be tempered. And what did those doctors always say to do about it?

John whipped out the butterfly knife and began to fiddle with it, opening it and twirling it in his hand in a familiar pattern. He couldn’t quite remember just when or how he had gotten so good at it since his first release. It was sort of...natural.

He already felt the little urge ebbing away with the repetitive motion. It helped that it doubled as a passive threat - Selina eyed it a little upon seeing the flash of light glint off the blade with every turn and snap.

Selina sighed, glowering lightly at him like she was a cat stuck in a bathroom during dinner. “Let me save you the time - you’re here to ask about the attack on me in Bludhaven, right? All because I wouldn’t give up the dirty details to Bruce?” She folded her arms across her chest, looking almost business like. “The short version is:  I don’t know who they were. One minute I’m strolling down my gallery, and the next the lights cut out and some knife-happy freak crashes through my window. The only thing I can tell you about him was that he was wearing a mask.”

“How do you know it was a ‘he’?” John asked.

Selina rolled her eyes. “Please. I’ve seen enough men in costumes to know one when I see one. Tall, wide build, in a mask and ridiculous cape - only a man would wear that and think they look cool.”

John thought that remark was annoyingly unnecessary. And wrong - a third of Gotham could all agree that Batman’s picture should be next to the word ‘cool’ in the dictionary. (She was clearly jealous. Who wouldn’t be?)

“Casual sexism aside,” Tiffany grunted, “did you notice anything else? Any distinctive markings? Smells?”

“I just said he wore a mask. You think a guy like that wouldn’t cover himself up elsewhere?” Selina shot back, clearly not impressed, “I would’ve thought the sidekick to Bats would know to pay attention to context clues.”

John thought about throwing the knife at her, but it was a bad idea. For several reasons. “And I would’ve thought you were smart enough to not make deals under the table anymore, now that you’re free from the pound,” he sneered, clicking the knife open and shut, “What did Roman Sionis cut you in for?”

Selina glared, her stony green eyes hardening at him. “My deal with Roman was above the table, like all my sales. I don’t see how him buying something from my gallery has anything to do with this. Just because he’s loaded doesn’t mean he’s another crazed mob boss who needs to cut ties with everyone he meets.”

So Alfred was right - Roman bought something from the gallery. John made a mental note to mention that later in the most flattering way possible later.

“Did you see him after that?” Tiffany asked.

“Why would I?” Selina asked coolly.

“Handsome, rich, easy to rob…” Tiffany trailed off, seeming to smirk at her, “We all know he’s the kind that splashes champagne on pretty girls.”

“He does seem right up your alley, Cat,” John added.

Selina looked mildly disgusted at the mild pun. Or maybe the implication. John wasn’t sure which. “Look, we had a drink together after the payment transferred. I didn’t see him after that and I didn’t care. Why does this matter?”

…so she really didn’t know. That was interesting. John had figured she had a bit more of a detective instinct than that. “Because, surprise! He is a mob boss,” John said smugly, “One in a mask, no less.”

“I still don’t see how that matters. I don’t care who my clients are, as long as I get paid. And he has no reason to try and kill me, if that’s what you’re implying – the pieces I sold him were authentic. We parted on perfectly friendly terms.”

“Pieces?” Tiffany puzzled, “What, did he buy half your gallery for his yacht?”

(John quietly wondered if she wasn’t reading his mind somehow.)

“Don’t be silly,” Selina said tiredly, “It was a set of masks. And no, they weren’t anything like what the guy from the gallery was wearing.”

Tiffany stared her down, looking cockier than usual behind her glasses. “So if you left Bludhaven to run for your life and got a nice cash deposit, what the hell are you doing here?”

“We can’t all afford to stay at the Hilton for a week,” Selina dead-panned, shifting to add another mildly scathing remark.

But now who was missing context? And with all the obvious bitterness and tension oozing out of every pore, there was a clear answer hanging in the air. One he definitely preferred over the paranoid idea that she was here for Bruce. “I knew it,” John grinned, snapping the knife in his hand open, “You’re here on a job!” he pointed at her with the tip of the knife, not missing the flash down at it. Thinking of whether he would or wouldn’t use it. “What’s wrong, Kitty, get bored of hanging paintings you hadn’t stolen? Wanted that thrill back?”

“Don’t act like you know me,” she sneered in a slightly louder voice than she needed to use, “you’ll only embarrass yourself with your paranoid delusions of what I am.”

She was baiting for a fight. Maybe she wanted to watch him crack in front of Tiffany. Well, weird people said there was more than one way to skin a cat. “Ooh, throwing around psych terms! If you want to play psychiatrist, you better bring better material than that. Like… I would be willing to bet,” he emphasized with a little faux jab and a step towards her, “that you were actually happy down there, weren’t you? Settling nicely in a weird new life you’re not used to,” step, “when it’s allll upturned by some lunatic,” step, “and you’re forced to run back to the only life you knew before.”

He could tell he was right. Very right. She looked like he’d pinned her to the dissection tray in a lab.

“So you come back home!” He splayed his hands open, feeling more and more assured of himself, “And you need to prove to the world you can still land on your feet, so you pick right up where you left off. Am I right?”

“I don’t need to prove anything to anyone,” Selina growled, looking predictably pissed off, “And what I do in Gotham is my business.”

“It’s not just your business,” Tiffany injected, stepping closer to both of them. John wished he could communicate to her that it was a bad idea without having to threaten her; he just hoped Catwoman wouldn’t get as skittish as her namesake when cornered. “This isn’t just your city. It’s all of ours.”

“Who are you doing business with, Cat?” John asked, choosing to ignore Tiffany’s attempt to get Selina Kyle to play hero. If he was going that route he might as well have mentioned how they were in the same sort of boat! Either way it wasn’t going to appeal to her the way it might with someone else. “How do you know they weren’t the ones who tried to kill you?”

She was skirting her gaze between both of them. Annoyed. Wary. Backing up just a slight bit, metaphorically and literally.

“If they wanted to kill me, they would’ve done it already.”

“Unless they realized they could use you.”

She was thinking about it, staring him down, wondering if he was right, if what she thought was an obsessive lunatic might have had a very good point… She hadn’t considered it before, had she? She had met them already. Why wouldn’t they kill her on sight if not to use her for a day or two?

“Just something to think about!” John smirked, smacking her lightly on the shoulder with his free hand and turning to leave, trying to guide Tiffany to the door by her shoulder. “Come on, Robin. Cat Lady’s not in the mood to play with us.”

Tiffany didn’t budge. She had the same sort of stalwart glare that Batman got. “You know we’re only trying to help you.”

Wrong thing to say. Really wrong thing to say.

“Help me?” Selina hissed, “You barge in and poke your nose where it doesn’t belong, and you call that helping?”

“Robin,” John warned-

“God, you’re just like him! Just as stubborn and deluded with his self-righteous concept of justice. I don’t need help! Not from Bats,” the woman spat, “and not from you! If someone’s after me, I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” John interrupted, finding the ‘if’ particularly amusing, “You’ll pull a Riddler? Put yourself on display to lure them in and go for the kill?” It felt really good to rub it in her face. Almost soothing, in its own way. He couldn’t help but grin wider through his mildly-reddening vision and twist the metaphorical knife a little more. “You know what happened to him,” he purred, pointing the knife in his hand a little at her face, “Let’s not pretend it can’t happen to you.”

He felt a weight on his shoulder. Tiffany’s lightweight armored glove was attempting to pull him back, like she thought he might actually stab Selina in the face to prove a point. He went back to spinning the knife in his hand and stepped away. “Good luck out there, Cat-Lady,” he added, pulling Tiffany’s shoulder along with him in a loose, sidelong sort of hug as the drone hovered behind them like it was on a leash, its harmless lens trained on the angry thief at their backs. “You’ll need more than he did.”

Tiffany was stiff. Or maybe that was just the armor. It was hard to tell… He decided to let go as soon they were out of sight; she didn’t seem to be at the ‘hugging’ level of friendship yet, even if it was only a little one that barely counted. It would probably take longer to get there now. Which was a shame, because he felt like they could both use one.

He did want to break the silence, though. Something about the walk back to a getaway vehicle always seemed out of place, like an overly-long transition between scenes in a movie. But things were real, out in Gotham - he could feel the short heels of his boots as he walked and the city heat pressing against him. He clicked the knife shut and put it back in his pocket, not needing it anymore. “Good job back there,” he said earnestly, flashing a thumb’s up at her, “We can officially cross Black Mask off our list of suspects!”

Even with the mask and high-tech glasses covering her face, Tiffany was clearly angry with him. “So it’s our list now? Because I thought you did an awful lot of talking back there. Almost like I wasn’t there.”

“Oh.” He felt dumb just saying it aloud, but it was a reflex. “Um… I guess I got a little carried away?”

“A little? I was trying to get her to work with us, not plant suicidal ideas in her head!”

“I wasn’t doing that!” He protested, hoping he looked as honest as he felt. (Besides, even if he was, it wouldn’t be his fault if she did go down the Riddler-esque path of showboating and winding up dead.)

“What, next you’ll tell me you weren’t openly threatening her, too?” Tiffany rounded on him, looking more furious as she stopped at the end of the row of rooms.

“I wasn’t!” He clicked his heel hard on the pavement. “I was stimming! She just happened to be close to the other end when I was trying to make a point!” She didn’t seem to believe that, but he didn’t care; he knew it was the truth. “Did you want me to just walk away and let her yell at you for nothing all day?!”

“Yeah! I might have gotten a word in that way!”

“And what, convince her to have a sudden change of heart?” He scowled, getting agitated by the very idea she’d do a sudden one-eighty, “She won’t be a hero if you tell her she should!”

“I wasn’t trying to force her,” she countered, “I was suggesting! Unlike you, trying to play psychiatrist just because she pissed you off!”

“Oh, and I guess you wouldn’t get pissed off if someone tried to tell you what your issues are?!”

“You only made her madder!”

“YOU only made her madder! You don’t just offer her help!”

Tiffany was practically stomping towards the motorcycle in the distance as she threw up her hands in exhaustion. “There is just no dealing with you! I don’t know why I went along with this!”

That hurt. The kind that left a burn-like sting over a punch. They were teammates. Or at least they were supposed to be. Was it just guilt or pity that was holding their shreds of civility together? Was trying to get along with her the first step towards failure?

...or was it her fault? She couldn’t see the obvious nature of Selina Kyle - too independent and fickle to follow life-path suggestions, let alone accept help. Or maybe Tiffany did see it, and she thought Selina was still a better match for the crew - for Bruce - than he was. Maybe, like Alfred, Tiffany thought he was too unstable and dangerous to be around.

He stood in the corner of the alleyway, watching her angrily push on her helmet, and wondered at the intricate nuances of who exactly was to blame. He looked out at the city on the opposite end, wondering if he should just get a Ryde or risk using the Sky Rail...and thought it was odd a large white van was going that fast in his direction from the turn.

Ha, they’d have to stomp on the brakes to get into the parking space here...

It was getting a little too close…

WAY too close!

John darted into the alley, his heart jumping as he heard a sickening crunch behind him.

The van had smashed right into the corner of the building. Right where he had been just a moment ago.

It didn’t matter how curious he was about the driver. He didn’t want to hang around in case they had backup.

“Start the bike!” He shouted at Tiffany as she stood there, looking at the accident behind him. “NOW!”

“But-”

There came another crunch. Like metal pulling away.

The car was reversing, clearly not taking enough damage to stop the engine. It was impossible to see who was driving.

Tiffany revved the bike to life as John slammed the trunk and clumsily straddled the back seat. He’d barely sat down when the van had successfully pulled away from the building and turned its wheels towards the alleyway.

Tiffany had clearly seen this in the rearview mirror - she sped off, past the dumpster and down one of the many long back-routes of Gotham as wind whipped John’s hair. He gripped one handle hard as he pulled the bandana over his face and practically prayed that Tiffany did not decide to suddenly lose control.

The driver of the van didn’t seem to care how fast they were going, what route they were taking, or if half their front bumper was dislodged. They sped past the same brick and concrete and fire escapes and a rainbow of graffiti like it was nothing.

Tiffany tilted the bike to turn onto the street, narrowly missing a peeling station-wagon that sat too close to the alley.

John turned to see if the van was still there, wondering if maybe he could get a glimpse of the driver as they turned - the station-wagon was upended with a loud pop of fiberglass, swiveling into the road as the van barreled into traffic with a sharp turn, leaving a chorus of honking and squealing tires to follow.

John’s heart was practically drumming against his ribs like a fist, barely heard over the roar of the motorcycle but felt all too much - the van had a web of cracks in its windshield and more severe dents in its engine and driver side, but it still managed to follow them, dropping the headlight dangling from its front into the street for some other driver to run over.

Tiffany dodged between cars, seeming to ignore the beeps and rude gestures. John turned forward to see where they were, trying to think quickly on where they could go where their chaser wouldn’t follow, and heard more telltale sounds of the van in pursuit following Tiffany’s lead.

He was horribly reminded of his chase with the G.C.P.D. last year, when he had Waller thrown in the nearest vehicle as they’d ignored almost every traffic law on the way to Ace Chemicals, winding every which way to lose the cops on their tail.

He’d already killed people that way.

He didn’t want to be responsible for more off-screen deaths. 

The van was close behind, if the rearview mirror was anything to go by. Like it was tracking their every move and just waiting to splat them against a...

Oh. Now there was an idea. The van couldn’t squish them if they did the squishing first!

“ROBIN!” He shouted over the wind, tapping her on the shoulder.

She shoved her visor up. “WHAT?”

“TURN HERE!”

Tiffany made a right turn down the emptier street, passing an abandoned storefront, and John saw his chance - there was streetlamp in the middle of the sidewalk in the distance, right next to an alley.

The van could turn, but he knew it wouldn’t be able to turn too sharply without clipping the corner.

John did what he wasn’t supposed to do and quickly wrapped an arm around the armor plates of Robin’s waist as he unclipped the grappling gun still dangling from her belt. 

“WHAT ARE YOU-?”

Timing and aim - a formula too tricky and complex to actually think through. It was all about gut feeling and best judgement.

So John pointed, waited until the mirror showed the van right at their tail, and fired the hook at the lamppost.

Aaand retract!

They were pulled towards the post sharply, and John pushed the little button on the gun to unclench its jaws as the motorcycle tilted into a turn.

The crash of the van hitting the corner’s wall rang in John’s ears like a small explosion, getting quieter as Tiffany screeched the bike to a halt.

John let go and sat back in the seat, unable to stop himself from laughing in relief, letting out the strained ache in his lungs, and then laughing harder at sight of the van. The very smashed front, the now ruined windshield, the bent tire - they were going to have a hard time chasing them now!

Tiffany pushed down the parking lever in two seconds and hopped off, looking an odd mix of pissed off and amazed as she yanked her mask down to her neck and pulled off her helmet. “You…! You fucking idiot! That was brilliant! And stupid!” She shouted with a shove, causing him to teeter a little on the seat.

“Aha ha…! Sorry, sorry,” he tried, holding up his hands in surrender, “I had to do something to get that creep off our backs! And you nailed the landing! Ten outta ten!”

She looked conflicted. Like she was proud of herself but didn’t want to admit it. “Yeah,” she said simply, “but we could have died!”

Yeesh, did she sound like Bruce. “We could have, but we didn’t,” he emphasized, sliding off the bike with ease. “Besides, life’s not worth living without some risk!”

“Just...fucking warn me next time,” she said loudly, power-walking towards the van. “You’re lucky I’m an excellent driver!”

John decided to keep the thought of there wasn’t any time to himself. She sort of had a point - Gotham was full of alleyways. A few more people might have gotten into accidents along the way, but he could have waited...though he did sort of prefer stopping the van now rather than later, so he still felt his decision was the best. Still, another instance of someone telling him something uncannily familiar to what another person said…

Ah, who was he to dwell on little things like that?

“I thought I was stupidly brilliant?” He teased, following her with a twirl of the grappling gun in his hand.

“You’re a lot of things,” she shot back, not sounding as nearly as mad.

He wasn’t sure how to take the odd mix of implied-insult and praise. He decided to focus more on the positive aspect of her actually saying something nice and marked it as a personal progress.

Tiffany pulled out one of Batman’s portable stunners and kept it ready, poised to throw open the passenger side door of the van - John kept the gun pointed at what should be level with the driver’s face. “Ready when you are, Robin.”

Tiffany counted down from three on her fingers, and opened the cabin door with what looked like enough force to rip it off the hinges.

Broken glass and plastic littered the very…empty seats.

“Well, that’s anticlimactic,” John grumbled, lowering the grappling gun, “Self-driving cars sure have come a long way!” He pulled out his phone to take a quick picture:  proof that it happened, of course, but also proof for Bruce.

Tiffany was already climbing into the seat. “It was driving pretty erratically,” she commented as she poked around the ignition.

“Oh, sure, it clipped some corners and sped up a lot – but I’d say that was more reckless than erratic.”

“It wasn’t quite driving straight.” Tiffany pulled up a normal two-pound weight from the gas pedal, tugging some wire tracing from it to the back area, which was also empty. “And it’s easy to see why. Check this out,” she gestured, waving her hand in.

John hoisted himself up and in, keeping his hands to himself in the likely case it was dusted over later. “Shouldn’t we be worrying about the eventual crowd?”

“We’ve got a minute. Look,” she tugged the line, connected to a pulley system controlled by what looked suspiciously like a standing kitchen mixer, “The mixers are rigged to pull the weights on the brake and gas pedals. They probably have remote capability.”

“You’d think that would be a reeeeally short radius...”

“That’s what the cell phone’s for,” Tiffany said, gesturing to the out-of-date smartphone sticking upright in the dashboard. “They must have used it as a dash-cam, and connected it to the mixers to control through an app at the same time. There’s actually a free one for remote device control.”

“I somehow didn’t pitch you for the kitchen-gadget type.”

Tiffany shrugged, seeming slightly downcast at that. “I’m not. I bought my mom one of these for her birthday. This one’s a little different, but it probably has the same sort of rig.”

“So whoever we’re dealing with doesn’t have the handy funds for an actual radio transmitter setup to drive this thing, huh...” John pondered, pulling away the bandana on his neck to pick up the phone up.

The phone’s battery was getting low and the signal was on the edge of reception, but a remote-wipe app was up and struggling to work; John quickly canceled the wipe action and turned the tower radio off before the mystery-driver could do any further damage.

Beep. 

A beeping noise?

Beep.

That couldn’t be good.

“What’s that?” Tiffany pulled away from the backseat. Whatever was beeping came from the back, and John had a sneaking suspicion it was positioned close to the gas tank.

John pocketed the phone. “Time to go!” He snatched Tiffany’s arm and half dragged her out of the van, thinking wildly – if it were him, he would have rigged the whole thing to blast the car sky-high, and running was likely not going to cut it.

Thankfully, like alleyways, Gotham had a lot of fire escapes.

He didn’t think, only counted off the beeps that seemed to coordinate with his heart – six, seven – as he aimed, fired, and zipped up the line with Tiffany being held against her will in one arm.

Nine, ten –

A blast of superheated air hit his back as they reached the top of the metal staircase, accompanied by the roar of exploding gasoline and metal bending against its will.

John grimaced as he smacked his shin right against the metal grating as he wedged his heels in the little bars. “That’s gonna leave a mark,” he growled, casting a look down at the now-definitely-ruined car. “But it looks like our geese live to see another day!” he joked, trying to lighten up the mood for both of them.

Tiffany was just silently looking down at the wreckage below and clinging to him like she thought he might drop her.

“You okay, there, birdie?”

“Yeah,” she said, the ‘oh God, that could have been me’ written clearly on her face.

“‘Cause you’re not as heavy as Bruce in full gear, but your pal Joker can only hang around with you for so long.”

She shot him a look he couldn’t decipher and silently climbed up and over the railing.

“You sure you’re okay?” He asked again as he followed her, pulling out his phone for another snap of the now-burning van below. “You kiiinda seem like you’re in shock.”

“Yeah, I just…” She pushed her goggles on top of her head to look at him, a little wary and unbelieving, but guilty more than anything. “I’m sorry I called you stupid. I didn’t mean it.” She crossed her arms, looking down at her bike below. “You saved us twice today.”

Part of him wanted to just say it was okay, and another wanted to rub it in her face, but he pushed both ideas away. “You’re welcome! But friends don’t wait until after they’re saved to apologize for being rude,” he emphasized with a light glare. “Still, I’d say this calls for a group pic! Just for my album, of course.” 

“...you’re not gonna let me go without one, are you?” Tiffany mused.

“How can I, it’s our first proper team-up!” He gently put his arm around her shoulder to draw her in. “Ooh, put your goggles on! Then we’ll be Joker and Robin.” He made sure to get both of them at a good angle, with Tiffany’s little smile and yellow goggles making her look like she was defining ‘cool’ in her own way. Snap! 

It was a really good one. There wasn’t a trace of awkwardness on her face this time, and the angle was perfectly flattering for both of them. 

“Okay, we should go before the fuzz shows up.” She pushed her goggles back up into her hair and led the way down the stairs, charging down with hard stomps. “You grabbed the phone from the car, right?”

“Yup! I stopped it from doing a little wipe. It was probably tracking us, too.” He followed closely, seeing the plates of her armor shift a little with movement. It really was like a slimmer version of Batman’s suit. “So why ‘Robin’? I kind of expected something a little more…”

“Batty?” Tiffany kicked the ladder down and started to climb back to the safety of hard pavement. “I always liked robins,” she said simply, “My suit’s wings aren’t suited to be bats’, anyway.”

It was a short fall, but worth every second of the wheee he didn’t even try to hold in as he slid down the ladder after her. He plopped the phone into her hand upon landing, not caring about the bemused look she was throwing him. “Here, you’ll probably find more than I could.”

Tiffany poked around on it, swiping with her gloves’ little pads as she walked towards the bike. “Looks like the wipe started with downloads and unused applications.” Swipe, swipe, tap. “Two different apps were used for the mixers… Bluetooth’s enabled, too... Doesn’t look like any navigation software was installed,” she muttered, “They might have a remote tracker elsewhere. But just what are they tracing?”

He was surprised the answer wasn’t so obvious to her. “Uh, pretty sure it’s me, Tiff’. I mean, the car did swerve towards me back at the motel. If it was you they were after, they would’ve veered towards the bike.”

“But the Batcave has a sensor to detect tracking devices upon arrival. Both the entrance and the elevator would’ve set it off if it was stuck to you...”

“I doubt they could’ve just seen me,” John panned, already emptying his pockets, “I might have changed my clothes, but I have to be carrying something…”

She frowned. “You don’t think it’s someone from St. Dymphna, do you? They gave you a phone, right?”

“I doubt it. It’s too basic! And look, it’s barely got a signal,” he held it out for her to see. “Besides, if someone working at St. Dymphna wanted to kill me, all they’d have to do is give me an overdose and claim it was an accident.”

There was his own cell phone, of course, but it was the least likely thing of all. No one but he, Bruce, and his friends knew of its existence, and he kept it close at all times. Remote access was turned off, as was a lot of casual security violations the phone’s software wanted to enable by default. It was possible that someone could use the Batcomputer to look at it, though… He wouldn’t put it past Bruce to leave an emergency loophole.

Just as he was about to put that one away, too, a text came in from Iman:  

Where are you?

There was the nagging thought that maybe it was one of their little makeshift crew. Especially former-Agent Iman, who could easily plant something on him without suspicion. 

But he trusted Bruce with his life. He should extend that same trust to those who Bruce trusted...right?

Right. It was just the paranoia talking.

Out with Tiffy for a joyride! he answered. Don’t tell Bruce though, I’m hoping to surprise him with what we’ve found.

Are you visiting Selina with her?

Of course he was, where else would he be? Hey, don’t ruin the surprise! ;)

John, PLEASE be careful. Both you and Selina have been targeted recently. Your attempted murderer/s are probably still be hunting you.

It’s safer for you to be in the Manor. 

You know Bruce would say the same.

A little too late for that, he thought privately. Not like he hadn’t thought someone would try it again eventually… 

 Iman sure had good timing with her commentary… She had access to the Batcomputer. In fact, she had access to just about everything. She could have known all along where Selina was hiding out and planted the van near there and just waited until-! 

“Robin,” he started, remembering what Dr. Leland had said about proving to himself that irrational ideas like that were wrong, “You trust Iman, right?”

“Of course I do,” she said confidently. “Why?”

See, John? It’s fine, he told himself. “Just wondering.”

There was no use worrying Iman needlessly by spilling the whole can of beans. We’ll be back soon! Promise!! he wrote, making sure not to scrape the screen against the knife he’d gotten from Devi as he slid it back into his pocket.

Speaking of Devi, he’d been carrying around that knife since last night...but the metal handle would probably interfere with a radio signal. And he doubted she would have planned out the shooting to deliberately put herself in harm’s way. She was smart enough to keep herself out of the way for something like that.

The only other thing he had was his rainbow-splattered wallet. There was the hotel key Mickey had given him last night, which he’d stuck opposite the official state ID grinning up at him from the little clear pocket. But the keycard was pure plastic with a little security stripe - nothing more. And why give it to John to bank on killing him later when he or Devi could have just thrown him in the middle of the sniper’s gunfire? It didn’t make sense…

The only other things he had in there were cash, an emergency contact card, some state-given insurance, that really good picture of Bruce he’d saved from an old newspaper…

John stared at the little blue card he’d hidden behind the clipping and felt the urge to smack himself. 

Of course. Of course - of course - of course. The expired card had a chip in it. He hadn’t even thought about it since he had to jimmy the parole officer’s door open… “I found it.”

“Found it?” Tiffany looked up from her examination of the bike’s underbelly. The trunk was wide open and searched thoroughly.

“It’s the only thing I can think of that I’ve been carrying around before Friday,” he said, stretching it out to her.

Batman’s apprentice took it gingerly, and he knew by the utter shock on her face it was something important. “How did you...?!” 

A distant wail of a fire engine pierced the air. Tiffany stashed the card in a little pouch in her belt, shoved her helmet over her head, and started the bike’s engine.

“Come on! We’ve hung around too much!”

“Oh I don’t know,” John beamed, taking the seat behind her with his borrowed helmet loosely stuck on, “We could always get lunch.”

*~*~*~*~*

Upon arriving back at the cave (unfortunately lunch-less), Tiffany had barely gotten off the bird-cycle before making a beeline for the Batcomputer. “I knew it - Michael Hodges! The same guy who booked the room at The Lot…” 

“From the Friday Nighters’ murders?”

“Mm-hmm…”

John felt like reality had twisted itself a little more at her casual affirmation. He was desperate for something to squeeze or tap. The cold metal of the knife in his pocket wasn’t doing it. The grappling gun was too familiar to ground him in the here-and-now. He settled for holding himself, clutching handfuls of leather and reminding himself that it smelled too clean to be fake.

From what he had read of Bruce and Iman’s notes, all seven cops ‘n’ crooks were drugged and shot in their seats, left to watch as each died and bleed into the couches. It stunk of the sort of gloating reserved for serial killers who had debts to settle. He’d wondered if that’s what they were - debts of death being repaid with more death. The little group had been around for a while. Who was to say someone couldn’t trace them back to a single, faulty so-called accident?

But the fact that the guy who booked the murder-room had his card conveniently dropped into John’s lap… It brewed a terrible feeling in his stomach. Clearly, whoever had tried to shoot him and tried to run him over, too, and they were connected to a mass homicide barely a day after two other mass homicides.

It could be a coincidence.

But didn’t the fact that he had to use ‘could’ tell him it wasn’t?

“It’s not a coincidence, is it,” he said, clutching himself a little harder. “They planted that deliberately.”

“I hate to say it, but...it really seems that way,” Tiffany affirmed with a concerned frown. “Where did you even get this?” Tiffany asked, shaking him out of his thoughts without even glancing over at him.

“It’s a long story,” he tried, not wanting to just spill everything he was feeling, “I kind of found it.”

“So, you stole it,” she said, giving him a disapproving side-eye as she jammed the card into a slot.

“Look, I got an order at work, it was sitting inside of it all expired, and I was never planning on actually using it to buy anything,” he growled in a huff, “I was only ever going to use it as a key! And if it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t have found all that stuff on Ian!”

He wasn’t sure if Tiffany was actually listening or not. Her eyes were darting over the screen, hunting for something particular in the schematics of the little chip. “How long have you had this?”

“Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?” She glanced at him once, then when back to scanning for something in the computer’s analysis.

“Yeah, Tuesday! Makes me wonder why our would-be killer took so long to find me.”

“That’s easy,” Tiffany said slowly, still not looking at him, “This thing’s shit.”

Maybe it was stress, or maybe it was her expression and the casual tone she used, but John found it a particularly funny thing to say. “Y-you said that so seriously,” he managed between titters.

“Yeah, because it’s seriously shit,” she replied with a smirk. “The receiver on this thing is pretty bad - even without the Batcave’s defenses blocking it, it must only be getting a signal a third of the time.”

“And me wedging it in a door wouldn’t have anything to do with that?”

“Maybe?” she shrugged with an exaggeratingly-puzzled look, “We’ll never know now. But they can’t track you anymore - my belt has extra-special lining, so they’ll think you got severely injured, if anything. They’ll have to wait until the police or news report comes out to know, and that could be a while.”

John had heard all of that, but he was too focused on the word anymore to really take the rest in.

Even if the thing was working a full thirty-three percent of the time, that was still a thirty-three percent chance his would-be killer knew he was staying at Wayne Manor. He’d prefer that number be a nice, round zero…

“John?” Tiffany waved a hand in front of his face.

“Ha, sorry, just thinking,” he waved off, shoving his hands in his pockets so she wouldn’t see him flexing his hands.

“Look, John - I know you’re worried, but the house is going to be packed tonight. You’d have to have one borrowed brain cell to try and get past the amount of security Bruce has for his parties. And thanks to our resident genius,” she said with a self-satisfied smile, “we should be able to track the signal back to ��em.”

That was all well and good, but whenever anyone told him not to worry, he knew whatever they were going to say wasn’t going to put his mind at ease. 

“So, do you know who slid you the card? Like, who the order was from or anything?”

He did know, but he couldn’t remember the name exactly. John pulled his phone up and scrolled through his gallery, passing the photos of the van, his friends, graffiti… “S. Townsend. Bruce never did get back to me on this signature…” He shared it with the Batcomputer, instantly seeing it appear on the oversized screen. “I was thinking it was that chairperson.”

Tiffany sat back in the captain’s seat, looking thoughtful. “There is a Sonja Townsend on our list of potentials. She’s Michael’s mother-in-law.”

It sounded like a winner to him. “So it’s got to be her!”

“Well…” Tiffany pulled up the security footage of the woman at The Lot, clearly on her way to the murder-room. Big hat, sunglasses...what about this was special? “Look,” she zoomed in, enhancing on the jaw and nose that could be seen in certain shots, “Sonja isn’t this young.” Sonja’s company photo pulled up on the second monitor. “She’s in her mid-sixties. This woman’s half her age, at least. You can see it in her face, and I know Sonja’s waist isn’t that small.”

“All it takes is a corset and a good makeup application,” John said simply.

“I’m not saying I won’t look into this. I just think we’re might be looking for another fraud. Whoever they are, they must have known Michael enough to want to frame him.”

John didn’t have any experience with mothers-in-law - at least that he knew of - but if the media had taught him anything, they were filled with vengeance for their child-in-law for whatever reason. But as he’d learned the hard way, TV wasn’t always right. “What about her kid?”

“A daughter, but it’s definitely not her. She’s currently eight months pregnant. And she’s three inches too short, even without the heels our killer wore. As far as we can tell there’s no girlfriend in the picture, either, and mutual friends that could fit the bill have pretty sturdy alibis.”

John tilted his head, studying the image of the woman on camera. A sturdy, confident pose. A slightly round face without blemish or scarring. Red lips without any hint of smugness. Dutiful.

“I swear she looks almost like one of those really expensive sex workers,” Tiffany said, “The kind that meet businessmen in their offices.”

Jealousy hit John like a light stab. Had...Bruce had someone like that? Even though he’d told John he was waiting for him… “And you would know...how?”

“I’ve run into a couple when I was doing overtime,” she said nonchalantly, “Some of the managers on the twelfth floor seem to be steady clients.”

“You...haven’t seen them above there?” He asked nervously, “Near Bruce’s usual haunts?”

Tiffany laughed. “Bruce? No way! The guy’s way too paranoid about his social persona - he’s not about to invite one of them up to the office.”

“Oh, thank God,” John sunk, feeling some weight lift off his shoulders, “Don’t scare me like that! I mean, I know he loves me, but... I mean, I wouldn’t mind too much if he’d just asked permission first or something…”

Tiffany had a very odd look on her face. Uncomfortable? Confused? Concerned? She had looked away from him and seemed to be pulling up more programs not related to what they were doing. “I’ll look more into where this card might have come from,” she said steadily, as if they had never changed the subject at all, “I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

It shook something inside, deep down, pricking his head with a familiar feeling. He’d said something wrong.

He stared at the head in front of him for a moment, wishing he could crack open her consciousness for a little peek at her thoughts. She had changed the subject and wanted to be alone, all because he mentioned Bruce. Did she not...know about them?

Naaah. Alfred he could understand not telling - but Tiffany? She was part of the team, not a relation that might judge Bruce harshly and tear his heart to shreds. Tiffany had to know.

She was probably just uncomfortable with it because of the whole almost-tried-to-kill-her thing… Or the whole almost-tried-to-kill-Bruce thing. Either way, that was water under the bridge, and she’d have to cross it sometime. Besides, she’d have to be completely blind not to notice how far along Bruce and John had come from that point.

“O-kay, well - I’m going to borrow one of the tablets and do a little research of my own. And then I will tell you what I find!” He said as cheerfully as he could manage with a slap to the back of the chair.

He picked up the spare bat-engraved tablet from the workbench on the way out, expecting her to tell him to be careful with it as soon as it went into his hand, but instead John was left with an uncharacteristically stony silence all the way to the elevator.

*~*~*~*~*

John had been careful about wandering the manor - he didn’t like the idea of suddenly running into Alfred or Tiffany and feeling worse than before, but he did like the idea of running into Bruce on the upper floor. Sadly, his fantasy about bumping into Bruce casually and pulling him into a random room to blow off steam hadn’t come to pass. Instead, he found storage rooms, a second, smaller library, and Bruce’s home office, and still wound up right back at his own guest room.

It was, admittedly, the perfect place to think. The classic green wallpaper was a pretty homey shade, the view of the garden was nice, and the vast empty space that normally bothered him was perfect to pace in and lay out all the things he needed for thinking.

“Of course I’m stimming, Doc’,” he said, looking from the picture of himself and Batman he’d put on his nightstand to his makeshift crime board spread on the floor, “it helps a lot, but it doesn’t help the nasty little thought in my head.”

“What thought?”

“That I’m not entirely welcome here.” He sighed to himself, refocusing on Batman’s stubbled jaw. “Bruce has...guests here, right now. And not just the ones having a literal ball. A surrogate father, and a...well, I don’t know, somewhat-adopted child? Their relationship is weirdly familial.”

“And that makes you feel unwelcome?”

“It’s just… Alfred doesn’t like me very much,” he lamented, looking down at the torn article depicting the Chandis stuck in the harbor. “He’s not rude or anything. It’s the little things. The way he looks at me. How much space he leaves between us.” (The killer had to have stowed away on the boat, hiding himself to lie in wait until the moment was right to kill the crew. Brutal. Forward.) “He said he didn’t think I should be around other people. He didn’t know I could hear him… It was like he was trying to convince Bruce that I should be locked up.”

“How did that make you feel?”

Isn’t that obvious, he wanted to shout into the phone. He didn’t. He looked down at the picture of the warehouse, of the crime scene photos of the mobsters on the ground. “Angry. Mostly Hurt.” He breathed slowly, squeezing his free hand into a fist and letting go. “I just… I just want him to like me. He’s Bruce’s family.”

“I know you and Dr. Leland discussed your feelings about needing to be accepted - do you remember what she told you?”

“That I shouldn’t expect instant results,” he said, not quite remembering Dr. Leland’s exact phrasing.

“That’s true, too, but more importantly:  there will always be people who won’t accept you for who you are. A parental figure in Bruce’s life will naturally be wary of someone who once put his son’s life in danger.”

She had no idea just how much he’d put him in. She would never know. “So… Should I just…not try?”

“I encourage you to try. But you shouldn’t expect anyone to take to you right away. And if there’s no improvement, you have to accept the loss.” There came a brief pause. “What about the other guest?”

“It’s a kid-of-a-family-friend sort of thing. I know she’s going to take a while to come around,” he muttered, “and I didn’t like her at first, but she’s grown on me - and I don’t think it’s entirely mutual.” He studied the picture of the dead group sitting at almost a makeshift conference table. All three major killings were in groups. The only two that weren’t were Muddy Nye and Hubbard Jr., clearly only cover-ups…

“Sounds like you’ve been making a good effort to get along with her. I’m guessing Bruce and her are close?”

“Of course! How’d you guess?” he asked, studying the strings he’d laid over the pages to connect them all. Black Mask connected to the Chandis, the warehouse, Hubbard’s Garage, Muddy, and Selina Kyle; Selina connected to Black Mask and her art gallery, with the Chandis’ killer linking it to the boat; the warehouse connected to Hubbard’s Garage; Sonja Townsend connected to The Lot and St. Dymphna, and Bruce could only be connected to both of those.

(Unless he counted his previous not-quite-a-friendship with Selina, of course… And he did know Roman, but did that really connect him to Black Mask?)

“Would you be making an effort if Bruce wasn’t close with her?”

Oh. That was a good question. One that was potentially driving in the ‘are you revolving your life around Bruce Wayne’ undercurrent that Dr. Song seemed to use as her driving force behind their therapy. It wasn’t necessarily something that made him mad, but it wasn’t something he liked to discuss with anyone except Bruce. Not that he had, exactly, but… Bruce would understand more than anyone else. Doctors and strangers and everyone else would line up around the block to tell him how obsessed he was and that it was “dangerous” and “inappropriate” if he said one word about it.

But he couldn’t keep Dr. Song waiting forever. He paced around the floor-bound casebook slowly, thinking carefully about her question.

Maybe, if they never ever knew each other before, he might not try as hard. If there was no Batman, there would be no reason to try to apologize for old-John’s actions at all. (Well, except at the funeral. But he didn’t think he caused that much of a scene...) They could just be strangers, and there wouldn’t be this dangling thread of animosity towards him. They could, potentially, just be acquaintances.

But if her Dad was alive and she just built Batman’s gear in silence…he still liked being around interesting people. And the little tech-whiz had just enough humor and potential to qualify as interesting in John’s book. He was pretty sure that was why Bruce made her his partner-in-vigilante-crime, outside of compromising for the guilt for her father’s death.

“John?”

“Yeah,” he answered, “I would. Maybe not as much, but...I would.”

“Do you think either of them would make an effort with you, if things were reversed?”

He watched the string paths on the floor turn upside down. “Ha! I wouldn’t know that… I’d have a harder time liking them, though.”

“Try to look at it from that perspective. They clearly care about Bruce a great deal, and the fact that they haven’t been openly hostile mean they’re making an effort. Take those strides with them - give them space and time, and if you feel overwhelmed or threatened, don’t be afraid to walk away,” she advised in her wise, calm tone.

John stared at the upside-down pictures, and the strings leading things together, and breathed out. She would be right, if Bruce wasn’t Batman. If Bruce wasn’t the glue holding the mansion together with his lifelong mission for his personal pursuit of justice. The Batman complicated things far beyond the notion of family and friends. He always hung there, upside down like the proverbial flipside to...

His brain fizzled and thoughts faded away as he stared down at the drawings he’d made over the bodies on display in the Chandis’ storage room.

He HAD seen that shape before. Two lines arcing out from a long vertical line, aka three lines meeting to turn into one. 

Not at all unlike the foot of a bird stamped on heavy stone tablet of the Gotham Cemetery’s mausoleum floor...

“Remember, you can always call me,” Dr. Song said in his ear, stirring him half from the memory and thoughts that were getting squished together. “My phone is always on.”

“Okay,” he heard himself say. He could hear Bruce’s innocent question echoing back out of time from Dr. Crane’s living room:  Did you ever hear anyone talk about the Court of Owls? “I’ve gotta go, doc’.” He vaguely heard her say what was probably ‘goodnight’, but he was too focused on the symbol at his feet. “Yeah, ‘night…”

There were no voices, no music, no hums of lights – just a quiet hush of a lonely room.

His head felt fuzzy, narrowing in on the symbol he’d scribbled over the bodies, silently putting the strings together.

The Court of Owls. An old cult-like organization who believed in keeping the Devil out of Gotham by any means necessary – which usually meant straight-up murder. They disbanded years ago, since the heads of it were either hung in execution or offed themselves before the law could be given the chance. The rest had left Gotham entirely, leaving their bloody sins behind to dry and stain and be swept over.

Until now.

Everything started from Bludhaven. Black Mask had his leg over the fence separating the two cities. The drug shipment, the crew on the Chandis. Catwoman had made her living there. Ian Coggs had supposedly moved to Bludhaven.

And all of them were back in town. They brought The Court with them like a plague…

But that wasn’t true - Black Mask had an inside guy, Muddy, a newbie who didn’t mind giving up the details to the Court.

They were the real rat. They knew when the ship was coming in, and who would be waiting for it – they didn’t care about the drugs, only about leaving their message behind. A warning that Black Mask was being hunted. They killed Muddy for good measure and played dress-up to throw the group off the scent entirely, just in case they delivered a message before their own demise.

John stared at the picture of his attempted-shooter. There was a line connecting the Chandis’ killer to Selina Kyle. Another connecting The Lot to himself.

The masks. The capes. Not copycats, exactly.

Owls.

John felt like he wanted to shed his skin. Chemicals in his brain rushed like he’d woken up next to Bruce for the first time. He could feel his lips wobbling and the thing inside of him vibrating.

Hee hee ha ha HA HA HA HA!

“All this time! Ha ha ha, I’d been thinking it was a riv-al ga-a-ng!” he cackled to himself. “And it’s some - rogue crusader club - risen from the dead! Hee hee aha ha ha! They could’ve killed me before I…!”

Oh.

The realization made his lungs ache with the dying laughs stuck in them. 

They could have killed him. Bruce probably hadn’t considered The Court of Owls as a possibility either. His best buddy hadn’t told him he’d had a theory about it, so he must be as in the dark as the rest of Gotham. But he couldn’t blame him, he was so busy chasing after Black Mask and the various killers and now dealing with him and the Gala and…

He stared at the pages on his bedroom floor, with all the strings laid out, connecting everything together in a complex web. “I have to tell Bruce,” he reaffirmed to himself.

But Bruce was having that big soiree downstairs. The Gotham elite had all stepped out to Bruce’s mansion to show off and pal around on the billionaire’s estate under the pretense of charity. Texting Bruce was likely to backfire, as all the music would likely drown out the phones’ vibrations and tones, and Bruce probably had his Wayne-mask on, which meant his social graces had to be generally adhered to and he couldn’t just cut off whatever schlub he was talking to just to talk to John.

Which meant there was only one solution:  John would have to go down there.

He’d see Bruce in a tux’, undoubtedly impress him with his case-solving abilities, and maybe squeeze in a make-out session in one of the unused rooms. It was a win-win.

He just had to get something to wear and smear makeup on his face. Easy-peasy.

Bruce hadn’t left the suit in John’s room or the Batcave, so it likely was kept in Bruce’s bedroom closet. The same went for John’s makeup. Bruce never just threw things away - as evidenced by the everything in Wayne Manor - so they’d likely be shoved in a drawer somewhere in his grand bathroom.

John had already dumped out half of his meager possessions when searching for his crime-board materials, but there was one thing he needed to find; even if he had to borrow another one of Bruce’s black suits, there was no way he was wearing nothing but black. He pulled out a half-eaten packet of mini-marshmallows, the shiv he’d crafted out of a broken razor and a toothbrush his first week into his stay at St. Dymphna, a very orange button-down too crinkled to deign being put in the closet, the photo album he’d been filling since Bruce had given it to him for Christmas - ah-ha! He shoved the purple bow-tie that had been folded in the corner of the bag into his pocket.

He needed something to cover his hands, too, now that he thought of it. He only had so much peach-tone foundation, and he didn’t trust the setting powder that much.

It was quiet out there, but he knew there was a party going on despite the lack of music thumping under his feet. He passed mirrors and wall-sconces and breathed in, smelling all kinds of buffet food and the smell of old house that seemed to permeate everything. He passed the spots he remembered Bruce throwing some of his clothes down on when John had been there last, and felt a little jolt of deep-seated excitement hit his groin. What he wouldn’t give to relive that wonderful rush of endorphins…

Bruce’s room was just as he’d left it that morning. Except the bed was made. And there were no more clothes on the floor. And there was a definite lack of Bruce’s super-handsome face looking at him with soft longing from the pillow.

But now he was alone in there. With no one to stop him. And John had itchy fingers and a curiosity to fulfill.

“Focus, John,” he muttered to himself, squeezing his hands to try and pass the urge to rifle through Bruce’s bedside drawers, “You’ve got a mission to do.”

The walk-in closet was like a peek into Bruce’s inner-fashionista. Black, white, gray, dark blue, thin classy stripes; t-shirts, full suits, sports jackets, slacks, jeans; shoes that cost more than John’s whole outfits; a whole section of silk ties and pocket squares in colors John had never seen Bruce wore…

It made him want to pull Bruce and his fancy-schmancy black credit card into a proper store and force him to try on some more colors. He settled for running his hands across the rack of expensive shirts instead, flipping them halfway and releasing the smells of fabric detergent and leftover colognes.

John took a step backward, seeing a flash of color behind the up-ended fabric.

A secret button. In red. With ‘ESC’ written on it.

That had to mean ‘escape’, right? What happened if he pressed it? Did Bruce have a secret panel for Batman gear? A panic room? Both?

Bruce had never mentioned it. And if it turned out to fire Batarangs, that was just extra dodging practice and wounds he could make Bruce clean up, so he decided to push it, bracing himself to move.

But there was no alarm or spray of surprise-sharp-things or secret trap door that dropped John into some holding cell. There came a quiet squeak of hinges behind him - and behind the opposing rack of suits, there was an open gap in the wall with a long, shiny pole that plunged who-knew-how-deep into the floor. John took a peek downward, seeing lights reflecting off the pole far, far down.

A secret route to the Batcave, maybe? John made a mental note to ask about that later. He did remember Bruce mentioning wanting to put in an extra entrance…but he wasn’t going to just go down the pole to find out. Pressing buttons was one thing, but travelling potentially-incomplete paths was another entirely.

The door closed by itself after John pulled his head out of the enclosure. He continued down the rack of suits, finding some in clear protective bags, and found a tuxedo in Bruce’s size - but with white formal gloves in the breast pocket. What a lovely coincidence!

They fit his hands a little loosely, but it was better than nothing, so he decided they would do. Bruce must have kept them for if he had scars or visible battle wounds on his hands.

John found his tailored charcoal-suit at the very back, kept in a full-length plastic cover with one of his playing cards peeking out over the breast pocket. He could smell the same laundry detergent Bruce used on everything else in his closet as soon as he unzipped the bag. “I’m steppin’ out, my dear - To breathe an atmosphere -” he sang to himself as he quickly changed, “That simply reeks – ha ha ha ha – wi-ith claaass!”

It still fit as snug and comfortable as ever. He hung up the street-clothes he had been wearing on the now-empty hanger for later and decided that his ankle boots (which he had worn with the same suit last time) still looked fancy enough. Bruce had not thoughtfully put the whole deck in the suit’s pockets, though. He had to have kept them somewhere…

He decided to give into the urge to peek in the drawers, finding nothing but socks in one, and another with an awful lot of boxer-briefs in Bruce’s favored colors, and the last... 

Weapons. A telescoping nightstick, razor-sharp throwing stars, an actual honest-to-goodness pair of nun-chucks, a can of extra-strength mace, a stunner, a pair of police-quality handcuffs, a literal money-clip of cash, and… 

“Oh. My. Batman.” 

Bruce had not only kept his razor-cards in a cute plastic card-case with the Joker card face-up on top, but he’d kept his old joy-buzzer on a fancy velvet bracelet-holder! (Or was it a watch holder? John could never tell the difference.) They were incredibly out-of-place sitting with the non-Batman defense weapons. It made John wonder if Bruce just hadn’t gotten around to moving them to someplace more secure - if someone poked through his drawers, like John was doing now, they might put things together.

Or just think Bruce was obsessed with him and bought the things under the table from the G.C.P.D. 

The thought made John giggle. He was definitely taking the joy-buzzer back. And borrowing the can of mace for good measure. He wanted to take the full deck of cards, but one card was surely enough to qualify as an emergency use, and the rest of the deck would be awfully bulky with the rest of the things in his pockets. Not to mention, he liked the idea of taking them slowly to see if Bruce noticed any missing.

John smirked to himself as he stood in front of the embedded mirror in one of the closet’s cabinet doors to put on his home-made bow-tie. Bruce had stolen more from John’s evidence locker than he’d previously thought, and kept them in display pieces in his bedroom like they were treasures. It was enough to make any boyfriend smug. God, he could not wait to tease Bruce for it later. Maybe pull the card out of his pocket and tap it against his cheek, and wait until Bruce got that surprised look on his face and asked him where he found it, and John would tell him it was a s-e-c-r-e-t…

Though...speaking of secrets. “I wonder where Bruce put my Batarang,” he muttered, tilting his head in the mirror to make sure the tie was staying put. “It wasn’t in the cave earlier…”

And if it wasn’t in the secret drawer… It had to be somewhere in Bruce’s room.

So naturally, he poked into the closest thing outside of the closet - Bruce’s bedside table. He wiggled his fingers before pulling the knob to the top drawer, grinning to himself as he prepared to be surprised with what was inside.

Hm. Just ordinary things. Flashlight, a candle and matches, pen and paper with the Wayne Enterprise logo, the billy club Bruce used to keep under his pillow, and what looked like a powered-off burner phone. Bo-ring.

John checked under the pillow to see if maybe it was there - nope, nothing. Maybe the second drawer of the nightstand?

He opened it, stared, and promptly shut it. He hadn’t…seen that? Right? He was imagining things?

He peeked again, half-hoping he was. Nope, that pearly-white fleshlight was definitely real. So was the bottle of lube and condoms next to it, and the…

John felt uncomfortably warm. Guilty for looking, a little embarrassed for what he’d seen, and turned on by the mental image he was producing. He let the he amused, nervous giggle leave his mouth, grateful that Bruce wasn’t there to see him like this.

Especially since his Batarang - with the lipstick-scrawled message still intact - was sitting right on top of the condom box. It really made a guy all…wonder-y.

He snatched it out of the drawer and focused on tapping on the wood grain of the furniture rather than the dangerous thoughts trying to force their way to the front of his head. Just save those thoughts for later, John. Muuuch later. You’ve got a job to do.

But it was sweet that Bruce kept his little promise-note. Really sweet. Kissable sweet. Shove-him-against-a-wall sweet. The lipstick was dried, but still slightly waxy, so John was careful when putting it in his pocket.

He breathed in and out, smelling remnants of Bruce, and went to put on his face in Bruce’s bathroom.

Thankfully, John had learned how to apply foundation fairly fast, and temporary hair color was only comb-in job. It was the little details that took longer, like eyebrows and careful shading. Especially since he had to do it in a smaller mirror, or else...it wasn’t fun. 

He left in a hurry and straightened himself out as much as possible, his mind full of Owls and Bruce and the out-of-body feeling that came with looking at himself in the mirror with his man-off-the-street makeup. He avoided looking at any hallway mirrors, reminding himself that he did a fine job and didn’t need to triple-check, and followed the sounds of people and classic lounge music to the ballroom, taking the stairs two at a time.

Wayne Manor’s ballroom wasn’t as big as John imagined. He expected something along the lines of an old castle’s ballroom, but it was actually smaller than the manor’s foyer. It still glittered like something out of a storybook or an old Hollywood movie, with an enormous crystal chandelier dangling from the high ceiling, long banquet tables complete with ice sculptures and chocolate fountains, and people dressed to the nines dancing or milling about with champagne flutes.

It was there, just outside the ballroom door, that John realized he would have to sift through the crowd towards Bruce, who was unfortunately not easily visible. 

Well, he had to do what he had to do. Enter the world not as John Doe or Joker or whoever he might have been nearly a decade ago, but as some other new rich schmo out for a shoe shine on the ballroom floor with the rest of Gotham’s elite. He could do that.

He strode in, weaving through the outskirts of the crowd as he scanned them, searching for Bruce’s beautiful face among the crowd. It was difficult - there were an awful lot of black tuxedos and pretty faces, and his growling stomach didn’t help any.

He looked over by the long buffet table - the one with shining silver trays bearing all manners of savory hors d'oeuvres - and spotted a familiar face.

She had her hair up in a very sleek ornate bun, and he couldn’t recall ever seeing her wearing lip gloss or sensible chocolate-colored high heels, but it was definitely Iman in that champagne halter dress. He approached her as casually as he could, popping one of the little fluffy pork-filled dough-things from the end of the table in his mouth on the way. “Well, fancy seeing you here, stranger,” he said as he sidled up to her.

She searched his face for a moment, clearly trying to disguise her confusion with polite examination. He grinned wide when her left eyebrow shot up to her hairline. “John?”

“In the make-up-covered flesh,” he answered quietly. “I’d say you clean up nicely, but you’ve honestly looked this pretty every day I’ve seen you!”

“Thank you,” she said politely, the silvery pearls in her ears reflecting the chandelier with the tilt of her head. They went very well with the snake-shaped hearing aid. “That suit looks like it was tailored for you.”

“It was; I tailored it myself.”

“I’m guessing you’re looking for Bruce?”

Damn, what a guess! “Ha! What are you, a mind reader? Can you guess what number I’m thinking of, too?” 

She smiled warmly. “Of course not. You’d guess a letter instead.”

“Man, you’re good,” he chuckled. “You haven’t seen Bruce, have you? I figured something out and I kinda want to tell him in person. And you, too, of course!”

Iman opened her mouth to reply when Tiffany wedged herself on Iman’s other side. 

“Oh man, I swear if I have to talk to another…” Tiffany paused, seeing John but not recognizing him. “Oh, uh, sorry. Ignore me,” she said, turning to busy herself with choosing from finger-sandwiches.

“It’s gonna be hard for anyone to ignore you when you’re looking that pretty,” John said, taking in the one-shoulder satiny blue jumper. She’d sprayed silver glitter in the dyed portion her hair, too. The effect wasn’t as cute looking when she whipped her head around with the just-seen-a-ghost type of surprise on her face. 

“What are you doing here?” she stage-whispered, “And where did you even get all that?” she added, gesturing to his whole ensemble.

“I could ask you the same question,” he teased, “I’ve had all this since the last time I was here! Well, except for this,” he added, thumbing his tie, “I just couldn’t let a perfectly good scrap of material go to waste! Oh, but I’m here to see Bruce. And you guys! I found something major, and it, uh, probably shouldn’t wait. At least for too long.”

“And you can’t just tell us now?” Tiffany asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

He bit back the desire to ask what her problem was. It wouldn’t be a great start to the evening plan. “It’s easier if I just tell you all at once. In private. Hopefully in the next ten or fifteen minutes, depending on if I can find Bruce in this ridiculous crowd.”

“Which case does it deal with?” Iman asked, watching him with that same analytical curiosity he’d seen half the time she asked him questions.

All of them! He wanted to say. But you didn’t get an audience by spoiling half of the ending. “You’ll find out if you meet me in the parlor,” he said, hoping he was projecting an air of mystery. “I’m gonna keep looking for Bruce. And if you see him, tell him I’m looking for him!” he added, clicking his fingers in their direction as he made his way to the edge of the crowd.

He looked out into the party. People were dancing, laughing, pushing signed checks and wads of cash into glass bowls for the charity of their choice - if it weren’t for the otherworldly feeling he was getting and the fact that all the upper-class twits surrounding him didn’t really care about the actual people they were helping, it might have made a nice picture.

Actually, getting a picture was a good idea. They really did help with the whole grounding-himself-in-reality task he had to do more and more often nowadays. He pulled out his phone, thinking about what angle to use, and saw a text pop up from Devi.

How u holdin up J?

His phone had definitely vibrated in his hand, so that was real… Oh, there was no way he could resist showing off, now. 

You’ll never guess where I am!!! :D He wrote back, having to press a little harder on the screen so the thin cotton would let him type.

Ur bfs bedroom????

Dude u DIDNT

John giggled to himself. Her mind would be blown if she knew what he’d found in there, but he wasn’t about to tell her all that. It raised too many follow-up questions. LOL I wish!!

He turned around and decided to swallow his discomfort to take a partial selfie in the glittering, perfectly-lit ballroom and send it to her. It was honestly better to look at his made-up face with a camera than a mirror, where he couldn’t manage to look at the whole thing without feeling distorted. Maybe it was because he’d done it with Bruce before, back at Dr. Crane’s house? Or maybe it was the way the digital camera moved that made it feel fake enough. Or both. 

I’m at the gala! Undercover, of course. ;D he added.

Ok that makeup is amazing I barely recognize u!!!

Whats it like? Live up 2 the hype?

Everyone is super pretty, it’s annoying and crowded.

But it’s got swanky music and good food sooo... Pretty ok???

He should ask how she was, since she took the effort to reach out to him. How’s it going over there? You and Mickey doing ok?

Well we r still standin so its good. My sis came to visit which was nice but I decided not to transfer out. 2 much trouble. Mickey had no choice but 2 stay bc usual insurance bs :\

Oooh but that bitch Karen got her ASS reprimanded for yelling at the mens room by the gym for some reason last night! Dont ask how i found out ;p

HA I told her Mickey went in there when he was hiding from her in the library yesterday!!! Ha ha ha ha I can’t believe she actually yelled at nothing!!!

Omg!!! Mickey actually laughed when i told him!!! Classic J!!!

If u didnt almost die id say u need to come back

Its less colorful and WAY 2 quiet wo u

John felt that familiar fuzzy warmth that came with Bruce saying he missed him. He looked up into the crowd and was sure he spotted the familiar head of sleek black hair, so he decided to try and navigate through the crowd and text at the same time.

Awwww!!! Don’t worry, it’s only until they catch the guy! He wrote, side-stepping a hired butler before the tray knocked into him. (Should he tell her about Batman working on it? Surely he could excuse it away with a surprise visit. It wouldn’t be the first time Batman had been perched outside his window.) God, was there always this many people huddled together or what? Which should be soon, since Batsy’s on the case!

He’d no sooner pressed send when he smacked into an obstacle and heard the tinkling clink of shattered glass.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, but clearly she didn’t hear him.

“Fuck,” the woman he’d bumped into muttered, wiping off the end of her oddly familiar orange off-shoulder dress. It was too dark to blend in with the rest of the summer dresses swirling in the crowd. It was more suited to autumn, especially with the chunky black heels she was wearing with it...

Waaait a second.

Sure, the curly bob curving around her ears and framing her face was brown, but he knew that cute face anywhere! He’d sat across from it dozens of times!

“Jackie Lant!” He exclaimed, unable to help the smile stretching on his lips as she turned with the very clear look of a deer caught in headlights.

It was actually kind of nice how she seemed to instantly recognize him through the makeup and hair dye. Though the sight of him didn’t seem to excite her. “H-hey, John…”

She must have been thinking he was talking to her for some sort of threatening purpose. He should squash that right away by just talking like he normally did. “Talk about a coincidence! I thought that dress looked familiar – tailored by Mr. Prinya himself! It figures you’d wear it in summer. It’s just everything pumpkiny all year ‘round for you, isn’t it?” He chuckled. “But I’m surprised you’re back in Gotham! How’s the acting gig going for you? I’m assuming well enough to get you invited here?”

Jackie snorted into a small smile as her nerves melted away. “You haven’t changed a bit,” she said, propping one hand on her hip, “You still talk a mile a minute. Well, firstly - I, uh, don’t go by Jackie. In public, anyway,” she added with a pout and a side-eye to the crowd, “It’s Jacqueline, right now.”

“Little close to home, don’t you think?” John smirked.

“It’s easy to get used to,” she shrugged, “Besides, it makes for a good stage name; I get more callbacks with it. Probably because it makes me sound classically trained,” she emphasized with finger-quotes and a slight smirk that made a spark in her leaf-brown eyes. “No one suspects I just learned from life experience and being a huge theater nerd.”

John sniggered. “Well, if you ever need a letter of recommendation, I think me and Bruce can give you one! ‘Fooled entire asylum of patients and employees into thinking she was a trustworthy budding doctor,’” he mimed writing on an invisible notepad, “‘Played dual role as a sympathetic victim of our money-hungry society and a secondary villain, with a believable and overall stellar performance,’” he continued with a grin, “‘Solid ten out of ten!’”

“…sounds kind of like you’re still mad,” she responded, folding her arms across her chest with a dull look at the crowd. She looked more like the hopeless person he’d seen clutching her stitches on the mausoleum floor than the one watching the Batmobile take off afterwards. “Not that I really blame you.”

Well, he couldn’t help but enjoy holding her sins over her head a little, but he wasn’t really mad…anymore. They both did pretty rotten things at some point. “Oh, turn that frown upside-down, Pumpkin-head,” he teased, poking her in the corner of her mouth, “I’m only messing with you! It’s water under the bridge!” She eyed him, seeming like she wanted to believe that, but wasn’t too sure if he meant it. She looked like she needed a little boost. And what better way than to lighten up her grungy past a little? “Besides,” he added in a low voice, “you’re an idiot if you think I don’t replay the memory of you shooting ol’ Scarecrow in the shoulder whenever I’m feeling blue.”

That, surprisingly, made her laugh. It was light and short, but it lit up her face, so he knew he hit a bullseye. “Honestly, so do I,” she said with a dark gleam in her expression. “Especially when someone’s really annoying me. It’s a good reminder of what I’m capable of.”

One of the butlers had swooped over to their spot on the floor to clean up the glass.

“Oh, excuse me,” Jackie said politely and pulled John towards a less crowded section of the floor. “Sorry - I don’t really like the idea of smacking into anyone else out here,” she muttered, “but I’ve been meaning to ask – what are you doing here? I thought you weren’t released yet.”

Sheesh, can a guy just not want to have a good time, he wanted to say. But he didn’t really want to rile up anyone just yet, and it wasn’t her fault she didn’t know he’d been asked that twice already. She must not have known about the incident at St. Dymphna yesterday. (Not that he could blame her for not looking at the news. The same cycle of misery and murder never made for an entertaining time.) “It’s a secret,” he said simply, “Besides, I’m here for a good time, not a long time!” he added with a wink, snatching a shrimp cocktail off a waiter’s tray. It only lasted two bites, but it was delicious. “How about you? The last I saw you, you were running from your problems in a shit-box of a car.” She couldn’t possibly have been doing well enough to get a formal invitation if she had gotten her dress tailored in his neck of the woods…

“Ha, I still am,” she said, not sounding very amused despite the tiny smirk on her lips. “I’m here because it’s better than sitting around my hotel room feeling sorry for myself,” she grunted, the light in her eyes dimming as she snatched a flute off another waiter’s tray and downed half of it in one gulp. She stared at the glass, thinking of something with all the depressed seriousness he’d seen back in the mausoleum last year. “Fifteen years ago, my best friend was found rolled up in a rug in the dumpster three blocks from where she lived.”

John remembered the many pictures she had hung up in her small apartment; a lot of those friends were dead. “Oh… Uh, I’m sorry,” he tried, not sure what else he could say without sounding like a huge jerk.

“Don’t apologize,” she said with an oddly sharp look, “I didn’t tell you to get sympathy. I get enough of that from everyone else. I told you because you would’ve picked my brain apart to get it out anyway, and I don’t really feel like playing that game.”

“Ouch, Jackie,” John clutched his chest and pouted dramatically, “You think so low of me! And here I thought we were getting to be friends…” He couldn’t hold the pout for long – if she was going to be rude, he could needle her with a taste of her own medicine. “But I guess if we were, I’d drop dead in a week.”

She didn’t seem to take that harshly at all. In fact, she lightened up a little. “See, that’s more like it,” she said with a Bruce-like smile. “No one else gives me dark jokes like that. They all think it’ll just make it worse.”

Huh! Well, at least John didn’t have to worry about tossing around grim jokes in her presence…?

“Honestly, though,” she continued, “I’m really only in Gotham for-”

“Jacqueline, baby – who’s this?” A man who couldn’t be much older – or taller - than Jackie sidled up to her out of nowhere, putting his arm protectively around her shoulder and flashing what could only be described as a bad attempt at ‘the Bruce Wayne press smile’. He didn’t have Bruce’s natural charm to pull it off, but he was fairly handsome, in a standard-Hollywood-twenty-something sort of way. Bronzer, foundation, and eyebrow powder were enhancing his face, but admittedly the curly swoop of dirty blond hair and lithe athletic frame helped with the overall look.

Jackie seemed to brighten a little more; she clearly knew him. “There you are, Matt – I was just talking about you. This is one of my old work-buddies.” She nodded slightly as she gestured to John, giving him a significant look he took to mean play along. “We worked on my last play here together. He’s a real Gothamite.”

The man called Matt reached his hand out to shake John’s. “Nice to meet you, Mr…?”

Shit. John had gotten used to being himself out on the floor, and now he had to put his normal-person face on, even if he didn’t want to play along. He grappled for the most normal names he could think of. He didn’t want to use his own, no matter how ordinary ‘John’ was.

Eric? No, I need something more familiar... Uh, J...erome? Jerimiah? Ooh, wait-!

“Jack,” he answered, thinking of the card currently sitting in his breast pocket. He might as well pick a good surname to go with it. And who was this guy to know where it came from? “Jack Napier,” he finished, reaching out to shake the guy’s hand. “Sorry - auditory processing,” he snorted, trying to smooth it over, “Takes a bit for the ol’ brain case to catch up sometimes.”

Matt didn’t seem to quite understand that, but he shook John’s hand anyway. “Matt Chaney,” he said proudly, like his mere name was something to envy.

“Matt and I snuck in here for research,” Jackie said with a small wink.

“Jacqueline-”

“Oh, lighten up, Matt. Jack’s great at keeping secrets.”

John tittered. “Got a noodle stuffed with ‘em,” he joked, “and not a single leak in the pan.”

“There’s a new TV soap role he’s trying out for,” Jackie explained with a pointed thumb up at Matt’s chin, “Think Bruce Wayne, but with less dough.”

“Oh, you’re on TV?” John asked, looking over their shoulder to see if Bruce made a coincidental appearance in the crowd. Maybe he was brooding somewhere…

“I’ve gotten some good contacts recently,” Matt boasted, which John translated to a ‘no’. “You worked with Jacqueline before she moved, right? Man, you must be pretty jealous now.”

...jealous of what? “Uh, look, you’re both rather attractive, but I’m afraid my heart’s spoken for,” he answered, tapping his chest where his undying love for Bruce Wayne lay embedded. “And neither of you are…really my type.”

Jackie sniggered as Matt frowned at him. “He doesn’t really go on social media, babe,” she said to her boyfriend with a genuinely amused grin as she pulled her phone out of the small purse dangling from a pathetically tiny strap on her shoulder. John could see the Lucky Hotel logo on a card she’d stuck in the back of the phone case; no wonder she altered her dress at his place! “Matt’s big on Root and MuSec[B1]  nowadays,” she explained, tapping on her screen, “I’ve got a bit of a following myself. Here, this one’s gotten me a lot of attention.”

John watched the very short video. He couldn’t hear the background music, but he watched as Jackie dramatically flipped a fan between her face, showing her normal face at first (with her hair still dyed brown), and then transitioning to a wide, grinning jack-o-lantern face done entirely in stage makeup. She’d worn yellow contacts to make the black of the painted eye-holes pop and seemed to have crafted painted plastic teeth for her jaw to open wide. “Ooh hoo hoo! Ve-ry nice,” he praised, watching the light in her eyes brighten further. “Reminds me of your last Halloween costume,” he teased.

Matt was clearly seething with jealousy - he plucked the phone out of Jackie’s hand and pulled up a different video. “Here, check this one out,” he said haughtily.

“‘Video removed for copyright violation’,” John read from the video placeholder on the page, “Impressive!”

“What?!” Matt pulled the phone back to him a deep scowl. “Not again! Those stupid fucking…”

“Why, Mr. Chaney,” a clear voice said from John’s left, “what a delight; it seems we’re destined to keep running into each other.”

John tossed a look towards the stranger heading towards them:  a man with extraordinarily average looks and flat, mousy brown hair. He could’ve passed him in the street a hundred times.

“And who are your friends?” The man asked, looking between Jackie and John. He settled back on John, looking more and more curious. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Oh, uh, Jacqueline – my girlfriend,” Matt emphasized by putting his arm back around Jackie and giving her a little squeeze – “this is Reverend Overfield; we met when I was scouting around town a while back. Reverend, this is Jacqueline Latern, and-”

“Jack Napier,” John interrupted, deciding to take initiative in shaking the Reverend’s hand like people were supposed to do. But weren’t guys like the Rev’ supposed to wear those little white collars everywhere they went, and not full-blown tuxedos?

“We haven’t met before, have we?” the Reverend asked as he withdrew his hand. “You seem familiar.”

You might have seen me on the news, John thought privately. “Oh, I’m just your typical man about town,” he answered with all the patented Wayne charm he could channel. “I’m sure you’d find a dozen like me in this crowd.” He looked over the faces of people behind the Reverend’s shoulders, hoping to suddenly see Bruce come into view, but no such luck. He’d have to stealthily make an excuse and slip away when he could.

“Do you live in the area, or further into the city?” The reverend asked, looking oddly probing for such an innocent question.

“I’m just taking the tour, Rev’,” John said with a growing impatience.

“Splendid!” He beamed, as if he was truly enthused by the idea, “You should pay us a proper visit before you decide to go.” He pulled out a business card and handed it to John. “We’re currently housed in of the older churches in the city. It’s quite the sight by itself; you don’t have to worry about being pressured into anything.”

John doubted that. He looked at the card. Rev. Sebastian Overfield, Church of the Written Mercy was stamped next to a picture of three people clustered together to reach up to what John figured was supposed to be a beam of light. “The Written Mercy? ”

“So it is written, and so it shall be,” he nodded with a serene sort of smile that usually came with John’s neighbors being doped up. “God has written our destinies out since the dawn of time. Regardless of evil’s lawless discord interfering with those destinies, we firmly believe those injustices can be resolved with faith, perseverance, and God’s guidance. Of course, we are always open to interpretations now and again.”

“You mean want people to tear your philosophy apart?” Jackie asked with raised brow.

The reverend gave a polite laugh. “There are no better fresh interpretations of ideas than from strangers.”

John’s first impulse was to tell him fate was as much of a joke as the justice system - but while justice had dealt John a bad hand and turned his whole life into a long, bad joke, fate had given him something worthwhile.

Something beautiful, in the form of a man who might as well have been divine for all the life upheavals and whirlwinds of emotion he caused. A man that could, finally, be seen in the immense, glittering crowd over Jackie’s and Matt’s shoulders.

“I think the inevitability of death is the only true fate in the world,” Jackie said as John stared out into the crowd, feeling a sweet sting at the sudden appearance of some pretty nameless thing putting her hands on Bruce’s shoulder to guide him into a dance, “How long we take to get there, the people we meet along the way – all of that is random.”

John could see Bruce following along with the motions, but his smile wasn’t reaching his tired eyes.

“I can see where that comes from,” Reverend Overfield nodded sympathetically, “It’s hard to believe that the people we lose in this lifetime aren’t taken away by chance; but I have always believed that every loss has a place in one’s life, even those most painful to live with. How about you, Mr. Napier?”

He did agree with Jackie’s point about them all being born astride a coffin and being subject to only the unknown, but... There was no way that was all there was. How could he think that, when a piece of his destiny was twirling slowly out beyond them as they spoke? “I think we’re at the mercy of a chaotic, constantly-changing universe,” he said, keeping his eyes firmly on his disarmed dark knight, “but there are some people that are always meant to be there…” (Some of the doctors always seemed to think it was dangerous for patients to think of soul-mates and pre-determination. But they weren’t here, were they? John could speak freely, since he wasn’t going to see most of these people again. Who would care?) “Our choices can make the universe change the how and why, but they’re there; and their choices shape us in return.”

He wouldn’t be there, the way he was now, without Bruce. If Bruce hadn’t saved him. If Bruce hadn’t believed in him. John felt it, deep down, past his thoughts and feelings, past his memories, past his sensory input…

“That’s an interesting way of putting it,” Jackie commented thoughtfully.

“So fate is essentially giving us soul mates, but with free will?” Matt said with what sounded like a sneer.

John could feel himself being stared at, and tore himself away from looking out at Bruce’s strained dance. The Reverend Overfield was staring at him a little too intently. John had the feeling he’d said something wrong; there was a definite dislike sitting in that subtle expression. Not that he cared – the guy was weirding him out anyway. “Aaany-who, this has been a fun diversion and all, but I’ve got a brooding billionaire-playboy in desperate need of some livening up - I’m sure I’ll see you all around!”

He gave a little wave to the group as he made his way back to the ballroom floor, hearing Jackie’s little call of good luck as he plopped the empty shrimp-glass onto a passing waiter’s tray.

John didn’t need luck. He had Bruce squarely in his sights, and navigating around the various tuxedos and shiny gowns was nothing compared to dodging punches and stray bullets.

Judging by the look on Bruce’s face as he spun slowly around on the dance floor with the pretty young thing that had dragged him there, John figured Bruce would rather be in his favorite suit, dancing to a very different tune.

 [B1]My answer to TikTok!

*~*~*~*~*

Notes:  ...now, I know what you’re thinking. Yes, that’s where I’m cutting this chapter off. Yes, you don’t get to see The Dance I teased you with yet. But it took well over my original time-limit to finish this with all the Tiffany-John bonding and various developments I’d been planning for ages! I always seem to go “yeah I can do this large amount of development in a short amount of time nbd” and then forget that when I flesh out ideas, I pull all the stops to make sure they flow with the story right and it takes foreeeevvverrr. So, as I sorta predicted, our Big Gala Saturday is split into 2 parts! So you’ll have to wait a liiiittle while longer to see The Dance...s. But we’ll get to see Brucie next time! It’s gonna be one hell of a night... >:3c

John is just a barrel of fun to write once I get into the rhythm! Having him bond with Tiffany was a great challenge, and I managed to check off soooo much of my wishlist. Jackie Lant’s return! John choosing his “name”! The fun inclusion of the famous Bat Pole! John and Tiff bonding through their investigation and getting a selfie out of it! Ahhhh!!! I’d been planning having him grapple Tiffany out of the way of that van for months! What fun!!! 

Writing John with Selina was tough, though, because part of me knows he’d love to just deck her in the face out of undealt-with jealousy re: Bruce, but I had to remind myself that for all his similarities, this isn’t a S2!John Doe. This is an evolving John “the player” can control, and naturally I get to choose the shape he takes in his chrysalis. Our boy is doing his damnedest to keep his violent impulses in check as he grapples with reality and grows to truly care for people outside of Bruce like the recovering patient he is. He’s come a long way in such a short time! ;w;

I’m hoping I can finish and upload the next part by my birthday. So fingers crossed I’ll upload in the next 6 weeks! Please comment, kudos, and subscribe/bookmark to help charge the muse! (And reblogs are HIGHLY appreciated!)

PS -  I couldn’t NOT reference @fractualized​‘s Free John Doe series! If you haven’t read it yet, check it out! :D