#I remembered the batarang scar this time
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RomanJay is so good that's really all I have to say about this
That "pictures falling out of pockets" meme but it's me dropping pics of Jason with older men
#roman sionis#jason todd#romanjay#I drew this too tiny and I can't fix it and I'm frustrated but it's whatever#I remembered the batarang scar this time#f: dc#scribbles
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FANON batfam things to (dis)like
To like:
Tim Drake taking photos at night - you know what I'm talking about.
Lazarus Pit's influence as some intrusive thoughts.
Jason Todd being literature nerd.
Not mentioning Cassandra Cain's second "adventure" with Lady Shiva, because I love Cass and I'm happy for all the stories it didn't happen.
Not destroying Clocktower.
White streak in Jason Todd's hair (I know, I know, it was in some comics too, but I consider it as fanon thing because— the ones who read comics would probably understand (I hope) what I mean).
Cassandra getting her name even without Barbara Gordon naming her.
Bruce accepting Tim Drake as a son almost immediately.
To dislike:
Bruce accepting Tim Drake as a son almost immediately.
Cassandra Cain having no personality outside of her weird body-reading thing/outside of her being Batfam therapist (which is— just WHY???? She's the worst option for this! I love her but she can't be perfect and she has SO. MANY. PROBLEMS. She deserves better than being that!) Guys she will beat all the criminals up if it means she doesn't have to talk about feelings and all that. Besides, knowing the person's intentions or guessing emotions doesn't mean knowing how to talk through it or how to handle these emotions or how relationships between people 'should' or 'should not' work.
Assuming that she understands everything people say before she learns how to speak.
Not mentioning her problems with reading&writing and thinking she would learn ASL immediately (and MAYBE she would, in some stories, IDK, but I saw only one fic that actually discussed why ASL would be as difficult for her as other languages)
Fucking... autopsy scar. it should not exist.
"Replacement". It's a good thing, actually, I just don't like it.
Shiny Dick. (KDJDISKSOXBXJSKOSSLSS I LAUGHED AFTER I WROTE IT I WON'T CHANGE IT)
Jason slitting Tim's throat at the Titans Tower. I know it would be kinda poetic after THE BATARANG ™ but - no. I remember Jason/Clayface thing with Hush and I accept this canon but all I see at the Titans Tower fight is beating. I'm not even sure Jason wrote the note in blood, because guys, have you ever tried to write big letters with BLOOD? I DID. It's so fcking inconvenient. and takes too much time! and oh my god, even if Jason DID write it in Tim's blood, why slitting his throat? do you have any idea how ridiculously difficult the whole thing is? I think people just kinda confuse Tim-Jason situation at the Titans Tower and Tim-Jason situation with Hush. Because. Slitting throat thing. And they often forget about that Jason/Clayface thing with Hush. I forget it too, sometimes.
Lazarus Pit Madness as a form of mind control or something that excuses everything Jason did. And turning him to a different character.
Impulsive Jason Todd who has no control at all. like with the white streak - I mark it as a Fanon thing despite it being in comics. not because previous reasons but because. because retcon. fuck off. I mean, as Robin he could be, sometimes. But all Robins were like that sometimes. And they all still were professionals. Well. Can vigilantes be professional????? I don't think so but who knows.
Shiny Dick [2]. I won't apologise. (wow I just found out that apologise and apologize are both correct, just British and American variants. Cool!!)
Duke Thomas having half-existence. - would it hurt to actually choose if Duke exists in your story or not? he's an amazing character and it's better not to write him at all if he's a ghost here, my guy.
Weird Tim who worships Jason while getting beat up by him. Did you see how Tim's all sassy while fighting? NOT a deer with big eyes at all. ROBIN. He's Robin!
Not acknowledging what Damian al Ghul or Damian Wayne has been through. I get it, you like Tim and Damian's acting hostile makes you hostile towards him but— seriously?
Woobifying any character while completely changing personality. Dick, Tim and Jason are suffering the most from it. Damian is there sometimes too.
"Jason doesn't try to kill Bruce anymore". He never tried to kill Bruce except this one time in Lost Days where he decided not to do it after all.
Not acknowledging Jason Todd being a hypocrite.
guys do you remember Jason's dead eyes in Lost Days. literally the last glimpse of life in him was when he found out that Joker was alive. It's sad.
___
okay there's a lot more than that but I just can't remember anything else right now. And I'm not going to touch all the fandom's opinions on Bruce Wayne as a parent because it's even more meaningless.
___
sorry for bad English.
#batman fanfiction#batfam fandom#batfamily#batfam#lost days#red hood lost days#fanon#batman fanon#bad english#or should i say#BAT english#tim drake#jason todd#damian wayne#cassandra cain#cassandra wayne#fanon vs canon#comics panels#dc comic panels
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Cut to present time, Buff Batmom and Bruce now a married couple, remembers their past fights and affectionately kiss each other scars that they gave each other.
I think Bruce has a particular scar that she gave him when she pinned him at knife point and drew blood from it being against the side of his neck, it's faint, under his collar so it's never seen but when they're in bed together she'll see it and immediately lean over and kiss it, forever happy she didn't apply more pressure. He has his own scar on her when she had tried to make a run for it because she had other things to do, and in a panic threw a batarang at her and it stabbed her in the shoulder. (He found the bloodied batarang a few minutes later after losing track of her, with her ripping it out) It left a nasty scar and whenever she has her back to him, maybe looking at a dress in the mirror or getting ready for an event or just on her side in bed, he feels it with his thumb then kisses it.
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4, 8, 24
SAD HEADCANON Q'S / / ACCEPTING . . .
4. how many scars does your muse have? . . . a lot, actually! Eddie easily gets them from his time being the Riddler. He has a few gunshot wounds either from other rogues, or the police. (Namely these are placed on his shoulders, and legs.) He has a few scars from when Batarangs had sliced him. Then his left arm has a few needle prick scars. (from uhhh... bad habits.) These scars aren't seen so easily because he usually wears clothes that cover him well; pants and long sleeved shirts. It's rarer for Eddie to wear shorts, or tops with shorter sleeves.
8. what does your muse fear losing the most? . . . I feel like it depends. Usually, he fears losing control most. As I've spoken before, Eddie fears losing his free will / self control, and has a rather irrational fear of being brainwashed. In the literal sense, he fears losing his loved ones / friends the most. Eddie spent most of his life alone, when he so desperately doesn't want to be alone. Therefore, he can't imagine ever being totally alone again. He wants somebody he loves there with him, always. The thought of losing them is unbearable.
24. does your muse lean more toward “forgive and forget” or “resent and remember?” . . . This also depends. Because Eddie can go either way depending on what was done to him. Rogues can backstab him, only for him to still see them as friends just a few weeks later. Or somebody could hurt him and he'd never forgive them no matter how much they beg for it. Usually, though, somebody will have to really hurt Ed for him to not forgive them. But once they do get to that threshold... well, they're never getting forgiveness from him. So... yeah.
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Heaven is not waiting for me anymore
Clark Kent x Male!Reader Kent
Request - where y/n is the son of Clark and Lois from the injustice universe. He has kryptonite in his system where he is unable to use his powers because clark (injustice) made an example of him so he can show fear. After that he has been cold to others and distance with people including Barbara who he has feelings for but so much has happened. So he has to relay on martial art from training. with bruce, he also has a bat suit. He also have a deep hatred for his father (injustice superman).
Earth 2- Injustice Universe
You lost your mother Lois because of the Joker. Your father Clark snapped, he became a different person. Now he is starting to kill criminals and doesn't care about anyone or you. He doesn't stand for hope anymore now he stands for destruction. You feel that you lost both of your parents, you don't wear the symbol of hope anymore.
You made a plan to stop your father. You didn't think fully out the plan, but you have kryptonite inside a gun. You are half Kryptonian and kryptonite is still your weakness.
You have been tracking your father, he is about to kill a criminal robbing a bank. But you stepped in and punched him in the face. Everyone saw what you did, they take out their phones and start to record. Now you and Clark start to fight each other.
“You are destroying everything! You are no god!!” You yelled.
“I am a God. Everyone bows down to me and you would bow down to me” Clark said.
You take out the gun, you pulled the trigger. But he used speed to grab the gun and there is one bullet left. Now he will make sure everyone will watch what he will do next. He has his hand around your throat, you are struggling to breathe and tears go down your face.
“Anyone who tries to disobey me or think they can kill me, this will happen!” Clark yelled.
He aimed the gun on your chest and pulled the trigger. Everyone is in shock at what happened, he throws you to the ground. You are in pain and you try to use your powers but can't. Barbara arrived at the scene, she used Batarang to distract him. He left and Barbara picked you up and takes you to the bat cave.
---
A week later...
You have been in a coma for a week, Barbara and Bruce have been taking care of you. You wake up and you see Barbara looking at a computer screen.
“What happened?” You asked.
She turns around and walked towards you.
“You have been in a coma for a week. The kryptonite was close to your heart. You lost a lot of blood and it was too much kryptonite in your system” Barbara said.
You touch your chest and you see the scar. You sighed and she gives you a cup of water.
“Thank you, Barbara. But I have to go” You said.
“Your father thinks you are dead. Don't do anything stupid, you almost died and if it happens again he would kill you” Barbara said.
“He needs to be stopped,” You said.
“I know. But he is stronger than you, you are thinking reckless” Barbara said.
You take out the iv from your arms and take off the hospital gown. She gave you a hoodie and sweat pants.
“Where are you going?” Barbara asked.
“Dont worry about me,” You said.
She watched you walk away and she called Bruce and told him what happened. You went to a rundown motel and you want to be alone. Your father thinks you're dead and he is still killing criminals, no one can stop him.
Days went by, you didn't leave the motel room for anything. Barbara didn't check up on you, she wanted to give you space. And she has been busy with Bruce designing a suit.
You are in bed watching tv, you hear a knock on the door but you don't get up. She starts to knock louder, but you don't move.
“Y/n! Open the door now” Barbara yelled.
You sighed heavily then got out of bed and opened the door.
“What!?” You yelled.
“Are you done with the pity party!?” Barbara asked.
“How did you find me?” You asked.
She walks in and you closed the door. The motel room is a dump.
“Wasn't hard. I put a tracker on the hoodie you left with. I know you still want to stop your dad, so come with me” Barbara said.
“Why should I? Plus he still thinks I'm dead” You said.
“To train. You are still weak if you went to fight him now well he will break like a stick” Barbara said.
“Fine,” You said.
You leave with Barbara, she took you to Bruce’s mansion. You and Barbara have feelings for each other, you told her, and you were going to ask her out but tragically struck. Her feelings for you haven't changed but she wants to be there for you. She wants you to open up to her but you won't.
“Y/n, how are you,” Bruce said.
“Why do you want me here?” You asked.
“To help you train and stop your father,” Bruce said.
“Okay,” You said.
---
Bruce and Barbara started to train with you in Martial arts. Today you are fighting against Bruce, Barbara, and the League of Assassins. Some are friends with Bruce and they agreed to train you. They are pushing your limits, they don't let you rest. Any mistake you make will let you know and make you train harder.
During the night, Bruce is training you with weapons. Barbara shows you how to use the weapons, you did struggle to fight with weapons. Bruce and the league of assassins easily knocked the weapons out of your hands.
After training Barbara would want to spend time with you, but you would lock yourself in the bedroom. She gives you space and she goes back to the bat cave.
“Here is your dinner, master y/n,” Alfred said.
“Thank you. You don't have to call me ‘master’, Alfred” You said.
“Master, y/n you shouldn't hide from the world. Yes, you are going through a tough time but that doesn't mean you can't be happy in the end. You should let yourself grieve for your mother, she was a wonderful woman and she was strong” Alfred said.
“I wish everything didn't change,” You said.
“We all feel the same way. But now you have a chance to create the life you want a new one. what would your mother say right now?” Alfred said.
What made you think what he said, he walks out of the room. You start to eat the food and keep thinking about what he said.
✯ ✬ ✫ ✬
A few weeks later...
Bruce and Barbara have been designing a suit for you. They finished with the suit and they watched you test out the suit. Last few weeks, you were training from dawn until the next day. You mastered fighting with weapons and learned new combat moves. You are still distant from Barbara, two days ago you got into a huge argument with her.
You are still in love with her but you want to protect her from your father. You don't want to see Barbara get hurt.
“What do you think of the suit?” Barbara asked.
You take off the helmet.
“I like it and I can move in it,” You said.
“You are okay with the symbol?” Bruce asked.
“I like it,” You said.
The suit is all black, the Batman symbol is red, the eyes are red, the gloves have sharp claws, and the suit protects you from kryptonite. Barbara and Bruce start to suit and you put the helmet back on.
---
You three found Bruce in the city, you stopped him from killing someone.
“Son, you came back from the dead” Clark said.
“This ends today,” You said.
“I see you are wearing a new symbol -”
“You ruined the legacy of being a Kryptonian!” You yelled.
He used heat vision to attack you but you dodged it. Now Clark is fighting you while Barbara and Bruce are trying to get the citizens away from the fight. Clark punched you and you hit the ground, he used speed to grab you by the neck.
“This time I will make sure you are dead,” Clark said.
“You are not the same father that I used to have. He is dead to me!” You yelled.
You took out, you tased him, and he lets you go. You and Clark used heat vision at the same time, you used more strength to not fall. You throw Batarang at him and it started to explode.
He fell then you start to punch him in the face over and over. All the anger you have for him starts to come out. You take out the kryptonite dagger and you try to stab but he has his wrapped around your hands.
“Y/n! Y/n don't kill him” Barbara yelled.
“He deserves to die!” You yelled.
“That is an easy escape for him! You are much better than him, don't become like him” Barbara said.
Something clicked in your mind.
“I want you to suffer until the day you die. I lost my mom and my father” You said.
You moved away from him and he starts to stand up. Bruce played a video of Lois on the big screen and starts to watch, you your father cry.
The moment where Clark held Lois before she died.
“I can't lose you” Clark cried.
“I will always love you, Clark. I will always remember you and y/n, please be there for each other. He is going need to you. Tell him, I love him...”
You start to cry and it would be the last time you hear her voice.
“Son, I am sorry for the chaos I caused,” Clark said.
“I don't believe you and I will never will. You killed my friend Shazam and many others. You are lucky I didn't kill you because of Barbara. This is the last time you will see me” You said.
You take out the Phantom Zone projector and you sent him to the Phantom Zone.
✯ ✬ ✫ ✬
Time Skip...
You and Barbara became an official couple. She makes you happy and you carrying boxes into her apartment. You are going to live with her and she is very happy about that.
You and Barbara sat on the couch and she gave you a peck on the lips.
“So happy that was the last box,” Barbara said.
“Now we have to unbox everything,” You said.
“How about we go get something to eat and we do it later?” Barbara said.
You kissed her on the lips.
“Sounds good to me,” You said.
Later, you and Barbara spend half of the night unboxing everything. You did use speed to do it faster which Barbara is happy about. You and Barbara would save the city together but you don't kill criminals who rob a store. You would kill if it's a life and death situation only.
#x male reader#male!reader#dc imagine#superman imagine#superman x son#x son#Clark Kent x son#clark kent x male!reader#clark kent x reader
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Keep Trying Lover Boy Jason Todd x reader
Words: 1k
Requested? Yes! From a lovely anon!
“can you do prompt 23 "keep trying loved boy" with Jason flirting and trying to win the reader over even though she's Tim's best friend and he thinks it's gross but she's kinda falling for J???”
LINK TO PROMPTS -> REQUESTS ARE STILL OPEN!
With a groan Damian jumped out of your way as you chased after Jason with a batarang in hand. Everyone wondered how you found such sharp objects at such quick notice but no one could blame you when you were constantly stalked by the most flirtatious asshole on the planet. “Y/n no! Let him go c’mon!” Tim caught up to you, grabbing your arm and pulling you back as Jason’s figure slipped down one of the Wayne Manor’s many hallways.
“God Tim if he calls me princess one more time I’ll throw the batarang next time” Tim rolled his eyes. “Y/n you know I hate it too but he’s only doing it cuz you react like this” you couldn’t help but disagree, Jason had always hung around you when you came over. With pet names, little gifts, and constant flirting you knew he was trying to hide raw emotion behind a smirk and fuckboy facade. This was partially your fault for sometimes flirting back, texting first, and trying to mess with Jason, what is a girl to do when a guy is practically in love with her?
Tim would never let you forget when he found you stretching in front of Jason before the two of you went for a run. Both of you knew this was a purposeful placement as you bent over and flexed your muscles in front of Jay. Or the time when he called you princess and you casually responded, acting like it was just another nickname - Tim claims it still makes him sick.
Just a couple nights ago you were staying over at the manor and waking up on the couch to Jason flipping pancakes shirtless, you drank in the sight, trying to memorize every scar and it’s placement on his torso. Jason knew you were looking, but didn’t call you out, he liked that you were thinking about him the way he did you and so he didn’t interrupt, he just tried to flex and reach for ingridients high and low even though he didn’t need them at all. You pulled yourself out of your daze, hoping he didn’t notice, and joined him in the kitchen. Assuming Tim was working on cases still you silently helped Jason. The two of you preparing plates for each member at the house, silence sat comfortably in the air, a mutual agreement to just be in the other’s presence, no flirting or sharp objects being thrown. It was the first morning you felt you truly saw Jason, you never told Tim, deciding he would probably gag at the idea of you enjoying his brother’s presence.
Today was not the silent appreciation, but the flirtatious interruption. You’d gone over to geek out over the newest phaser invented by Gotham University and you and Tim decided to try to make a prototype like theirs but you were interrupted while trying to solder wires by a sultry voice mentioning that “you shouldn’t bend over like that babe you’re mine remember?” shocking you, making you jump up and begin the chase with screwdriver in hand.
You had decided to stay over with Tim that night, the two of you convinced you could finish your first test run during the all nighter you two had planned. Making mac n cheese you danced with your best friend to terrible music while stirring questionable, chemically created cheese into the pasta. “Nothing better than seeing my girl making me dinner” you glared at Jason while he winked at you. “Get a damn room Jay, preferably one without y/n” Tim joined you in glaring at Jason who held up his hands sheepishly. “A man has got to try when it comes to love” Jason pretended to swoon and with a smirk you retorted “you’re gonna have to keep trying lover boy” before turning your music back up and ignoring Jason. Part of you couldn’t shake off the little bit of you that was happy he wasn’t quitting just yet.
Returning to your project you and Tim tried to pass the time while your phaser charged by talking. You were resting your head against his shoulder when he blurted out “you’re falling for Jason aren’t you” which caused you to sit up straight shaking your head. “We talking about the same Jason here? Mr. you’re mine y/n, make me dinner dear lover, blah blah blah” you tried to imitate Jason but Tim looked at you seriously. “Y/n I’ve known you for years, if you wanted Jason to stop you’d stop reacting but you both like it, you both like each other.” you scoffed at his character analysis but he gave you the “don’t lie to me I already have trust issues” look and you caved. “Okay maybe I kinda sorta, like it a teeny tiny bit” after admitting it you leaned back on the floor staring up at the ceiling of the batcave. Tim leaned back with you, eventually breaking the silence
“Y/n you like him, it’s okay, just don’t be gross in front of me and you better still be my best friend” realizing Tim could feel like you were picking Jason over him you pulled him into a hug reminding him that “Timmy you’ll always be my favorite even if I have some feelings for Jason” in what was supposed to be a cute moment you heard a screech. “I KNEW IT YOU LIKE ME!” and there was none other than Jason Todd pumping a fist in the air.
“Just cuz I like you doesn’t mean I won’t kill you- Tim?” you looked to your best friend hoping he’d finally let you go after Jason.
“Get him”
#jason todd#jason todd x you#jason todd x reader#jason todd fluff#jason todd x y/n#tim drake#jason todd flirting#batboys#damian wayne#tim drake x reader platonic#tim drake x bestfriend!reader
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You posted a bit ago about wanting to see Dick drawn with chemical burn scars from Chemo and I just went 👀 I would Also Like to See It. Anyways!! I was just wondering if you had any more thoughts in a similar vein of other scars that the batfam would Probably Have, but don't really ever get drawn or mentioned
Ohhh for sure. I’m prob just gonna mention the more obvious ones too. I’ve got a lot of specific examples for Dick. Some other things might be a bit more generalized for other batfam members. These are all taken from different continuities. Also, I can’t remember any specific severe wounds that Duke has had.
Bruce
Scarring on his face from his cowl shattering
Stab wound scars on his torso, arms, and back
Scarring from gunshot wounds on his torso (and other places most likely)
Shrapnel scarring after being near explosions (this applies to everyone else)
Scarring on his back from having glass embedded in his skin after Dick tackled him off a beam and slammed him on the batmobile
Dick
Scarring from chemical burns on the face via Chemo
Scarring on his arms and chest from burns given to him by the Gone Men while in Betwixt
Scarring from being choked around the neck with a barbed wire lasso
Scarring on his fingers after shredding them while digging himself out of the ground (scars like these may fade after a few years)
Scarring on the back of his hand from Jason stabbing him
Scarring on his back from glass being embedded in his skin after Bruce kicked him off a platform into an old Robin costume case
Scarring from being shot in the head twice
Scarring from gunshot wounds in the arms and thigh
Scarring from being beaten with a baseball bat (among other things like a golf club, tire iron, etc.)
Scarring from being tortured by Brother Blood
Babs
Scarring from a gunshot wound after being shot in the stomach by the Joker (this one is usually mentioned in comics and has been shown but I’m adding it anyway)
Scarring from being stabbed in both thighs by James Gordon Jr.
Scarring on her thigh after getting sliced open by Punchline
Jason
Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t think Jason would have an autopsy scar because I don’t think Bruce would have had an autopsy done on him
Possible scarring from being killed in the explosion (not sure if the pit would have healed them)
Scarring on his face from his helmet being shattered
Scarring from being shot in the knee by Flamingo
Tim
Scarring from being stabbed in the stomach
Scarring from having his spleen removed
Scarring on his face from his cowl shattering
Scarring on his head and chest from being stabbed by Jason with a batarang
Scarring from burns on the back of the neck via explosion*
Steph
Stretch marks from pregnancy*
Scarring from being tortured by Black Mask
Scarring from being shot in the arm by Scarab
Cass
Scarring from being shot in the thigh by David Cane*
Scarring from being shot in the arm by Mother
Damian
Scarring from his time with the League of Assassins
Scarring from being shot in the back five times by Flamingo
Scarring from having his spine surgically reconstructed
Scarring from being shot in the chest by Jason
Scarring from being stabbed (and killed) by Leviathan
Note: Info with a * next to it was given to me by @youngjustus
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A little batjokes fic I have been working on. It’s also on ao3 but I’m kind of at a loss of which direction to go with it at this point. So I figured I’d post it here for now until I figure it out .
I fell in love with an idea. A picture I had created that was never meant to be. There was never any possibility that we could be happy together. That a life where only the two of us existed could be possible. Not when every part of me craved the adrenaline from a night of violence and waking up to new scars that defined who I was. And you with your savior complex, thinking the whole world would fall if you went away. Needing the praise even in anonymity. Hiding the scars that defined you with a well-dressed suit. It could never be. But I would be a liar if I said every part of me didn’t ache for the possibility of existing.
Joker rolled over. His thoughts had once again turned the bat. He would never admit that he spent countless hours losing sleep considering the possibility of a normal life. One where his past had not led him to this place. One where he could casually run into a beautiful man while doing something completely mundane. Maybe walking down, the street, perhaps in a coffee shot, or even stealing passing glances on the subway. Finally, one would make a move. They would go on dates, share laughs, and slowly fall in love. He grabbed a pillow lying next to him a slammed it into his face, an attempt to eradicate these thoughts. The joker wasn’t a romantic. He was tyrannical, a leader, the bringer of chaos.At least in his mind this was how he chose to believe he was perceived. Sure, some would say he was insane, psychopathic, a cold-blooded killer, and well truthfully, he was these things. So, these romantic urges that kept coming over him where very detrimental to the brand that he had built around himself. For God’s sake if a hot intelligent blonde woman in a skintight suit who was utterly devoted to him never did it for him then why the hell was he fantasizing about a grown man in a cape. Joker groaned again because it wasn’t just any man in a cape, it was Bruce fucking Wayne. Leave it to him to fall for an eccentric billionaire with a savior complex and moral compass to match.
If you had told Joker a few months ago, the man he was caught in this never ending dance of justice with was Bruce Wayne he probably would have laughed in your face and depending on his mood that day, you might have also not survived the interaction. He did have a flare for being dramatic and something about senseless murder just made him positively giddy. Rumors have always spread in Gotham City’s underground. And why would they not, everyone wanted to know who was truly under the mask that continuously foiled their plans. Most wanted to know so that they could end him for good. Or at the least target those closest to him in order to prove a point. Joker had never particularly cared about the identity of his sworn enemy. He much preferred the tango the two performed without any outside views of who the other was. Both pushing each other to the right to the edge, waiting for the other to overstep their boundaries and go too far. Names could ruin that. There was something about the not knowing that added to the thrill of it all. That made the excitement of both men rise. Joker couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of it. But now he had name to the face behind the mask.
It had started as a relatively normal day, when Joker received word that a Mr. Bruce Wayne had been seen sneaking around one of Joker’s new warehouses. Of course, this had piqued his interest. Why was the elusive billionaire in such a bad area of Gotham, it’s almost like he’s asking to be robbed. It’s not as if he could blend in, everyone knew his face. And secondly the only ones in the know about this newest warehouse were Joker, his most trusted henchman R, Harley, and a certain bat who had found out and stopped by for a visit a week ago. Of course he had found nothing, and the camera only caught him for a moment before he flung one of those damned batarangs at it and every other one he found. Joker sighed, batbrain probably never even considered the expense Joker would have to incur to replace those. The warehouse was nothing, more of a safety net if he ever needed the space. Or more than likely it would be converted to a place for those who worked for him to stay. God knows the filthy animals couldn’t keep a living space to save their lives. And providing living arrangements, food, drugs, and booze was generally the best way he had found to keep street thugs loyal to you. He may be insane, but he wasn’t stupid. And of course, he knew word about his new endeavor would draw the bat in. If there was one thing batsy couldn’t resist it was a hot tip about a new diabolical plan the Joker was forming. And so, what if Joker had his henchman anonymously tip off Jim Gordon knowing he would immediately find a way to alert the bat. Sometimes you have to force fate to get what you desire. And that night what he desired was not a fight but just to watch batman in action.
From his hiding spot the Joker could see everything his bats did. He watched him canvas the area and could hear the frustrated huffs he let out every time he again came up with nothing. He watched as bats paced back and forth clearly trying to figure out what angle was being played. Listened as he radioed Gordon filling him in on the nothingness the warehouse held. They went back and forth wonder what plan was being devised for this place. God Joker could watch him forever. Studying his lips, the way his jaw clenched when he was unhappy. He longed to see his face, to touch him. On the other hand, that would ruin their game and Joker really really liked games. It was fascinating to him that even though the bat had found nothing he stayed there pacing. Glancing at the door every few moments. Joker almost wondered if the bat was waiting for him to show up. Did their little fights give the bat the same thrill Joker got? The way both of their adrenaline rose, their hearts beating fast, and their breathing getting deeper. The pain was so intoxicating and led to the ultimate pleasure. Nothing else could top it. But not tonight. Tonight, Joker wanted him to squirm. And squirm he did. In semi defeat, the bat sat down on a box in the corner. Hidden in the shadows waiting. He waited the entirety of the night, unaware that the Joker was sitting merely feet away. It wasn’t until light started to seep in that the bat finally sauntered away. It was curious. Surely there was other crime going on in Gotham. Honestly when wasn’t there crime in Gotham, the city was a cesspool of it. He’d even heard tell of a heist the Penguin was planning that night. And surely Bats had been made aware of that. And yet he never left the warehouse.
Snapping back to the present Joker frowned at the tingly feeling the memory had given him. Now onto the pressing issue of why Bruce Wayne was at his warehouse and how he knew it was there. He gathered himself, choosing his most basic suit. It was navy blue and had none of the flare that he had come to appreciate. He also forewent applying his face makeup to appear more normal. After a moments thought he also chose to grab his sunglasses, gloves, and a hat in an attempt to slightly disguise himself. He doubted this would do much as he slid a hand across the white skin of his face. It was an aspect of himself that he struggled to hide. It was why he preferred the night over day. In the darkness he could appear normal, avoiding the judgmental eyes that the daylight cast. He had learned throughout the years of course. Purchased wigs and learned how to properly put them on so they looked real, he had found contacts that closely matched the color his eyes had once been. But he was unable to find anything for the skin. He had tried foundations but none of them worked. He often questioned if it was due to the acid, this led to a spiral of remembering the events that caused him to fall. He never spent to long considering it otherwise his mind began to drift to a dark place. A place that scared even him, one where he could feel his mental state slipping. Slowly succumbing fully to the madness. Joker shook his head, bringing himself back to reality. After a final glance in the mirror, he slipped out of his apartment to find an available car. He hoped Wayne would still be there, thankfully it was only about a 10-minute drive from his place. He had made this decision deliberately hoping that no one would consider he lived close to his investments and would rather stay far away from them to avoid suspicion. Once in the garage, he chose a simple black car and started the drive, preparing for a confrontation with the treasure of Gotham, Bruce Wayne. As Joker pulled into the warehouse drive, he could see a small blue car parked not far off in the distance. It was pulled off to the side of the road just slightly, he assumed the placement was meant to make it look like the car had broken down there but due to the current situation it seemed like it may be Mr. Wayne’s. He pondered whether he should go search the car before heading to the warehouse, ultimately deciding against it in case Wayne decided to stop whatever he was doing and head back. Joker put his car in park and turned off the engine. He felt it best not to alert the man breaking into his building. As he walked up the gravel, almost by divine intervention a certain someone was crawling out of one of the first story windows.
“Uhm, excuse me sir. I don’t usually like finding unknown men crawling out of my buildings.” it seemed best not to start off too accusatory in case there was a valid reason a billionaire was snooping around his property.
“Oh, uhm, of course I am so sorry about this.” He stopped and cleared out his throat. “I am Bruce Wayne, I uh wasn’t aware that someone had purchased this property. I had been informed it was for sale and wanted to check it out to see if it would be a good space for some new developments at Wayne Industry.”
Wayne held out his hand and Joker realized he intended for them to shake hands. How disgustingly formal. He slowly reached out a gloved hand to shake, watching as the man’s hand nearly covered his own. The strong grasp jolted through Joker and he quickly pulled away wiping the glove on his pants as if this would establish some kind of unspoken boundary between the two. Joker kept his gaze on the man, there was something so familiar about him. Maybe he was making it up it was completely feasible that he had just seen an interview the man was in. His excuse was reasonable as well. The property had only been off the market 2 weeks at most, but why bother sneaking into it and distancing your vehicle from the building?
“Oh, I see. I’m Jack. Jack…Sawyer. Do you always examine potential investments by climbing through the windows?”
The man’s face reddened. “The uh, the door was jammed and when I was assessing the outside of the building, I noticed one of the windows was ajar and figured it wouldn’t hurt to use that as an entry.”
“Hmm understandable. Well, I would be happy to give you a tour of the building, but I am afraid that it has already been purchased by me, so it would be no use to your company endeavors.”
Clearly embarrassed by having been caught the man stood there fidgeting. His jaw clenching and unclenching. His eyes darting to the gate. He wasn’t scared, no Joker knew fear, and this was not it. Nervous perhaps? Anxious? Something was off but Joker couldn’t quite place it. His voice, his mouth something about it called to Joker.
There was a long uncomfortable pause before Wayne looked at Joker and said, “Yeah, I…I would love a tour. Do you have any plans for the building?”
Joker hadn’t expected this. It was more of pleasant offering rather than one he actually wanted to do. But, maybe during the tour he could pinpoint what it was about this man exactly.
“I’m not really much of a planner Mr. Wayne. To be honest the price of the building was such a steal I couldn’t pass it up. I’m sure you understand that you don’t become a billionaire by spending recklessly now do you? I am considering using it as a storage facility. I own a bar you see and the storage capacity there is really lacking so I figured why not buy a cheap warehouse.”
The man seemed genuinely taken aback by this statement. His jaw clenching again. His eyes searching Jokers face as if he was trying to pull something out of him. Joker stared back, his eyes never leaving Wayne’s. It was as if they were locked in a battle only Joker wasn’t sure what exactly they were battling for. Surely Bruce Wayne wasn’t so pressed for a warehouse building that he was going to come for some lowly bar owner. And that was when it clicked. Jokers’ eyes broke the stare and fell to the man’s clenched jaw. He knew that clench. He knew that mouth. As if he hadn’t fantasized about those lips on him for months now. Bruce fucking Wayne was Batman, unbelievable. In his surprise he let out a not-so-subtle gasp.
“Are…are you okay Mr. Sawyer?”
“I uh oh yes of course, sometimes my mind escapes me, I suffered an accident sometime ago and the effects seem to pop up at the most inopportune times.”
Wayne dropped his gaze and shifted uncomfortably. “You said you owned a bar. What’s the name of it maybe I’ve visited there?”
“Oh, I highly doubt that Mr. Wayne. It doesn’t usually bring in” he paused looking the man up and down “your type, but….If you’re ever feeling frisky, it’s called The White Knight.”
Joker stopped to look at the man after saying this. He knew damn well that Batman had no idea of the existence of this place. He had undergone every security measure to ensure so. But he knew that this would elicit a response from the bats. How could it not? The Joker owning a secret bar that batsy hadn’t been informed about, on top of the bar being a mockery of his title. It would make Batman seethe.
Wayne’s eyes darkened and his nostrils flared, it was slight, but it was enough for Joker to confirm what he already knew.
“Thank you for the offer to show me the building Mr. Sawyer, but I’m sorry I just realized I have to go.” he glanced quickly at his watch, “I forget I had a meeting to attend. This has truly been an enlightening afternoon.”
“I agree Mr. Wayne, it certainly has been. Are you sure you don’t want a quick tour?”
“No, uh thank you but no. I truly have to go.” And with that Joker watched the man saunter down the driveway. He pulled off his glasses and stared after the man. This newfound information complicated things but it also gave Joker leverage and God knows Joker liked having leverage.
What to do with this leverage? He could let it slip…no…no he didn’t like that. Freely handing out this precious information to those lowly Neanderthals. No, they would go after him, and while Batman would never stand down, they would probably kill him. The bat would die at the feet of those he spent so long pursuing. He grimaced picturing the scene. He couldn’t let them kill Batman. Batman was his. Joker felt that nagging voice in his head again, the one he constantly tried to keep at bay with Scarecrow’s medication.
if anyone is going to kill the bat it’s going to be you right?? You could never let anyone take him from you. He’s yours, yours yours. HAHAHAHAHA.
He took his hands, slamming them to his ears. “Shut up, shut up, shut up I do not want to kill him.”
Of course not, maybe just torture him a little bit until you can’t stop, poor Joker always unable to prevent yourself from going to far.. Drag the knife across his throat, cutting a tad too deep. Tie him up. Let him bleed out while watching you perform. That’s what you want isn’t it? For the bat to bleed, his pretty red blood spilling across the floor. And as he falls to the ground ceasing to exist so does his deluded version of Gotham. You, standing strong watching the city succumb to crime and destruction. Knowing they will not mourn him. Gotham doesn’t care. Gotham feeds on destruction, chaos, and the ruin of its citizens. If you’re born here you don’t stand a chance. There is no good in Gotham, so you must kill the only thing that believes it exist. Kill the bats, Kill the bats, Kill the bats.
He felt his mouth curving up into a terrifying smile as a fit of giggles erupted from his mouth HAHAHAHAHA.
His hands fell from his ears to clasp over his mouth, an attempt to silence, well really everything. After a few minutes, the laughter subsided, and the thoughts quieted. He sank to ground resting his chin on the top of his knees. His faced ached from the experience as it usually did, tears began to well in his eyes, a product of self-hatred, anger, and sadness.
He didn’t want the bat to die. Or…or maybe he did. Things would be far less complicated if a certain dark knight wasn’t involved. Unfortunately, a part of him wanted to be held by the knight. His slight framed wrapped in the strong arms of his enemy. Letting his body go limp as he breathed in the comforting smell. Hands running through his hair. Soft whispers trying to convince him that the world isn’t all bad. But it is isn’t it? There’s no good here, no God exists because if he did, he would surely drown this city. This hell on Earth, putrid and reeking of sin. Never allowing happiness to live within its borders. Joker pulled himself upright and violently wiped away the tears that had covered his face. He was the goddam Joker not some pathetic schoolboy with the luxury of pathetically crushing on the most popular boy in the grade. Brushing off his pants from sitting on the ground he began to stroll back to his car. Tonight, he would choose chaos. Perhaps a robbery he hadn’t performed one of those in a long while. He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Harley to get the men prepped and to choose a nice jewelry store for their night out. Yes, a robbery sounded splendid. Maybe tomorrow he would figure out what to do with Mr. Wayne. Or maybe he would do nothing at all, just keep the information in his pocket. After all what was the point in ruining their game?
"Mr. J, if you don't mind me saying, you're uh heart didn't seem to be all into the score last night..." Harley's eyes didn't quite meet us. No doubt they were fearing the repercussion these words would bring. She would never say it but she liked the anticipation, the not knowing what was coming. Perhaps she even liked the pain when it came. But, perceptive as ever she was correct.
Sighing Joker looked over at her. "Harley I've told you time and time again please do not call me that. Just Jack is fine. Please just Jack. I was merely distracted last night. There's some financials issues with the club that I need to work out."
She walked over to him, placing one hand on his. The other at her side twitching to cup his face, knowing he would withdraw if she did. "I can't call you Jack anymore, it's too...personal." Then she jumped back and just like that her mood changed and smile erupted on her face "Besides Mr. J is so much more fun to say, wouldn't you agree? It gives you authority and I love a man who has power." The deviousness written across her face.
"Damn it Harley. Then call me Mr. Napier if you insist on acting this way about it. Also cut the showbiz act. It makes you seem desperate and pathetic." He knew the words would sting her. He wanted it too. He hated her for bringing out the worst in him. But that nagging voice loved her for it. Together the two could be unstoppable, maniacal. It's why he had broke it off. She was smart, brilliant even. She knew what his inside voice wanted and she knew how to provoke it out of him because in that world at least they are together. Part of him wanted to snap her neck and that be the end of it. And yet another part knew he could never do that because he cared for her in the way only two people with so much history and tragedy could. His gaze fell to her stomach, wondering what could have been. "Leave me alone Ms. Quinzel, your presence is pissing me off."
Tears gathered in her eyes as she turned to leave the room, slamming the door for effect.
He winced at the sound. Going after her would just provoke her wrath and he didn't have the energy to deal with that. It's best to give it a few days. He shouldn't have lashed out at her. He was frustrated. The bat had failed to show up last night, which meant the thrill he normally got from nights like that was nonexistent.
There was no point feeling sorry for himself. It never led to any place good. He stood up grabbed his jacket and headed for he bar. At the very least he could use this energy to get something done and for the sake of his workers hope that none of them were stupid enough to tantalize him tonight. His bloodlust was encompassing him and anything could set him off at this point.
The walk from his apartment to the bar wasn't a far one but the cold air made it seem like miles. Joker shivered trying to shake the chill that encompassed him. Gotham was always cold. It didn't matter what time of year it was. Sure the air warmed but you could still feel the breeze nipping at you, waiting to drop. He glanced at the sky, dusk was settling. It didn't matter, the sun never quite shown here in Gotham either. It was gray, just consistently gray. But it never seemed to bother any one else, or at least not that he had noticed. It's where his flare for colors came from, he wanted to break away from the gray.
He was merely feet away from the opening of the bar, the music creeped onto the otherwise silent street. He smirked, the song playing was one of his favorites. He leaned against the brick wall feeling the vibrations of the loud speak reverberate through calming him. He closed his eyes and just listened. Sighing as the song ended he felt a little better. Perhaps he would just go to his upstairs room and let the music take him away for the night. He would never admit the sway the sounds had over him. Finding comfort in the beats a rock song would produce.
A rustling sound came from the doorway, making him straighten quickly, keeping his face a blank canvas. He could already hear the gossip from his men if one of them found him out here basking in the sound of the music. Especially, with how he talked about it in front of them. Calling it a pointless waste. No. His entire personality was to remain hidden. To them he was a maniac, always angry, and mere moments away from snapping. Everything was jokes and crime. Not an entirely wrong synopsis but he was never to be seen as human, because that meant weakness and he would never again be seen as weak.
Fortunately, this was just a drunk patron stumbling his way out. In his drunken state the man couldn't particularly walk straight and managed to trip over his feet, his face colliding with the Joker shoulders. Finally a reason to have some fun. In less than a second Joker twisted away and wrapped his hand around the patrons throat, with full force he pushed him into the wall. The mans head collided with the brick, a sickening thud could be heard. Joker smirked, even drunk he could feel the mans fear radiating off of him. His adrenaline keeping him alert. His eyes screaming for help in ways his mouth could not. It was heaven. Joker leaned into the man, "Didn't your mother ever teach you that you should watch where you're walking?" He could feel his smile widening
"I.....I......uh.....I....I'm sorry sir." He gasped between words. Jokers fingers were wrapped so tightly around his neck it was a miracle he was able to get any words out all. With a glance down, Joker could see that the man had wet himself. Well this is no fun, the poor sap isn't even going to fight back. His smiled faltered where's the fun in that?
Just kill him, he isn’t worth anything. No one would miss him. Snap his neck, feel his bones crush beneath your strength. Come on you know you want to. You want to feel that rush. See the light as it drains from his eyes. Pleading until the very last second.
Joke could feel his smile widening again. His fingers twitched as he started to laugh. The man's eyes grew large with realization. He knew that laugh. All of Gotham knew that laugh. His body started to shake as tears streamed down his face.
See how pathetic he is. He doesn't deserve to live. You know you want the high this will give you.
And with that he gave in. His fingers tightened and with a final gurgle the mans will gave and his body slumped. The Joker let go and gasped at the feeling it gave him. He was positively giddy. Perhaps this wasn't such a bad day after all. He pulled out his phone and called one of his men to come dispose of the body. He didn't need anyone poking around his bar. A worker came out the side door and Joker motioned him over.
The worker glanced briefly at the body "Geez boss what'd he do to you?"
With a sneer Joker spat back "Not that it's any of your business but he bumped into me. Now get rid of the scum."
Recognizing his boss's mood the man quickly grabbed the body and retreated.
Joker turned away walking into the bar. He was ready to have some fun.
#batman x joker#batjokes#batman#joker#harley quinn#jack napier#bruce wayne#enemies#enemies to lovers#normal#yearning#unrequited pining#unrequited love#writing
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Universe Jumping #1
Jason wasn’t entirely sure how he ended up in New York. Especially New York on a whole other fucking earth. Lying on the ground in a dark alley, on top of what he was pretty sure was human shit, all he remembered was blood and Bruce and a blinding light that convinced him he was dying -- again.��
There was a batarang slicing through his jugular, pain blinding his vision. It wasn’t anything new, pain. Jason Todd had been well familiar to pain by the time he was ten years old. Of course there had been more after Bruce found him but he hadn’t minded that pain, he was saving people. But then there was his strongest memory of pain. It was the reason he was in that abandoned apartment, fighting Bruce and trying to ignore Joker’s hysteric laughter, despite having a gun to his head.
Jason slumped down against a wall, held a hand to his neck, and decided he was done. They were all done. Pulling the switch from his back pocket, he closed his eyes. He was okay with dying again. He couldn’t remember what death had been like but knew it was a lot less painful than life, atleast one like the one he had lived. Jason only prayed that wherever he was it was far away from both Bruce and the clown. Maybe he’d see his mom, Catherine, not Sheila. Jason pushed the button and smiled to himself, a small grin that Bruce couldn’t see while brawling with the Joker.
But trust Bruce Wayne to fuck up Jason’s plans even further. He was too tired to fight when Bruce grabbed his shirt, pulling him as far from the bomb as he could in the five seconds they had left.
The explosion caused Bruce to let his shirt go. Let him go. Jason found a sudden burst of adrenaline and ran, as fast as his legs would allow. Wally West would be proud. Rubble was falling around him which he avoid with one hand putting pressure on his throat. That was when the light appeared, and suddenly he didn’t want die. It was incredibly fucking annoying how often he changed his mind, Dick and the Titans had teased him about it relentlessly. No, don’t think about them. The light surrounded Jason and suddenly it was all he could see. And then everything went dark.
This all lead to him lying in an alleyway. One glance at the busy streets beyond told him everything he needed to know.
#1 He was in New York (The Empire State building had been a pretty big tell)
#2 He was on a different earth (Half the billboards around him boasted footage of the Justice League knockoffs known as the Avengers saving the city from aliens)
He could get up, whatever had brought him here had also healed his wound so he could really go anywhere he wanted, it being a completely new earth and all, but Jason didn’t care anymore. He’d devoted the last five years of his life to plotting and training his revenge against Bruce, Joker, Gotham, for making him who he was, for killing a fifteen year old boy and forgetting it ever happened. And he’d failed.
All his work and anger had resulted in nothing but a nasty scar along the side of his throat.
The thing that brought him here can’t have done it quietly. Jason was sure it had caused some electrical surge or radiation increase, something that was bound to bring in the resident shady government agents in their crisp black suits, dark shades and complicated words. Maybe he’d even get to meet the Avengers. Dick would have a heart attack if he met the redhead, Roy would start an archery competition with the Green Arrow wannabe and Rose and Rachel would probably see who could make the walking American flag piss himself first.
Jason’s heart hurt when he thought about the Titans. Dick was his brother, Roy had been his best friend and Jason had been beginning to want something more with him, but he guessed nothing was ever going to there now. Rose and he had broken up about two months before Ethiopia so he’d had time at least, to move on before being forced into a coffin and then a Lazarus pit.
The alley stank. Full of urine, trash and rodents it reminded him of the Narrows, of Crime Alley. But nothing in New York could ever truly compare to the horror that is Crime Alley. Jason new without looking up that the suits had arrived. He opened his eyes to find an oldish man peering down at him.
“Good afternoon. I’m agent Phil Coulson.”
Jason didn’t reply. He supposed he should be worried about being taken to some super secret base that was supposed to make people like him shake in their boots, but Phil didn’t look all that scary or like anything Jason couldn’t handle.
“Can I help you? Would you mind moving a bit to the left, you’re blocking the sunlight,” he paused and grinned, “I’m trying to get a bit of tan, I’m from Gotham you see, and the only light you’d get over there is from the batsignal.”
Coulson frowned at him, taking in the body armor, guns, knives and scars before crouching down to Jason’s level. “Sir, I’m going to need you to come with me,” he gestured to another suit, who was pointing a weird device at him, “we are reading a high level of molecular energy coming from your body and need to get you quarantined immediately.”
Jason sat up and offered Coulson his hands, “Well Phil, I’ve got nothing better to do. It’s Jason, by the way.”
#marvel#dc comics#jason todd#red hood#under the red hood#batman#joker#rose wilson#teen titans#dc titans#raven teen titans#roy harper#arsenal#ravager#the avengers#phil coulson#wally west#kid flash#fanfic
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Pumpkin Disaster
Richard could almost smell the cinnamon spice, vanilla scent and cinnamon sugar in the air. The colors of the leaves changed from green to a dazzling display of red, orange and yellow. The air became crisper and temperatures dropped a bit as a chill came into the air.
Richard Grayson absolutely loved Halloween. As expected of the eldest Wayne sibling, he was the kind of person who enjoyed decorating and preparing the manor for Halloween because of his everlasting enthusiasm for holidays. He loved the cheesy and horror movies, the excuse to stuff his face with candy, the seasonal special editions of cereal, the elaborate and extravagant costumes, the creative decorations. It was his second favorite holiday. And he definitely considered it a holiday.
Halloween wasn’t just a day to him. Oh no. The whole month of October was Halloween. But with his vigilante duties, intermittent Titans training and constant Gotham crises cropping up, he had made it through two weeks of the month without an ounce of Halloween festivity. But that was about to change.
“You never carved pumpkins for Halloween?” Dick Grayson asked incredulously, pressing a hand to his chest in a move overly dramatic.
Damian exclaimed a familiar ‘TT’ in response. For him seeing people playing pretend, wearing flashy and ridiculous costumes was not particularly interesting. Thought they weren’t much different from the impractical clothing Todd and Richard insisted on wearing. It was just a recurrent reminder that he was not a normal child.
“Which part of I was raised in the inhospitable and desolate mountains you didn’t comprehend, Grayson?” Damian brusquely returned with furrowed eyebrows.
“But we cannot celebrate it without carving your first pumpkin...” Grayson sounded so downhearted it stung Damian with shadowy guilt. Out of all his adoptive siblings Grayson was the pleasant and tolerable one. Damian swallowed hard.
“I want all of us to carve a pumpkin!” Dick declared holding up his index finger in contempt. Damian raised a dark eyebrow as a go on communicating silently. “We are all doing this together as a family.”
“It’s not necessary. I’m not a small child anymore.” Damian scoffed, rolling his eyes before refocusing on his Robert Frost book, flipping another page. No. He would not acquiesce easily into this. He was self-sufficient, mature preteen. Not a child.
“Demon spawn, you are only eleven.” Jason commented before putting out a finished cigarette. Fortunately Alfred wasn’t lurking around to give him disapproving eyes for smoking inside the manor.
“Is this your way of asking for a new scar, Todd?” Damian threatened through gritted teeth and clenched fists, mind quickly calculating the damage of throwing an explosive batarang.
“You’re getting less insufferable to be around.” Jason scoffed and met Damian with a sly smirk. “Dickie, pouting is not an acceptable reaction for a full-grown adult.” Jason sing-songed as he grabbed his motorbike keys.
“This includes you Jaybird. I plan on getting you into the Halloween spirit.” Dick announced with his authoritative leader tone, letting Jason know he would be part of this wether he liked it or not.
Jason groaned dreadfully, cursing under his breath. Great. Now he was part of the Halloween circus. At least he didn’t have to take the annoying gremlin pumpkin picking. God knows what would happened if they fed him candy. The thought gave Jason chilling goosebumps.
Damian folded his arms over his chest in a sign of disagreement. “I don’t do pumpkins. It’s a waste of food. It amounts to about 18,000 tons of pumpkin, including flesh and seeds. Have you read the recent studies on how it’s destroying the environment?”
“Come on, D. You will have fun. You can carve your own Robin lantern” Dick encouraged, practically vibrating with excitement. Damian wondered what on earth he did to deserve such blinding sunshine as his adoptive sibling. “...and I’m sure Alfred will find a convenient way to make use of the pumpkins.”the last words seemed to have done the trick to convince the younger boy.
Damian considered the options carefully for a solid minute. He knew better than ignoring Richard wouldn’t get him anywhere. He wouldn’t leave it alone. Sigh. If it meant he could help Pennyworth baking a pumpkin spice pie with ginger-snag crust...
“Lead the way, Grayson.” Damian sighed resignedly.
Dick squealed in joy, bouncing to his feet and wrapping his arms around Damian’s neck.
It was just pumpkin carving what exactly could go wrong. Right?
~~~
Less than two hours later Jason Todd walked into the kitchen of the Wayne manor, initially looking for a cup of peppermint tea as the Gotham chilly autumn winds were making him crave a hot beverage.
“Would anyone care to explain why is there a whole fucking pumpkin patch on the kitchen table?” Jason muttered audibly, mouth opened in stupefaction. What in the name of Halloweentown....Where did all these pumpkins come from?
“Language, Jay.” Dick scolded him glancing up at him over a pile of massive mutant pumpkins with a provoking grin.
“I grew up in the Narrows. I’m allowed to swear.” Jason rolled his eyes in reply as he tried to avoid stepping on the pumpkins, accidentally squashing them, they were scattered on the floor, table, those fucking things were everywhere. “Dickie, are you going to explain?”
“These are from Roy.” Richard gestured the numerous orange bulbs with his right hand. “I think he got these from some illegal smuggling bust. I didn’t really ask a lot of questions. I just accepted them because I thought it’d be fun to try carving Batman lanterns with little D.”
It took Jason less than two minutes to process the information. Why was the golden boy not bothered by this?
“You mean these are contraband pumpkins.” He remarked skeptically, green-blue eyes widening still rather incredulous.
Dick simply shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d have a problem.”
Right. Only if Bruce found out about the origin of the contraband pumpkins. Then he’d be blamed for being the bad influence and his merry band of disreputable friends. He groaned as he rubbed the nape of his neck.
“And where is the demon spawn. I don’t seem him anywhere.” He questioned narrowing his eyes and tilting his head to the side the slightest. He had to be close to Dick, but the kitchen was alarmingly too quiet. Too quiet for his liking. This meant trouble.
Tim didn’t try too hard not to flinch as a knife flashed dangerously close to his face and flied past Jason. “This is the third time in the last hour. I’m starting to think it’s personal.” Tim spoke calmly with a sarcastic tone as he continued sipping his black coffee expressionless as usual. Getting knifed by the little demon spawn before Halloween would hav been the cherry on top of the misfortune cake.
Jason was genuinely concerned and wondered how many cups of coffee Tim has had today. Hopefully not over five.
“If he wanted you dead, you’d be already in a casket.” Jason pointed out. It was no secret Damian’s strong aversion towards replacement, but he didn’t wish the shortstack dead.
Tim just shrugged his shoulders casually. “Well, I suppose we always could use your old one.” Fuck that. He took it back.
“Low blow, replacement.” Jason feigned hurt putting a hand to his chest right above his heart in a offended manner.
“It’s juts not cooperating.” The young kid voiced his frustration and discontentment . Leaving the kitchen knife he used on the table. Tt. He was trained and raised for excellence and he couldn’t carve flawlessly a stupid pumpkin. Mother would be entirely displeased.
“Requires time and practice, Dami.” Dick whispered softly with a warm smile, running his hand up and down the preteen’s back.
“I don’t know D, to me it looks like you’re slaughtering it mercilessly.” Jason joked with a wolflike smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Head moving in different angles trying to find a figure or face in the pumpkin Damian had been carving. “Unless you were thinking of the Joker, If so then you have my seal of approval.” The little demon spawn was never the most pleasant person to be around but deep,very deep down maybe Jason had a soft spot for him. Not that he would ever admit it out loud. Never.
“Do us a favor and keep your mouth shut, Todd.” Damian barked, glaring daggers at him.
“I never did Halloween with my parents.” The words escaped Tim’s mouth before his brilliant brain registered the order. The pain wasn’t there anymore. No. There were charity Galas, social events for wealthy socialites, last minute journeys for significant discoveries. Because people often assumed there will be plenty of time later. Tim didn’t want Damian to live for the later.
“I remember trading a cheap wristwatch for expired candy once. Not a great deal.” Jason muttered nonchalantly, giving it unimportance. Tone flat and factual. His memories from the narrows weren’t memorable for being happy or enjoyable but he had what he managed to obtain and he did what was necessary in order to survive. Nothing to be ashamed of.
“There’s always a first, Timbo.” Dick placed sympathetically a hand on Tim’s shoulder in a comforting way. Tim smiled softly back. Well, perhaps this pumpkin carving experience could be fun.
~~~
“This is the grossest thing I’ve ever done.” Tim announced, scooping a handful of pumpkin guts out of his pumpkin and examining them distastefully. “Seriously. I’ve done some pretty gross things, but this takes the cake.”
Jason flicked playfully a few pumpkin seeds at him and Tim moved fast enough to evade almost all of them. “Don’t be such a crybaby, replacement.” He has been playing with the large pumpkin, stabbing it numerous times picturing the joker’s fAce.
“Look at the gremlin, he’s been doing it for like two hours. What if he’s developed an addiction?” Jason mumbled slightly concerned and half-joking to Tim.
Damian pulled the pumpkin impossibly closer to him, practically cradling the thing in his lap. His mind completely absorbed in the task of carving the perfect pumpkin. His back was pressed to the cupboards behind him, a series of knives and napkins scattered at his sides. He looked focused, impossibly focused, like there could never be a more important thing for him to pour his energy into. Because Damian Wayne even if he didn’t admit it was obsessed with maintaining perfection. Failure was not a word he accepted.
Damian rolled his eyes. “I’m fairly sure no one has ever got addicted to pumpkin carving and I can hear you, mindless fools.”
"Any behavior can become compulsive.” Tim supplied absently, eyes fixed on the small pumpkin in front of him.
Dick paused briefly from working on his Nightwing lantern to just observe Damian, not even trying to hide the smile on his lips.
Dick and Jason quietly exchange discreet glances. Quickly they picked a few pumpkin seeds out of the bowl that resided in the scented of the kitchen table, flicking them over towards Damian who squawked and tried unsuccessfully, to duck. Due to being too focused on the task assigned. “Will you stop distracting me? I have a masterpiece to finish!”
“A masterpiece?” Jason asked teasingly, glancing pointedly at his Batman lantern.
“Yes. A masterpiece, Todd.” Damian exhaled exasperated. What did anyone have to do to carve a mere pumpkin in peace?
“Come on, little D. It’s time to have some fun!” Jason threw a handful of pulpy flesh at his face. Oh. This would be seen as a declaration of war. Quickly, Damian grabbed a portion of pumpkin and aimed for Jason’s leather jacket. ‘NOT MY JACKET’ several minutes later, Drake was covered in the orange flesh from head to toes. He was in urgent need of a bath. Grayson was smart enough to grasp a breakfast tray and use it as a shield, however it didn’t work for long. Damian and Tim teamed up to caught him on the top with a surprise attack, Drake sneaking behind his back. Needless to say the kitchen was in shambles at this point. Good thing Pennyworth has been busy the whole day reorganizing the library.
“What’s all this mess in my kitchen?! Master Richard I demand a proper explanation!” A very agitated British voice came from the doorframe. Alfred very upset, furrowing his grey brows appeared looking utterly baffled by the chaos.
Oops.
“Fuck me” Jason and Richard grumbled in unison from the floor covered in pumpkin pulp. Soon they broke out in bowls of laughter all four of them. Damian genuinely laughed at his heart’s content with the innocence of a normal child. His family may have been unstable and insane, but canned if they weren’t entertaining and the best part of his new life.
Some mandatory batbros bonding October prompt 🎃 🙈🙈🙈❤️💜💜
Also I’m celebrating 1.8K followers. Thank you so much for your support and reading my stories. I appreciate it 🥺🥺
Edited here:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/26891536
@sofiii @chromium7sky @deep-in-mind67
#batfamily#batsiblings bonding#batbrothers#batbros#batman universe#bruce wayne#dick grayson#tim drake#jason todd#damian wayne#alfred pennyworth#hauntober#october prompts#dc fandom#dc universe#nightwing#red robin#red hood#pumpkin carving#halloween
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Will Trade Soup for Intel
Potential Gotham Knights ‘verse. For those who did not see the trailer: Bruce is dead (pfft, suuuuure he is), Jim Gordon is dead (Jim, no!), the Court of Owls appears (this is gonna be bad), Batgirl and Robins 1-3 have guardianship of Gotham. For this piece: Penguin is also dead. Dove has his operation. And the flu. :p
***
Tim’s not sure where he thought Jason was going to take him. Honestly, because it’s Jason, he was sort of thinking, ‘seedy hole in the wall where retired hitmen go’. Or something. Or maybe an orphanage, or an under-the-bridge camp; the Alley Kids don’t throw bottles and needles at him, unlike the others. They demand rides.
(Yeah, it’s funny but also scary to see the Red Hood, known for his duffle bag of heads, giving a little girl a piggyback ride.)
This is not one of those places. This is some apartment building in midtown with a doorman and everything. And, y’know, it’s daytime, which...they don’t operate in the daytime that much unless they’re undercover, and they don’t appear to be. Jason told Tim to dress like a real boy and stick his domino on in the elevator, but he’s wearing what he always does; jeans, hoodie, heavy boots. And he’s carrying a brown bag that smells like soup. No helmet in sight, and Tim knows he won’t wear a domino now. They bug the scar*, he says.
“Where are we?”
“To see an old friend. I’m out of other ideas.”
“What, are they a conspiracy professor or something?”
“No.”
The doorman waves them through and they wait for an empty elevator. Jason presses the third-floor button and settles in, adjusting the bag in his arms. For all the crap they give...gave...Bruce about theatrics, Jason’s no better. He lives for building the suspense. Tim had nearly murdered him again for that stupid monk joke. Asshole. Ten minutes from his life, and for that? Humph.
A cotton face mask whaps him in the chest while he’s adjusting his domino and he frowns.
“What.”
“You’re fragile, and she’s got the flu, which is why we’re here in the daytime. I’m basically immune after my, um, upgrade points got cashed in, but you are a Victorian maiden who'll probably turn it into tuberculosis and die and I can’t deal with Dick after that.”
Huh.
…
Whatever. You lose one spleen…
He puts the mask on, too, making sure Jason sees his glower, just as the elevator dings to a halt.
Tim starts to suspect they’re not invited, exactly, when Jason shoves the bag at him and drops down to pick the lock. Though he does knock and call, “Don’t get up!”, so.
“There. Give me that before you spill something...hey, Miss Marquis! I brought soup!”
…
Jason couldn’t have just told him this, why?
There’s furious coughing in the other room, followed by movement, and a minute later Dove shuffles out, wrapped in a blanket and wearing what appear to be bunny slippers. She looks terrible.
“For the tenth time, I don’t care how immune you think you are, you’re going to get sick and I can take care of myself.”
“Haven’t gotten sick yet,” Jason says cheerfully. “‘Sides, it’s, like, partly a bribe.”
Dove doesn’t look convinced. Tim’s not convinced, either. Jason, when left to his own devices, can and will out-mother-hen Dick. He’s just usually scarier when he does it. More like Alfred.
Before any further argument can happen, Dove starts coughing again and winds up clutching the doorframe with one hand and holding the other up to keep Jason at bay.
“Thought you were gonna take Theraflu,” Jason says sulkily. Dove reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose.
“I will take it if I need it, Hood.” Tim sympathizes. Theraflu tastes like sadness. At least Robitussin is nice. “I promise this isn’t my first flu, I am fine. ” This is not a battle she’ll win. Tim knows. Tim has tried and failed. Jason had loomed at him and told him, oh-so-nicely, that he would take the Theraflu or that it would breach his defenses. “What do you want.”
Jason holds up the bag.
“Fridge or bowl?”
“Fridge, please.”
“Tea?”
“If I say yes, will you settle down?”
“For now.”
She sighs and totters over to an armchair.
“Fine.”
“What kind.”
“I’ve got some sort of zinger tea in there, that would be very nice.”
Jason vanishes into the kitchen. Dove sinks into her chair, pulling her blanket tighter around her shoulders, and waves at the couch.
“Siddown, Robin.”
“Sorry we broke in,” he says, because Jason won’t. Dove just shakes her head.
“This isn’t the first time or the last time,” she says. “At least you used the door...if you need a drink or somethin’, help yourself.”
Jason comes back, steaming mug in his hands.
“I’ll get it,” he says. “Bird boy here shouldn’t touch the kitchen.”
Slander.
“Nightwing’s worse.”
“Still. Here y’go.”
“Thanks, honey.” Dove leans up to take it before shooing him back. “Now. Why are you here.”
Jason settles onto the couch next to Tim and leans forward, worrying at his lower lip.
“This is going to sound crazy.”
“Well, that’s interesting.”
“Do you know anything about the Court of Owls?”
Dove snorts, coughs, and takes a sip of her tea.
“What?”
“You know…beware the court of owls that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch behind granite and lime. They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed. Speak not a whispered word of them--”
“Or they’ll send the Talon for your head, I know the rhyme.” She takes another sip. “It’s a scary story to keep kids in line, you know that.”
“We thought so, but.” He shrugs. “”Had a run-in with...something...last night that, um. Looked a little dead. But not dead like me, dead like...I don’t know. It was like it wasn’t human anymore. Or ever. I don’t know.”
Well, that’s a surprise. Tim wonders if Jason just straight-up admitted what happened or if Dove got it out of him or from some other source.
“Croc’s not human, either, kid.”
“No. This thing...I didn’t...I broke its neck and it fucking twisted it back into place.”
Dove frowns.
“You’re sure?”
“Uh-huh. And before that I emptied literally twelve bullets into this thing and it didn’t even flinch. I’m telling you, something wasn’t right and it was wearing an owl mask.”
Tim nods.
“There have been four murders committed with daggers that have owl insignias on them,” he says. “We think these two things are related.”
“Owl daggers?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can I see one?”
“I brought a picture. The daggers are police evidence.”
“Like you boys didn’t borrow one,” she says, but sits up when Jason comes over with the phone. “I’ve seen something like this before.”
Well, that was unexpected.
“When?”
“Years ago, now. Penguin had one that he got from who-knows-where. It went missing one night-we chalked it up to Catwoman and let it go-but we did have people offer to buy it a few times. Generous offers, too.”
“He wouldn’t sell?” Odd. Penguin loved money almost as much as his pet birds. “Can you remember who offered?”
“Rich men, you know the type. They like...oddities.”
Tim does know the type. During Dick’s stint as Batman, he’d stumbled upon an auction house that specialized in some nasty things, including a very particular crowbar.
(Jason, as far as Tim knows, has no idea about this.)
“Did he say anything about it?”
“No. He put it in his office, in a little case, and honestly, I sort of figured someone had tried to kill him with it. He was funny about things like that.”
That’s an understatement. Penguin had been very proud of the bottle in his eye, among other things.
Dove starts coughing again and ends up setting her tea on the end table. Jason’s halfway over there when the coughs turn to sputters and she manages to wheeze out a, “Fine. M’fine.”
“This is why you should take Theraflu.”
“Honey…”
“I can make--”
“Hon.” He shuts up. “I’m okay. It’s just the flu, give me another week and I’ll be back to normal.” She takes a shuddery breath and picks up her tea again. “I promise. Now. I don’t.” Another shuddery breath, but no coughing this time. “I don’t know anything else off the top of my head, but. Little fuzzy.” She tugs at her blanket until it’s closed around her neck, just under her chin. “If anything comes up, I’ll let you know-ow- shit --”
The coughs don’t stop this time and she winds up bent nearly double, arms curled up to, presumably, brace her ribs. Ouch. When they finally wane, she’s red-faced and wheezing and looking fairly well miserable. Tim’s just about to nudge Jason when she stands up, clutching her mug in white, shaky fingers, and says, “I am going back to bed. Lock up behind yourselves.”
“Can we do anything?”
“No, hon. But thanks. You boys.” A finger goes up and she sort of... hics ...but nothing happens. “You boys stay safe. Don’t do anything. Anything reckless.”
Reckless? Humph. They’re not reckless. Adventurous, is Tim’s preferred term. So one time he leapt off a building knowing his grappler wasn’t working. Dick caught him, like he knew he would. It was leap or be eaten, and being eaten was by far the uglier choice.
“Reckless? Us?” Jason mock-gasps. “Thanks. Soup’s in the fridge. Want me to make you a Thera--”
“ No. Thank you.”
THE END
*I’m debating on whether or not that scar is Joker-related (could be an aborted Glasgow?) OR Batarang-caused: maybe Bruce hit his face rather than his throat in this version of UtRH. Either way, ow.
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Sleep, Red Bucket
Summary: Tim and Jason work together on a case. Just that, Jason had a hard week and maybe just 3-4 hours of sleep.
Characters: Jason, Tim, Alfred (mentions), Avalanche (no, not from X-men. It’s an original enemy for a man named Snow here)
Warnings: Child drug rings, Drugs, Wild night terrors, Unconscious self-harm, Vomiting, Blood, Injuries, Swearing,
Additional Notes: I used way too much references from The Crown and this is a sickfic
Word Count: 2,233 words
***
Tim stretches a little from where he's sitting on the couch, running his hand through ebony locks as he tapped away on his laptop. He was secretly glad that he managed to sneak out of the Manor, after being ratted out by Jason for not sleeping. He had barely escaped after being coddled by Dick (that man in spandex sure can hug) and hovered over by Alfred. Sighing contently, he closed the webpage he was on and gave a quick glance at the clock.
It was still eleven, nearing towards twelve actually. He knit his eyebrows in slight annoyance, Red Hood and him had arranged to meet at twelve and he wasn't here yet. Tim assumed Jason probably had a run in with some bitch of a gang or seeing the kids or whatever he does at Crime Alley. He had long learnt not to touch that area, last time saw him with a batarang held against his throat.
Ironic for someone proclaiming to hate Batman. Tim snorted.
He was well into his thought loop when he heard the sound of metal against his window. Tim's head shot up and he hastily grabbed his bo-staff laying on the couch opposite him. Silently, he crept towards the curtains and laid to wait. The sound grew louder and he heard irritated whispers or the wind, he couldn't exactly pinpoint.
The window opened and Tim nearly smashed the intruder's head from behind when he heard a panicked yell.
"The fuck?!"
Tim breathed a little before yelling back. Oh thank fuck, its Jason only.
"And you couldn't use the damn door like any other human?"
Jason allowed a snort to escape before walking resolutely to the couch where he sat down rather heavily and let out a small sigh.
"I died, I'm technically not human or I mean does that count?"
Tim rolls his eyes and settles back on the couch where Jason was laying stretched rather lazily and flipping through the case files, with his hood still on.
"So, as far as I know. Snow has multiple bases in Bludhaven. Wonder how Dickface hasn't run into him yet."
"Dick knows him as Avalanche. That's what he calls himself. Different street names."
"He'll fall eventually."
Tim almost laughs but he cannot exactly tell if Jason was joking or just plaintively didn't give two fucks. It also sounded a tad more tired.
"Mhm. Anyways, his largest base is pretty near your territory. I think you know it like the back of your hand."
He offers tentatively, trying to rebalance the edge of tension in the room.
"Yeah. Got it."
"Do you need-"
"No. He's on my turf. I get to take him out."
Jason takes slightly longer than he does to get up. Tim sees it but doesn't call him out on it. He really doesn't want another stab mark. he watches Jason climb out of the window.
"Oh and Jason?"
Jason turns, in zero mood right now because the small throbbing in his head has grown a little.
"What?!"
"Get some shut-eye."
He scoffs and leaves.
—
Some hours in, Tim decided he wanted coffee so he gets up to go make himself.
He hears a faint rustle and pin drop silence. He quietly grabs the dang bo-staff again. As he creeps along the rooms, he hears the sound getting louder. It sounded like someone was having trouble.
He almost shits himself when he sees Red Hood asleep. In his apartment.
Tim narrows his eyes and does a quick surveillance of Jason's things. He sees empty cartridges and shell casings lying at his feet
The only physical response was Jason's head tilting at an angle and soft snores filtered by the Hood.
Huh, he's back and asleep. Already?
"Jason?"
Tim raised an eyebrow at Jason.
"Mm?"
"Oh good. Just checking if you're alive."
Jason turned on himself, curling his legs under himself.
"Al'wys am, Replac'ment. F'k off. Lemme sleep."
Tim frowned slightly as he inched his hands towards the hood but a gloved hand comes out of nowhere and squeezes Tim's wrist tightly who now lets out a yelp.
-
Tim pours the coffee but the thoughts of Jason doesn't leave his mind. Something wasn't so right about Jason. But then, nothing was ever right with Jason.
Was he bleeding? He did return late from whatever he was up to. He did slur his dreaded nickname. He refused to take off his hood. Was he sick? Did he eat?
He hears a loud scream that interrupts his second thought loop of the night. Tim almost spills the coffee on himself and half stumbles-half runs to the source.
Jason.
"J..Jason?"
Erratic breathing greeted him. Tim steels himself as he nimbly types the correct combination and takes the hood off against Jason's order. He isn't about to let someone die in his apartment.
Why does everything have to end up so damn difficult?
Tim barely glances at Jason as he shakes him.
"Jason. Shh. Jason?"
Jason doesn't comply, the thrashing increases in intensity as he yells his throat raw. He claws his forearms, scratching the scarred skin in nightmare-delirium. He manages to draw blood which gently falls onto the white couch, turning the area into a crime scene wildly in contrast to the source of blood. His eyes were tightly shut, thick black lashes glued to his sweat covered cheeks
Tim restrains Jason, tries to grab his hands but he manages to fucking fling Tim across the table. He crashes at the bookshelf, wincing when his arm whacks against a particularly thick encyclopedia.
Ah, he thought, the pain of knowledge.
He quickly gathers himself and sees Jason thrashing on the couch, whimpering like a wounded animal.
"What the fuck. Jason? Can..can you hear me?"
The whimpers alternate into raw screaming, it leaves Tim's heart cold and skin prickled. He doesn't have to know what Jason is thinking. He needs to snap the nightmare loop before he decided his throat was next and he-
Focus, Tim.
Tim rummages everywhere in the apartment, heartbeat loud in his ears. He knows it was best to wait it out but it was almost like it was a loop. He spots a whistle, one from the Charity Games Bruce hosted. Yeah, he remembered that one pretty well. Grayson won the race and he blew the whistle right in his face. Jason laughed and Barbara poked fun at him later on it.
He quickly blows the whistle at Jason who shot up with a frightening velocity. Tim literally held Jason down, stunned into silence.
"Jason?"
He only pinched his nose-bridge, other hand clenching the couch tightly.
"Do you want water?"
"No"
He barely croaked, turning on himself like a wounded animal.
Tim fetches a glass anyway. He also brought some bandages to wrap his forearms. Quietly, he does so, rubbing alcohol into it alternated with small flinches. When the procedure was done, Tim stepped back a little.
Jason turned on himself again, shaking. His eyebrows were drawn in pain, breaths almost wheezing. His face was now alarmingly pale and eyebags almost like bruises cover below his tired eyes
Tim didn't know what to say to him. Jason might shoot down all chances to talk about it.
"I'm going to take your temperature, is that okay?"
No answer.
Tim awkwardly fumbles around, he needed distraction to come up with a way to talk about it. There was no way he was leaving Jason in that terrifying loop he saw.
He knew he had the latest state-of-the-art thermometer that took temperatures in seconds but he chose the mercury one to buy time he needed to calm himself. He returns back to Jason who sat up again, hand resting under his chin.
"I'm not sick."
A whisper barely above the rattling of the heater.
"I still need to check, I haven't ruled out fever dream. You look like shit."
"Course."
Jason lets Tim do it as he quietly counts to the 180th second. Tim removes it and sees it at 96.
"That's cold."
"Anemic."
"Oh, that wasn't in your files. I'll add that in later."
Jason lies down again and his eyes flutter closed. Tim properly gives Jason a onceover, he looked almost vulnerable underneath the glinting armor.
"You haven't eaten, have you?"
His eyes open slightly again, eyes squinting at Tim's undisguised worry.
"Won't stay down."
Tim bit his lip. This was bad.
"Can you handle some soup?"
"Try to, can't promise."
Tim gets up to reheat the soup Alfred left for him two nights ago but something in him nags to not leave Jason alone with his thoughts. He puts on The Crown and unpaused at where Queen Elizabeth hears about Jackie Kennedy's unflattering comments about her.
Tim quickly takes the soup out and shoves it in the microwave. His work could wait another day or two. He had checked the camera feeds momentarily and saw zero sign of the target.
The microwave beeped and he takes it out, carefully pouring into two bowls and bringing it to the living room where he now sees Elizabeth doing the foxtrot.
Tim places the soup at the table and gives one to Jason who cradles one in his arms, eyes unseeing at the television. Tim carefully watches Jason's face. His cheekbones had hollowed slightly and were clenched. Probably an aftereffect defense mechanism. Tim thinks.
"Do you feel like throwing up again?"
An imperceptible shake as his eyes glue at Philip yell at Charles while dangerously maneuvering the plane with tears streaking down Charles' face. Tim sees something momentarily shift in Jason at dad yelling at son.
Oh shit, trigger, trigger, trigger.
Tim abruptly switches off the television. This time, Jason properly turns at Tim.
"Why?"
Tim narrowed his eyes.
"Its..nothing, Jason. Not letting you go through that hell I saw."
"Funny you say that, been happening for two weeks straight."
Jason spits it with vitriol. Tim physically feels the force of the words. Biting, cold, hard. He moves back, as if the force displaced him. How the hell did Jason still have enough strength to do that? a half of Tim wondered.
He tried to open his mouth but settled to stretching his lips into a thin line.
"I said don't-"
"I'm not about to fucking ask or clarify anything remotely related to what just transpired. Listen to me carefully, all I want to know is whether you're sleeping enough. Yes or no?"
Tim hissed, chin dipping down with practiced ease. Jason seemingly curls onto himself more before grumbling, this time lacking the usual bite.
"Three in four days. Fuckers won't stop fucking recruiting kids on my territory to sell drugs. The hell am I supposed to do? Sleep while the kids get roped in a sick fuck of a game?"
Tim nods in understanding, clearly regretting his outburst. He watches Jason sag heavily against the couch and tip his head back. His eyes were pinched shut this time with his jaw tightening with more of the earlier tension Tim noted. He laid a hand on Jason's temple and carefully, he inched his hand throughout his head, warm fingers making their way through. He hears small sighs of relief when he reaches the sides. Tim slowly maneuvers Jason onto his lap and continues to stroke his sweaty bangs. Jason only winces again at the bright, florescent lights
"Headache?"
"Mhm."
He turns on himself, groaning quietly. he places an arm over his eyes. Tim continues to massage his temples, rubbing reassuring circles.
"How bad?"
"..."
"Want painkillers?"
Jason shakes his head, lights glaring in his eyes and everything spinning.
"Hate..meds. You know..that."
Tim seemed to consider that but got off the couch.
"Be right back, I'll dim the lights."
Jason almost whimpers again at the lack of heat of Tim's fingers as the dull throbbing increased and pounded behind his eyes. Jason wished he could will the damn thing to stop, if he could only sleep it away without the fucking nightmares. He curled on himself for the umpteenth time that night, wishing he was dead again.
He feels a dip in the couch and then firm fingers return, pressing hard. Jason gasped out.
"T..Tim."
"Sorry. Is this better?"
Tim apologetically whispers as he decreases the pressure against the wild throbbing. Jason silently hummed in agreement and leaned into the touches.
"Sorry, I overstayed.. I should go."
"You would, if you slept enough. How many hours did you get just yesterday alone?"
"Got here right after the run-in with Snow and be'fre was the druggists."
Tim narrowed his eyes while Jason closes his, worn out by the small conversation.
“What about you?”
He smiles a little at that, always caring about someone else before himself.
"Alfred made me sleep two nights ago at the Manor. I hid out here to find that intel."
"T'hts n'ce."
Tim places his hand on Jason's shoulder and watches as Jason's breathing evens out into soft snores. He threw on a blanket and quietly took his laptop to begin work, the soft blue glow illuminating the room.
“Tim?”
Jason sleepily opens one eye to where Tim settled down with his laptop. He motions Tim to join him who hesitates before lying down beside him. He presses a quick kiss on Jason’s forehead before adjusting himself under Jason’s neck. Jason only let a small hum of approval before encircling Tim with a soft hug.
“G’night.”
#dc#red hood#jason todd#jason peter todd#red robin#timothy jackson drake#tim drake#tim#jason#hugs#vomit warning#blood tw#vomit tw#drugs tw#mentions of drugs#drug mention#sleep deprived af#sleep deprivation#they need self-preservation#hoodedwing#reblog#alfred pennyworth#alfred#angsty#but more fluff#hurt/comfort#hurt#not incest#its brothers
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Waiting for the Worms - The Trial
Part 18
I've just been staring at this completed chapter for thirty minutes. I've been working up to this moment for so long and to see it finally written is just. Insane. (No this is not the last chapter. There is much more to come)
By the way!!!! This chapter was not suppose to end this way! Y'all influenced this shit! Goading me into it, I swear.
CLOSED List of Beggarts I regularly feed (I'm running out of names to call you): @northernbluetongue @thethirdwheelfriend @shizukiryuu @theatreandcomicfreak @michellemagic @karategirl119 @moonlightstar64 @my-name-is-michell @mystery-5-5 @zalladane @queen-of-the-trash-planet-tm @miraculousdisapointment @dorkus-minimus @jardimazul @allthebooksandcrannies @g-arya @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @persephonescat @mycupisbroken @luciferge @18-fandoms-unite-08 @dawnwave16 @alwaysreblogneverpost @kris-pines04 @emjrabbitwolf @mysteriouslyswimmingfan-blo-blog @weird-pale-blonde-person @you-will-never-know-how-i-think @kokotaru @naclychilli @slytherinhquinn @clumsy-owl-4178 @ladybug-182 @darkthunder1589 @evil-elf16 @dast218 @lysslovsanime @emilytopaz @naoryllis @iloontjeboontje @thepeacetea @danielslilangel @finallyaniguana @i-like-fairytail-and-stuff @vixen-uchiha @yuulxd @bleeding-heart-romantic @magic-inthe-stars @st0rmy-w1th1n
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He'll be after Jason seeing as the new Robin described him and he definitely knows about Joker's death.
They watched as the shadow took off across the rooftops, occasionally tossing out a grapple or swan diving off a ledge. Four blocks off, another figure, much brighter and attention grabbing, took a similar route, small body taking to the sky seemingly not taking notice of the eyes on him. Or perhaps used to it.
You'll watch the bird, keep him distracted. Nothing extreme enough to catch the other's attention. Just hold off any interference.
A dozen mice ran along the sides of gutters and along the alleyways below, awaiting their signal. They kept the brighter figure in their sights, drawing his attention with slight rustles and squeaks from unexpected places. Just loud and weird enough to avoid interest in any other movement in the area, drawing out a natural curiosity and investigative need in their target.
You'll play as backup. As soon as we instigate our target, I expect you to help keep the Replacement within ear range but incapable of assisting.
A fox dashed across the streets, keeping a close eye on the game between the bright figure and the mice scattered about. Any time the bird snuck up on where one hid, she hid the mouse in illusions, sometimes a real rat, other times a startled, hissing cat.
Tail swishing in a twitchy dance behind her, she awaited the main event from her perch.
You two will take to the sidelines, backup if it should come to blows. Otherwise, keep everyone updated on the others' positions and monitor the situation.
A cat slinking around corners kept an eye on all of the players, including the two unseen by the rest, coordinating positions and ensuring no one moved off course, uncomfortable in knowing a double agent held eyes in the sky and taking precautions to avoid cameras as she whispered soft directions into a comm, made by their miraculouses and impossible to hack due to the ancient magic encasing it.
By her side, a dragon crossed with a horse hovered in a tense side to side sway, awaiting her command. The other kept on tiptoe, knowing the call to assist could come at any point and from any direction. In the end, their disappearance back into the night at the end of all of this relied on her. Waiting too long differentiated between success and potential capture.
We'll take on the Bat. After all, I think it's high time he met my soulmate.
With baited breath, they watched as a shrouded man dropped in front of the Bat, making the figure twist at the last second to avoid a headlong collision. Batman turned back on the spot, dropping into a crouch and launching towards the man. The man dropped onto his back, kicking upward into a stomach and using the momentum to launch Batman across the roof while rolling back to a stand. He stayed facing away, though they saw his head tilt, listening to the almost silence behind him. As a flash of silver flung towards his back, he easily spun off to the side, dodging a barrage of batarangs as Batman methodically tossed them while placing himself closer and closer to the other before moving in to initiate hand to hand combat. The man seemed to take this in stride, shifting into the new pattern.
Across the rooftops, Robin took note of the fight and moved to aid. He made it three blocks before a fox dropped in front of him, growling. Taken aback, but knowing not to allow the distraction, he attempted to grapple upwards, only to find the grapple gone, in the teeth of a mouse like figure, taking off away from him, other mice figures crawling about his feet, holding him in place as the fox watched on, teeth bared in a silent warning. Keeping an eye on the strange creatures about him, he looked back to Batman, startling at the realization that he recognized his attacker. Jason. Suddenly he remembered the strange abilities of the lady from the night before and realized the creatures holding him captive where meant to keep him from interfering. As he made to move anyways, a voice in his ear on a private channel spoke up, asking him to stay still. Agent A.
"What's going on, A?"
"You'll see."
The figures continued on until the Bat begin to advance harder, looking to restrain his opponent, calling out to him, having deducted whom the figure is by this point.
"Jason stop!" Right as a fist went too fast to block, aimed straight to the man's nose, a cord wrapped around his fist, yanking in back. As Batman began to turn towards the source, a punch came to his face, bringing him back front and center. A possible second cord wrapped around his other wrist and the backs of his knees were kicked out from under him.
The others watched as a Ladybug held a yoyo taut, strings in a Y formation, the focal point centered between the Bat's shoulder blades to evenly distribute the tension. The Ladybug looped the yoyo over a pipe and pulled up until his arm bent back and upwards without tipping his torso down. If he tried anything, the bug could simply yank him airborne. The Bat choose to focus onto the man in front of him for the moment.
"Jason-"
"I'm not Jason."
We should switch. I have more experience with the Pit Madness than you. If I'm in your body, I can hold the entirety of it while you get a reprieve to focus on the mission. To have a clear mind while confronting him.
"What?" He demanded.
A sharp, feminine voice spoke up behind him, loud enough for the others to hear.
"I am."
Batman froze in his spot on his knees as the figure that looked like Jason sat down in front of him.
"Hello Bruce. It's good to meet you officially. Though I suppose I've known you much longer than you've known me." The lower, masculine voice was offset by its' soft lilting tone.
Despite his brain whirling with the information, he shoved it aside, firmly refusing to put it together himself.
"You're lying."
"She's not," the voice from behind moved closer, the yoyo secured on their hip to prevent his movement but free up the hands and gripped his shoulders in a crushing grip, "You see, Bruce, I hadn't been with you long enough to trust you with the secret of my having a soulmate. And you never knew me well enough to tell when we switched. Some detective you are, hmm?"
"So what, that makes this okay?" He growled.
"Patience," the figure in front of him smirked softly.
"Getting caught by the Joker at that moment, that was my own dumbass fault. You not arriving on time isn't your fault. I could live with that, but that isn't the end. I want you to look into the eyes in front of you, feel how small the presence behind you is. How tiny and young, despite being seventeen. I want you to look her in the eyes and know that she was only fourteen when she was launched into my body where she was beaten to a pulp by the Joker. Blown up. The connection broke. Then because it wasn't her body, she sat in my corpse for months before the resurrection. Had to crawl her way out of a grave and to a hospital."
The team tensed in the distance, having not heard the full story before now. Robin's eyes blew wide behind the mask, the tension in his body going slack in horror.
"Do you see that swirl of green in my blue eyes? How they look almost teal? That's from when the League threw her into the Lazarus Pits. She's combating insanity as we speak. And yet even with the healing effect it had, you can see the scars all over. There's an autopsy mark as well."
The shoulders in Jason's hands shook with his words and he looked up at Mari who seemed calm, letting the man stare at her and take in her reality.
"And none of that is truly your fault. But you know what is?" Marinette spoke up now, "That a fifteen and fourteen year old were ever put into that kind of danger to begin with. What's the likelihood of either of us ever falling onto Joker's radar without your placing us in the costume? Without making us Robin? Do you think Jason would've become a target had you not decided it was perfectly acceptable to allow children to fight criminals?"
"Jason was troubled, he needed someplace to put that anger. Something to let out-"
"Many children are troubled or angry. Do you know what other parents don't do? Allow that teen angst to turn into taking on the adult underworld. But sure, we'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Explain then why you couldn't care enough for Jason, for any potential child's life enough to create a permanent solution to our murderer? How many people, how many innocent kids is the Joker's life worth to you?"
"You obviously care more for the clown than us," Jason added.
"That's not true!"
"Then why? Why was my grave barely marked?"
"Two sentences in the Tuesday local obituaries."
"Swept under the rug to be forgotten."
"While you hunt us down for killing the clown. We deserve to be hunted down for avenging our own death."
"Meanwhile you do no such thing to the one who killed your supposed precious Robin. Did we mean so little to you? I wonder if the newest Robin means anymore than we did."
"So you're angry you were replaced?" Batman barked out, overwhelmed by their constant barrage of accusations.
Mari reached forward, forcing the man to look into the teal of those eyes swirling in front of him, watching him flinch away at knowing who she was, "You misunderstand us purposefully. It's not that we were replaced. It's that you know a child died for your cause and you still insist on placing another in harm's way. You take broken children desperate for guidance, for connection, for anything and abuse that position over them. You as their guardian are meant to keep them from harm's way. To protect them from the horrors of the world until they're old enough to face it in their own way. Not throw them in a costume, train them into weapons and then let them fight the most dangerous criminals the city could offer. Yes, we made some stupid choices of our own, but you set us up to even have those choices presented to us. Does it even occur to you that had we not shown up to save the little bird, another child would have died under your care? Does that mean nothing to you?"
The Bat growled, trying to break free of his binds. The two hid grins, knowing him unaware of the young eyes listening desperately for his answer.
"You certainly haven't thanked us for keeping him alive. Does it mean less to you that he is alive then it does that Joker is dead."
"You know the rules! We don't kill!"
He fell for it. He might as well have told the new Robin his life was forfeit to his cause. The mice scurried off Robin's feet from where he stayed, a rooftop over as the fox curved around his calves in an almost apologetic movement.
"Jason swore to abide by your rules. I never did. I was fourteen when I died due to your negligence. I was innocent. I was a happy little girl with dreams of becoming a fashion designer. Now I can't even keep the voices in my head from screaming in my ears at all hours of the day. But the only thing you truly care about in the end is yourself. I fear for any child that gets dragged into your mess. And I will do whatever it takes to protect them from the inevitability of your cruelty."
With that, she stood from her spot and took off into the shadows, a cat, dragon and mice following out of sight. The fox looked at the boy who stood broken on the rooftop and nudged him, dropping the illusion of an animal and holding her hand out in offerance. He looked back at the thrashing Bat.
Jason, taking hold of the yoyo once more and tightening his grip, leant closer, "I don't blame the Joker for our death. I blame you."
With that, he used the yoyo to fling Batman in the opposite direction, taking off in an off kilter path towards the others. Looking back at the patient fox figure, hand still waiting for his choice, he hesitated.
"The choice is yours, Timothy. I'll support you no matter what," A's voice spoke softly through the comms.
Exhaling slowly, he took her hand.
She lead him to their rendezvous point where he saw the mice form into one person, the two from the roof and two other unknown figures. As he looked at them, each gave a soft nod in turn before the one opened up a blue portal before them, the fox letting go of his hand to follow the others through. Eventually only him and the ladybug themed one remained. Jason.
"Come on, replacement. You can stay with us however long you like."
With the smallest smile of gratitude and the encouraging words of Alfred in mind, he followed the other through, the portal closing behind them.
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Three AM, Aching and Tender
A Jason Todd x reader oneshot
the title is a bit fucked, but my inspiration ran out, so here we are
warnings for a character getting triggered, and also SMUT
*edited because I added a tag and tumblr decided that meant it could delete the whole fucking post
***
Jason aches.
Aches. All over, everywhere. He aches, and he’s so, so tired. Standing in the dark hallway in front of his apartment door, he can almost feel the exhaustion enveloping him, a physical wave threatening to pull him under as he fights for lucidity. He’s got the achy sort of tired that comes from a mission, a deadening of senses that just spent hours of hyper-alert, of muscles that were overstretched and overused. Half his body seems to be twinging lightly, sending minor flashes of pain that glimmer faintly in his soup-slow brain that’s doing it’s damndest to focus up enough to unlock his fucking flat.
The weariness is so pronounced that he couldn’t be bothered to enter his apartment like a proper vigilante and had walked in the building’s front door. He isn’t too worried, it’s 3:15am and the streets outside are nearly deserted. Besides, Babs has alerts on all CCTV cameras two miles in every direction, she’d scrub the footage if any of them caught the Red Hood waltzing into a building like he lived there.
After digging through his pockets for a few seconds, Jason gets his keys out and unlocks his door, flicking on the living room light. He sets his rucksack on the floor by the kitchen island, running the zipper down and taking out the few sets of dirty clothes from the top of the bag, putting them aside to wash later. He’d packed light for the two-week job with Roy and Kory.
Frustration edges in on the exhaustion lightly fogging his mind as he thinks over the mission itself. The drug sting on Santa Prisca had taken out some major players, but on their way out Roy got hit by some trigger happy idiot. Jason and Kory had had to perform emergency first aid on the helicopter ride off the island. It was touch and go for a bit, but eventually they’d dug the bullets of out his shoulder and thigh, and Kory cauterized the wound with her powers. Jason was taping gauze over her handiwork not twenty minutes ago. Roy will end up with two new scars and nothing more, but it wasn’t exactly how Jason preferred to end his missions.
He sighs, trying to push the days’ events from his mind. Giving himself a shake, he starts stripping down, taking off his helmet and body armor and placing them on the countertop, a tarp he’d laid down keeping his kitchen clean. His guns and miscellaneous other weapons, knives and the occasional batarang, make their way onto the tarp as well. Once he’s down to his pants and undershirt he surveys the counter, wondering what he can get away with just wiping down with disinfectant and what he’s going to have to soak in bleach overnight. As he eyes a particularly grimy blade a noise makes his way out of his bedroom. He doesn’t have to guess at what it is, and sure enough you appear a moment later, wearing an overlarge t shirt and hair mussed from sleep.
He grunts in your direction, mood still black from Roy’s close call. “Hey. You didn’t have to get up.”
“S’okay.” You softly pad over and take a seat on one of the barstools ringing the island. Neither of you say anything for a bit, silence stretching comfortably as you watch him in that even way of yours while he cleans and puts away his gear.
It still makes him pause, seeing you in his kitchen like this. This isn’t the first time you’ve graced his apartment in the early morning hours, kitchen light flickering over your head. You’d stayed over a few times since Jason had started sort-of-dating you a month and a half ago. He had actually handed you the keys when he left for Santa Prisca, you had asked if you could crash at his place while your landlord fumigated your apartment. He knows you’ve been here for two weeks, and you seem comfortable enough in his space, but Jason doesn’t think he’ll get used to moments like these. To having you here, clock ticking low while you huddle up on his barstool, streetlights outside bouncing through the window and shining hazy light on your skin.
In the month and a half that he’s known you, you’ve proven soft and sweet. Can you really fit into the seedy grooves of his life? He’s admiring you while he cleans his fucking guns at three in the morning for chrissakes, do you really belong here? Stills of you in his apartment drift across his brain, he imagines you having breakfast here in the morning, cleaning your teeth in front of his bathroom mirror, laying in his bed with your head resting on his pillow. Can he really have you like this?
Six weeks since Tim introduced you, and Jason still feels uneasy with these moments of quietness stillness, of just being together. He likes spending time with you and he’s happy you’re seeing each other, but Jason feels like he’s missing a trick, here. Something isn’t right. Maybe that’s the problem, not whether you belong in his life at all. It’s that something’s out of place with the two of you, with your relationship, if he can call it that. You text back and forth often enough, you go on dates, you fuck, but something doesn’t sit well with him. Maybe it’s that, for all the time you spend together, neither of you have actually ponied up and admitted some real feelings. It’s almost as though you’re settling into a routine of a long relationship before you’ve put in any of the grunt work, before you’ve run the risk of being vulnerable with each other. The two of you are groping blindly in the dark, hoping the other person feels the same way but never reaching out to confirm it, only to be pleasantly surprised when you bump into each other, wordlessly. It’s setting his teeth on edge, because it’s pretty clear to him that he likes you, and quite a bit more than a lot. He’s not great with emotions, hasn’t been since the pit and even before that, but he’s getting the sense that this thing with you might be starting to brush up against something big. He just doesn’t know what to do about it.
“How’d the job go?” your voice is a murmur in the dim light. For all his misgivings about whether his life can fit someone like you, you’re still choosing to sit next to his vigilante gear with no comment. On your second date, you had dropped the bomb that you know about his nightlife, and for a split-second Jason had frozen, ready to wallop Tim for clueing you in, or at the very least ignore his calls for a few weeks. Before he could even open his mouth to deny it, you told him you’d figured it out from Tim’s schedule back in college. It didn’t take a genius to make the leap from Tim to Bruce Wayne and his brood.
Jason knows you’re hazy on the details about his death and then non-death, but he isn’t in any hurry to bring you up to speed. He’s quietly grateful that you haven’t pressed.
He sets a gun down, stifling a wince at the sight of blood on the muzzle. You know about his night gig and his methods, sure, but there’s a difference between knowing and seeing blood coating a deadly firearm. A quick glance in your direction reveals that you don’t seem disgusted or repelled at all. He’s not even sure you’ve noticed it, from where he stands it looks like you’re keeping your gaze on him. You’ve drawn your knee up to your chest and are resting your chin on it, eyes wide and open as you wrap your arms around your bent leg.
Jason takes a deep breath, thinking on how to answer your question about the mission. He wants to grunt his way out of this and into the shower so he can wash the day off him, but your sweet concern deserves at least a response. Squeezing his eyes shut, he says “the sting went okay, but on the way out Roy got hit in a few nasty places.” He hears you shift in your seat. “Oh no, is he alright?”
He starts to shrug a bit as he opens his eyes. “He’ll be okay, but performing emergency surgery while under fire was—”
The last word comes out clipped and awkward as Jason catches sight of the shirt you’re wearing. You’d brought your leg down to the chair, leaving your chest open. Now he can see the shirt properly, and his gut sinks as he realizes that it’s his, that it’s one of his old ones from before, one of the ones Dick gifted to him while he was still Robin, while he was still with Bruce. His body turns stiff as his eyes trace the faded Haley’s Circus logo. Jason remembers admiring it every time a teenage Dick Grayson wore it around the manor, remembers admiring the teenage Dick Grayson himself, and his throat goes tight. Memories of who Bruce used to be to him, of what he used to be to Bruce, flood his mind and he finds he aches in a different way, more urgent, as the past takes over.
“Jay?” you ask, and there’s no way you could have missed that, the way his body locked down. “Is everything okay?” You’re moving again, hands braced on the counter like you’re about to get up and go over to him, which is the last thing he wants right now.
He can feel old defense mechanisms whirring into place. “What are you wearing?” he says, voice curt, instead of answering.
“What?” You glance down at yourself. “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot to bring something to sleep in so I just—”
“Where did you get that shirt?” Somewhere in his brain Jason feels guilty for making you recoil like that, but it’s lost to the wash of anger that had welled up so suddenly.
“I—I found it in your drawer, I’m sor—”
“So you were snooping through my stuff?” What is he doing, what is he doing? He doesn’t care if you went through his fucking sock drawer, why can’t he stop lashing out at you? But he knows why.
“No, of course I wasn’t snooping, I… I just,” you’re stammering in confusion. “I didn’t know the shirt was…I can go change if you want?” you offer, trying to placate him.
Jason takes a deep breath, trying desperately to get back in control of himself. He thought he was past this, he thought he was past turning into a crazed jackass any time Bruce pre...pre-Death came up, but apparently not.
“Jay?” You say quietly. Squeezing his eyes shut, he abruptly turns around, facing his back to you. “Just,” he manages to grunt out, “just give me a second.” This isn’t their fault, he hisses in his brain, they don’t deserve his temper. Flailing about, he finally remembers a breathing exercise Dick taught him years ago. Breathe in one two three four out one two three four five. In one two three four, out one two three four five. After about a minute or two, he feels in control again.
“No,” he says out loud, turning around to face you again, anger leaving him in an exhale. “No, you don’t have to change.” The tired ache slowly creeps back in. “I’m sorry, doll, I shouldn’t’ve gotten angry at you, that wasn’t cool.”
“It’s okay,” you say after a moment. Your shoulders don’t relax from where they’re bunched up around your neck, though, and Jason wants to kick himself.
“Seriously,” he says instead. “You’re fine, you didn’t do anything wrong. I was the one who was wrong for shouting at you.” He needs to make it clear to you that he knows he was out of line, and that there hopefully won’t be a repeat performance of this. “It’s not even about you, it’s just…” He sighs. “Dick gave me that shirt, before. When I was, you know…”
“Still with Bruce,” you supply for him. That was much nicer than ‘When I was still on life number one,’ which is what Jason had been thinking. “Oh, Jay, I’m so sorry, if I had known…” and the compassion in your gaze is so bright he almost wants to take a step back. “You couldn’t’ve,” he says instead, because of course it wasn’t your fault. “It just took me by surprise, is all.”
You nod. “I understand.” And you don’t, not really, but he appreciates the effort. "I can try to be more...aware of stuff like that, in the future."
And Jason wants to say 'don't worry about it,' but what comes out instead is "thank you."
After a few moments of silence, Jason picks up the dirty gun and gets back to work, glancing at you worriedly every few moments. Your eyes follow him for a while, bright and sharp, but eventually you stretch your arms over your head and leave the chair. Jason expects you to go back to bed, and half wonders whether he should offer to take the couch, especially after what just happened, but instead you step into the living room and sit on the sofa, legs stretched out over his coffee table.
Jason cleans and stows the rest of his gear, washes his hands, and wipes down the countertop for good measure before collapsing onto the couch next to you. You turn your head to look at him. Your hackles are still up, and Jason feels sick with himself. “Are you sure you’re okay, doll?” He asks. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“No, no, it’s okay, I promise.” You flash him a smile, quick and dry, but he notices some of the tension leave you. “So I, um,” you clear your throat, eyes darting away from his. “I really missed you, while you were away.” You hold his gaze then, drawing your lower lip into your mouth, which always drives him a little crazy.
He’s bad at this feelings stuff, he knows he is, which is why he surprises himself when the words “I really missed you, too,” roll off his tongue, easy as anything.
Your lips curve into another smile, syrup-slow this time. He’s momentarily stunned, and when you bring that smile closer to him and peck him on the lips, he has to remind himself to kiss back.
Jason thinks you’ll stop after a minute, and it surprises him when you don’t. Instead, you let a soft sight escape and tilt your head for a better angle, licking sweet into this mouth. He’s not complaining, Jason loves kissing you, so he follows your lead and brings a hand to your waist. You hum when he does, and press yourself closer to him, almost climbing into his lap. Jason’s never been one to miss an opportunity, so he grabs you by the hips and pulls you squarely onto his thighs.
The movement startles you enough that you break from his lips, panting slightly as you reorient yourself. “Hi,” you say, still catching your breath. “Hi,” he answers, then surges up slightly to kiss you again. It’s filthier this time, your breath coming fast as you wind your arms around his neck and start running your fingers through his hair. Jason loves it when you do this, loves feeling your small hands make their way over his scalp. Any remaining tiredness flees in the face of his slow-building arousal. How can he be tired when he’s got your ass in both hands?
When he squeezes lightly you exhale into his mouth and roll your hips against his. “Naughty, naughty,” he murmurs in your ear, smiling against it. “Don’t worry, I know how to make you feel good.”
Your triumphant smile catches him off-guard. “I know you do, baby,” you purr, placing your lips at the juncture of his neck.
His instincts ping lightly. You’re grinning like you’ve won something, or something has gone right. Jason thinks for a second, remembering your soft, too-innocent step out of the bedroom, hair perfectly out of place, at almost the exact moment he came home. This setup seems too good to be true, or at least unplanned. He reaches under your borrowed shirt and confirms his suspicions: you’re not wearing any underwear.
“You were after this the whole time, weren’t you?” You pull back and oh, your grin is wicked, lips cherry-red and glistening. In retaliation, Jason snakes a hand up your chest and pinches your left nipple, lightning-fast. The soft “oh!” you make in surprise is entirely worth it.
“This whole time, you just wanted to get in my pants?”
“Guilty.” There’s a smirk in your voice as you roll your hips again. “You don’t sound too upset about it,” you tease, and you must feel his hardening cock through his pants.
He’s not upset, but he can’t resist the opportunity to tease you a bit more. “That’s what the shirt was about, wasn’t it?” God, it’s so hard to make fun of you when you’re squirming in his lap. “You were trying to do that thing where you wear someone else’s clothing and they find it really sexy and all?”
You slow down there, stop rolling your hips. Shame coats your face as you direct your eyes at the floor. “Jay, I’m so sorry.”
Your shame doesn’t belong here, and Jason’s quick to ease it away. “It’s okay, doll.” He tugs the offending shirt off, tossing it carelessly to the side. “Besides, I happen to prefer you like this.”
You’re a sight to see. Completely naked, sitting pretty on his lap, and fixing him with a look he finds almost challenging. He wants to wipe it off, so he brings his left hand back to your breast, and this time his palm meets skin.
Your eyes flutter shut. “You ‘happen to prefer me like this,’ hmm?” you murmur, arching your back into his grip. “I can’t imagine why.”
“Oh, I think you can,” Jason says slyly, but you’re not listening, you’re too wrapped up in what his hands are up to. He loves it, loves touching you and knowing it’s driving you wild, so he gets his forefinger and thumb around your nipple and pinches lightly, how you like it. He looks up to see your eyes still shut. “Aren’t even looking at me, huh, princess? Can’t even look at me when I’m giving you what you want?” He mock sighs. “Is this it, then, you manipulate me into getting you off but then can’t even look at me while I’m touching you?”
You open your eyes and huff at him. “Yes, Jay, that’s it.”
He grins, and keeps going. “Is it that I’m piss ugly? That’s it, isn’t it, you don’t want to look at my fuck-ugly face?”
“I wish your fuck-ugly mouth would shut up,” you mutter.
“What was that?” Jason moves his hand back to your waist, and you pout at him. It looks so attractive on you.
“C’mon, Jay.” You yank at his hair. “You know you’re stupid hot,” and you’re right, he does know, but some of his scars are ugly and they tend to itch. But you know that, which is why your face softens. “You’re stupid hot, and it’s very distracting. Just shut up and kiss me, you’re being annoying.”
“Okay,” he says, easy, but instead of going for your lips he licks a stripe up your breast and closes his lips around your nipple, the right one this time. Your breath leaves you in a rush, and Jason thinks it’s the best sound he’s ever heard, but then your breathing comes back online a moment later. It’s punch-drunk and delicious, and gets to him in the best way. His cock is becoming harder and harder to ignore. A few seconds later and you’re making these small moans that are almost obscene, so he stays right where he is, with his hands alternating between giving your ass more attention and running up and down your back.
“Fuck, Jay,” you pant, clinging onto his shoulders for dear life. “Knew it, knew you would make me feel so good.”
Something occurs to him, and he sucks lightly one last time before pulling back and licking his lips. “Did you touch yourself, doll? While I was gone? Did you make yourself come?”
He has his answer when you look down and bite your lip again. “No, I, um,” and the innocent act you’re pulling is completely ruined by the small smile you’re fighting to keep off your face, but Jason doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. “I wanted you to do it, so I saved it for you.”
Fuck. Fuck. Your words go straight to his groin. The only thing he can think to do is to roll his hips against yours. You meet him there, moving torturously slow against the blunt head of his cock that’s now painful against his zipper. That bit of pain makes it so, so good, and for a few minutes he just moves with you, enjoying the feel of your body against his. Soon, you start talking again. “Jay, Jason, please, touch me,” you beg, your voice going tight as he rolls his hips.
“Where? You have to tell me where, sweetheart,” he murmurs. You stay silent for a few seconds, and then—
“My cunt. My cunt, Jay, and my clit, please.”
You never talk like that, ever, and the filth coming out of your mouth sends electricity crackling through his brain. He immediately stands up, taking you with him. You shriek a bit at being suddenly airborne, then crowd even closer to his chest and start sucking a hickey on his neck. Thoughts hazy, Jason makes for his bedroom and deposits you on his bed.
You quickly collect yourself, stretching out and preening on his rumpled sheets. Jason decides he needs to be naked immediately, and busies himself shucking off his pants and underwear and tearing off his shirt. When he looks at you again, night air cool against his skin, he sees your hand moving between your legs.
Quick as a flash, he darts onto the bed, grabbing your hand with one of his own and placing himself squarely between your thighs. “No, no,” he chides you, pressing your hand into the mattress above your head. “Come on, doll, you’ve waited this long. Let me.” And he brings his free hand to your crotch, finding your clit and rubbing the pad of his index finger against it.
“God, finally,” you hiss, bucking your hips against his hand. He chuckles at that. “Love how impatient you are, love how slick your pussy is.”
You look him in the eye, then. “For you, Jay.”
Well, hell's bells.“For me,” he agrees, then neatly slides his index finger into you. “Ngh--!” He smiles at the aborted sound you make. Jason spends a few minutes here, moving his fingers in and out of you, enjoying the way you’re shivering under his touch. Eventually, your voice stops him.
“Fuck me, Jay,” you plead. “Fuck me with your cock.”
He growls, then reaches for his bedside table. Yanking open the drawer, he fishes out a condom, then backs up to open it and roll it on. When he looks back at you he sees your eyes are wide. “You sure you want to do this?” He asks, just to check in.
You nod, then scoot back so you’re flush against the pillows, laying flat on the bed. He moves back over you, coming to rest between your thighs again, one hand on the wall above the bed for support. You gasp as he slowly pushes into you, a bit at a time. “This okay?” He asks.
“No,” you say shortly, and then you hook your legs around his waist and drag yourself toward him, taking him inside entirely. He narrowly misses biting his own tongue as sparks fly behind his eyes. “Go faster,” you order him.
Jason looks down at you. “You’re six different kinds of crazy, doll,” he says, but he smiles in spite of himself, heeds you and starts thrusting, pulling out of you a bit only to fill you again as his hips snap against yours. “You like it,” you say. He can’t believe how good you feel, how tight you are around him.
“Yeah, I do.” And of course he does.
The two of you spend a few minutes trying to match each other’s pace, hips stuttering in the face of your fragmented concentration. Eventually, though, you’re moving together again, and every time you meet one of his strokes you start to make a low sound in the back of your throat. Jason a;ways makes sure to keep his eyes open when you're fucking, and he's had them trained on you from the start. He loves how you look stretched out below him, how your breasts jump lightly when he fucks into you, how your mouth is shaped into a perfect o with lust. It’s a heady feeling, knowing he can do this to you, and he feels almost drunk with it.
Not that the lust and desire is at all one-sided. Suddenly, your muscles squeeze tight around his cock and he almost loses his mind. Before he starts to go completely he reaches a hand between you and starts rubbing at your clit.
“Ah-ah!” you shout, hands moving to his shoulders. He barely registers the feeling of your fingernails biting into his skin, all he can think about is how good you feel and how he can make you feel good. He starts swiping a thumb across your clit every time his hips slam against yours, and the string of swear words you let out in response is delicious.
“Ff-fuck. Fuck, Jay, I’m going to come,” and suddenly you do, face scrunching up below him as you ride the crest of your orgasm. Your walls clamp down on him, and Jason thrusts once more, twice, three times, and then he follows you blissfully over the edge. For a few moments, the two of you keep still, panting together and staring sightlessly into the dark as you wait for the waves of pleasure to subside enough for you to surface. Eventually, Jason wakes up and out of himself to the feeling of you planting a kiss on his lips. He gives himself a shake, then kisses back eagerly. It’s sloppy, but you don’t seem to mind, pulling back after a few seconds to sigh contentedly. “Well,” you say, dragging your arms down his shoulders, “that was nice.”
“You’re being stingy, doll,” Jason berates you lightly, pulling out of you and removing the condom. “That was a few levels beyond ‘nice.’” He ties off the condom and drops it neatly in the trash, before rejoining you on his bed and pulling you to his chest. You waste no time snuggling against him, fitting your head into the hollow of his neck.
Jason feels brave, so he says “I’m really glad you’re here,” before dropping a light kiss to your hair.
You reach up to stroke along his forearm where it rests on your chest. “I’m really glad I’m here too. And, um, I’m really glad we’re together.” You tilt your head up at that, shy eyes peering up to gauge his reaction. It’s almost too easy to meet you halfway. “I am, too.” A beat, and then “does this mean I’m calling you my girlfriend now?”
You smile pleasantly at the ceiling. “I like that.” And Jason does, too.
#Jason Todd#jason todd x reader#jason todd imagines#batboys#batboys x reader#DC imagines#smut#jason todd x reader smut#dc comics#dc#dc comics imagine#kira writes
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The Tolls of Justice - Chapter 9
Whoooooooooo boy, are you ready for a long, long chapter??? So long it took me over 150 days to write it??? I hope so!!!
If you are sensitive to talk about mental illness (specifically disassociation and mental breakdowns/crying), mentions of medications, and mentions of past deaths [within this story], please read the spoiler tags carefully.
Please enjoy this chapter at your own pace, and know that I love you. ♡
IMPORTANT SPOILER TAGS: sexually suggestive situations; discussion of mental illness[es]; paranoia; discussion of dissociation/depersonalization; hero-complex mention; mental breakdown/crying; car crash mention; thisisfine.jpg meme mention; p*lice mention; emt mention; past-death mention; r*talin mention; r*hypn*l mention; injury/bruise mention; gun/gun violence mention; food mention
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[Chapter 9 - Strength in Numbers]
John could feel a warm weight on his collarbone as everything in him seemed to echo with his pulse.
Things ached where they normally didn’t. Tenderness sat in one of his kidneys and just over his heart, radiating with each breath. A slightly familiar soreness sat in his hips.
He was practically melted into the mattress under his back, feeling like a pile of warm jelly stuck to a plate by the summer heat, yet he could still tell he had bones and flesh intact.
I’m definitely not in Arkham anymore.
He didn’t need to open his eyes to see Bruce lying next to him, his arm draped around John’s collar and his face buried into the pillow, but it certainly was a sight to behold. Especially when he stirred and moved to kiss John’s cheek like he’d been waiting for the opportunity.
“Good morning,” Bruce said in his ear, not sounding as awake as he seemed. Black hair mussed, eyes darkened like the ocean depths, a real smile floating on his lips - there was nothing about the whole look that didn’t make John’s heart give that funny little shake that only seemed to come with certain experiences with Bruce.
“I’ll say.” He snatched a kiss for himself, taking the opportunity to trail his fingertips up and over the arm over his chest. The curves of hard muscle were practically begging to be pet. “That dance… You really know how to show a guy a good time. Kinda makes the emotional turmoil worth it.”
Bruce turned on his side, his cute sleepily-contented expression moving to something more contemplative as the sheets moved with him, exposing the little black chest hairs and very lickable pectorals of his torso. He was bruised in places, and John eyed the marks his boot heel had made.
“Reeeally worth it,” he purred, rolling to face him and run his fingers over the marks. Bruce grunted when he pressed in, sending a lovely pang of heat to John’s groin. “Did that hurt?”
“You know it did,” Bruce frowned slightly. No, wait, it looked more like a pout... How cute! So cute it made him want to tease him.
“Want me to kiss it better?” He traced over the bruise gently, playing over the little hairs brushing his fingertips. Everything felt so real. Everything was real. Bruce was aaallll his - his to touch, his to love, as real as John himself. “I can soothe all your aches and pains, if you’d like. You just have to tell me where it hurts.”
“What about you?” Bruce asked, making John’s heart shiver as he stroked his thumb over John’s arm. “We got kind of rough last night.”
Why would Bruce want to take that away? John needed this. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I was very into that,” John answered, “You don’t know how amazing these aftereffects are. I feel like I’m floating and sinking into this bed - everything is so...solid.”
Bruce didn’t seem to really like that. He seemed like he was rolling the words around in his head, not touching in a way that was deliberately comforting anymore. He was clearly choosing his next words, because John had inevitably said the wrong thing, again, and now he ruined their morning just as it was starting; Bruce was going to corner him into something unpleasant, and John could feel something in him shrink and bristle.
“John,” Bruce started in that I’m-just-concerned-about-you tone John had long grown accustomed to from everyone else, “why didn’t you tell me you were still struggling with your perception?”
John didn’t have any other option but to answer. “Ha, I can see you just fine,” he dodged, hoping Bruce would drop it and forget he ever asked, “You’re a solid ten-outta-ten in my twenty-twenty, Brucie.”
Bruce’s brow furrowed. John knew that look in his eye - he wasn’t in the mood for messing around. “You know that’s not what I meant. You told me you were having vivid nightmares. Last night, you said you were having problems making sure things were real; that you’d wake up thinking of Ace Chemicals-”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” John said a little too loudly as he rolled over, turning away from the image of barely-covered Bruce trying to push John’s demons front-and-center for him to see.
“You already talked about it,” Bruce admonished in a huff.
“Then I don’t need to say it again!” John shot back.
Silence.
Silence and the vision of an unpowered digital clock on a bare nightstand and a boringly-painted wall with stripes of sun that said it was probably past noon. John could hear breathing, but barely, hearing his own pulse and the quiet guilt piling in his chest more than anything.
Movement next to him, the shuffle of sheets, something thick in John’s chest threatening to choke him inside-out - he took hold of his neck, feeling all the words he’d been holding in there, half-wishing the hallucination of everything would break, and felt the ache of reality as they began to spill out in a strangled voice: “I-I just -” the hand on his shoulder was very real, so heavy and hot – “don’t LOOK at me!” John curled a little more into himself. Warmth lingered as weight left, all real real real. Bruce’s weight settled behind him in a swish of fabric and shift in balance.
“There,” Bruce said, sounding like he was talking to the opposing wall, “I can’t see you.”
He couldn’t bear to look at him directly. Eyes were the windows into the soul, after all. The wall was boring, but it was like talking to some of the Arkham therapists. Less like he was spilling the darkest parts of his guts to the one person who always saw him.
“I…keep thinking I’m still in Arkham,” he said, curling his fingers in the sheets by the pillow, “That I’m... I’m just waiting to wake up there like nothing’s changed, that…all of this has been some whacked-up ha-hallucination. Ha ha ha - that I’ve just been imagining these things! I mean, it’s so unreal, how you and I are working it out, having friends, having this...weird pseudo-family thing. Being…being happy.” His eyes hurt. He wanted to close them, but he’d lose focus, or worse, lose the grip on his shaky feelings. “I admired you for so long, just being with you is like a dream. I could only ever imagine I’d get this far, or that you’d stick with me, or…anything. I can feel everything, remember everything, but it’s like it’s not enough - and the worst part is that I can’t tell anyone this, or… I’ll just get tossed back!”
“You wouldn’t get put back in Arkham, John,” Bruce said softly.
“Ye-ha-ah I would! You think any of the white coats won’t use any excuse to lock me away? Any at all?” John spat, hugging himself a little too hard, aware of how much pressure he was putting on his sides but not caring. “They’d slam me in the hole if I so much as hinted at a relapse!”
“They’re your doctors.” So what? “St. Dymphna’s New Life Home isn’t Arkham -” Same stupid uncaring people, anybody can be bought - “it’s rehabilitation, John, not imprisonment. They know you’re still recovering.” That’s what they all say, at first. “Do you really think I’d let the court send you there without researching them first?”
John’s train of thought broke. He turned to look at Bruce, at the smushed black hairs on the back of his head that had been finger-combed into an angled mess, and wanted to see his face instead.
“I did extensive background checks on the facility, its patient care, its staff – I wasn’t about to let someone send you to another Dr. Quinnzel or Dr. Crane.”
John felt his heart squeeze. He never thought about that. Bruce had reassured him the days leading up to his move, but he’d just taken it as a loving-boyfriend-thing. “Why… Why aren’t you mad at me? I’ve – I’ve been holding out on therapy – practically cheating!” Bruce still just laid there, all quiet and calm. “Come on, just say it! You’re disappointed in me, right?!”
“No,” he answered, “I just wish you told me earlier. You shouldn’t have to hold all that in. Not with me.” He paused, stiffening like he was stopping himself from something. “Can I look at you?”
John took a deep breath, smelling stale sweat and cum and faded laundry-safe bleach. He clenched the cotton sheets under his hands, feeling the fabric and the bittersweet ache in his chest. He was real, Bruce was real, the feelings laid bare last night were real - could he live with Bruce seeing him like this, heart out in the open and primed for stabbing?
Hadn’t he seen the worst of him? John spattered with blood and begging him to believe him like no one else ever had? John at his worst, uncaring and hostile and full of rage and vengeance, covered in blood he’d spilt before Bruce’s very eyes?
He’d sat across from him then, battered and bruised, and told him they were friends, despite just shoving a Batarang into his hand to stop him from doing any more harm. He’d seen John in Arkham, his no-name existence shoved into a single cell on display with his sickness, and he came back. He’d rushed to rescue him from Dr. Crane’s experiments and the temptation to step backwards and take revenge. He kept coming back, over and over and over, chasing after John to save him from himself.
John stared at his back, at the scars on his shoulders he wanted to kiss better, and knew. “Yeah.”
Bruce turned back around, the covers slipping with him, and faced him with all his wounds on display. “I know I kept things from you that I shouldn’t have,” he said as unthreatening and unmalicious as John had no right to expect, “and that I keep doing it. I should’ve told you about me and the Agency, about Tiffany working for me, about keeping us a secret - every time I didn’t, it was because I thought it was for the better.”
John didn’t want him to look at him like that. He didn’t stop holding the sheets, knowing if he let go that slapping his hand over Bruce’s eyes to cover the honesty that was too much like that night wouldn’t go over well.
“You keep proving me wrong,” he said, looking hurt - by himself or John, it was difficult to tell. “I keep hurting you, and I keep making things worse. I know there are things you haven’t told me, and things that you feel you have to keep from me. And I know I don’t deserve to hear any honest answers with the way I’ve treated you, but… I’m not going to run away from you.”
Bruce held out his hand, laying it in the space between their pillows.
He wasn’t running, or judging, or looking confused. He wasn’t angry or disappointed in John for failing in the one thing he was supposed to be doing right. He was just there, with him.
“I just… I want to be near you,” John admitted, barely feeling the words leave his throat as he wound his thin fingers between Bruce’s, feeling imperfect rough parts where nicks and cuts left lasting marks, “so badly… Not just to be with you. You know how I’ve always admired you.” He still did, and Bruce had to have known that. “You’re always...respected - even if they don’t like you, they listen to you,” he explained, seeing the slight confusion on Bruce’s face at the word respect, “You’re someone people want to be,” he continued slowly, “People talk about you, talk to you, look at you... People don’t...forget you.”
Bruce seemed to understand the unspoken words that used to eat at John’s brain, because he squeezed John’s hand back.
“It’s like… I’m drifting in the ocean, and I keep trying to swim towards the lighthouse - and just when I get close enough, the current pulls me away into the rocks. And I just...want to reach you. Hah, isn’t that stupid?”
“No,” Bruce answered, not looking away for a moment, “But...I don’t think you realize how much closer you are to me,” he said with a little tilted smile and a very low hmph, “If I’m not knee-deep in the water already, I’ve definitely run out to help you.”
“Ha ha - that’s so typical, steering my insane metaphor to suit your hero-complex,” John shot back with the smile he felt tugging at his lips at the mental image.
“I don’t have a-”
“Yes you do,” John interrupted, pulling Bruce’s hand up to give him a peck on the knuckles, “And I love you for it.” Bruce’s mouth was still scrunched a little; he seemed to dislike the idea he had a complex at all. “So – since we’re spilling secrets,” he started, settling their hands between the pillow as he thought of the best way to phrase it, “what’s the other reason you didn’t tell anyone about us?”
“There’s isn’t any other,” Bruce stressed, “I just wanted them to see you as you. If I came home with you and reintroduced you as ‘my boyfriend John’, that would be the only thing they’d think of.” He paused for a second, seeming to rethink. “Well, after Joker,” he added with a slight nod to the side.
“You don’t think they’d have given me a second chance right off the bat, huh?” John puzzled, “Even after what happened with Dr. Crane?”
“That...was a bit of a mess,” he said, looking somewhat embarrassed, “It was an emergency. I don’t think they really saw the best of you.” Bruce held his gaze. “I’ve gotten to see the best parts of you every day. I just want them to experience that.”
John was tempted to make a joke out of that, but a nagging question leapt out of his mouth: “And what if they still rejected me?”
Bruce’s emotions were subtle, but John could tell he’d made him uncomfortable. He didn’t want to answer that. He didn’t like the answer.
Well, it was honesty-hour, and John bared his heart for him, so Bruce could do the same. “Would you still run after me?”
“Yes.”
There was no doubt, no dishonestly, no lingering maybe. He would, as sure as Batman’s armor was black and John’s hair was green and Bruce was a sturdy pillar of reality.
“But what would you do about them?”
Bruce breathed, not really looking at him, hard and stony like he wanted to turn tail with a swish of his bat-cape. John slowly ran this thumb over Bruce’s knuckle, softening him into something John would almost call vulnerable. “I don’t know,” he admitted like it was some shameful secret.
John had never known Bruce to not have a plan. He always had a backup for his backups. It didn’t make sense, it was almost like… “You’re scared of that, aren’t you?” He asked, realizing the answer without ever hearing it, “That’s why you planned everything out.” (It wasn’t excusing it, he reminded himself. Bruce hurt him and he should know it... But he couldn’t watch him suffer forever, and he shouldn’t want to.) “Oh, Bruce. Honey. No one can know everything; not even you. I mean, look at how my life turned out - I don’t think anyone could’ve known how I’d end up. Or even that I’d live this long.” Bruce seemed to be absorbing that, which was good; he wasn’t running away from his own truth. That was progress. A different Bruce in a different time would’ve denied being scared of the unknown at all. “Besides, did you really think they wouldn’t figure it out eventually, with my shameless wolf-whistling?”
There it was: the tiny spark of humor that pushed away the clouds. He didn’t have to smile for John to see it; he could tell. The little change of light, the tiny bits of relaxation in his brow and mouth. “I sort of had the idea we’d make it gradually more obvious.”
“Gradual - me? Do you even know me?” he teased, “I’d take two miles with any inch you’d give me. Especially with those eight you’re packing...”
Good gracious, Bruce was cute when he smiled. Cuter when his little snort developed into a chuckle into his pillow. “Honestly, that was really the most appealing part,” he continued, voice lighter than before but still a little guilty, “I like how you talk. The tension would’ve made it easier to explain why I pulled you away to make out with you somewhere.”
John tittered at the image of a flustered, frustrated Bruce giving in and showing him what-for in some undisturbed part of the manor. “Oh, buddy, I can only imagine what that kind of tension could do for us. I had some good fantasies about us sneaking in those little hideyholes at Arkham, and if they’re anything to go by... Ooh, do you have any secret passages in the manor we could use? Arkham had a few; not counting the air vents and sewers, of course, I mean the real hidden passage kind.”
John watched as Bruce’s eyes widened with the look of just remembering something important as he practically leaped out of bed to search his pants on the floor, clad in nothing but boxer-briefs, his demi-godlike body on display for John to stare at as blood tried to rush inconveniently to his groin. (Oof, he’d put his weight behind him last night, all those heavy moves and hits controlled until the very end, and just thinking about the power locked away under the same strict moral code that Bruce unleashed on the unsuspecting dirt in Gotham made John feel like he was going to melt. Batman was truly a wonder, even out of the suit… And boy, he fucked like it.)
“Bruce,” John managed, sitting up and trying not to drool too obviously, “I never thought I’d say this, but please put on a shirt on.”
Bruce tossed an almost-pocket-sized hardback at John’s lap. “Check the map page.”
And he was being bossy. “You could’ve said please,” John grumbled for Bruce to hear, not disliking how the commanding voice still did things for him. “What are you looking for?”
“I want to know if there are any Owl markings near downtown Gotham,” Bruce answered, dutifully throwing his shirt back on as he checked his phone, “Specifically nests. Please.”
The map page was fairly simple. The illustrator had gone out of their way to make a nice key to detail the “important” areas of worship or decision-making “parliaments” or leader’s houses, versus the hideaways that were “nests” and burial sites of nameless victims. John spied the owl-face stamp on Arkham Island and forced himself to ignore it. He knew - roughly - where most sections of the city were cut.
“Well there’s nothing specific in Downtown - you have to go up and over to see the nearest nest. Which according to our author was one of the last added before the birds went completely coo-coo.”
Bruce did a tame belly-flop next to John - still sans pants - and pulled up his own map of Gotham, looking like it was pulled straight from the Batcave’s supercomputer. John could see the little red pins Bruce had marked on what looked like deaths. “Here’s The Lot, and if the nearest nest is here… Look,” he tilted the phone towards John, showing off the yellow flag he’d made to mark the nest and the newly-added blue lines highlighting pipes, “it’s a bit far, but I was thinking last night about how the woman disappeared from The Lot so fast, and I thought about how the old sewers still connect with the newer parts of the city as it expanded-”
“Wait, last night? When did you have the time?”
“It was after you fell asleep,” Bruce answered simply, “But I realized the sewers still connected everywhere, so they probably used that for a quick escape. It’s not too difficult to get from one section of the city to another underneath it, if you know where you’re going - I had to do it myself a few years ago, back when I was looking to make some smaller hideouts. I didn’t think about it until you mentioned the Court of Owls. I figured they might have had a car waiting on another street, but it could be that they took only a few streets away to get into a getaway vehicle. I checked the saved camera footage last night, and I think it’s a good possibility, considering a couple of promising possible cars parked in the street for short periods of time, but since this nest is just outside of the Downtown area, it wouldn’t be an overreach to say someone took the sewer the whole way.”
John blinked. “Just how long were you up?”
“About fifteen, twenty minutes. I was originally going to tell you when you woke up.”
From zero to all the ideas in fifteen minutes while in a haze of afterglow… He really was amazing. And breathtaking. And completely ludicrous. “Hah ha! So if fist-fighting and hard sex after a long day aren’t enough to stop you - geez, what even are you?”
“I’m Batman,” Bruce answered with a smirk, “I think it’s worth looking at the building itself - that area’s been closed for construction for a while, the city’s put a halt on tearing the structure down due to historical value.”
“Pfft, historical value, sure…” John peeked at the picture Bruce had pulled up: a rather small, plain-bricked theater with a very yellowing sign.
“It was one of the first theaters in Gotham,” Bruce explained, “A historical preservation group is trying to save it. Someone on it could be an Owl. I don’t like to think it’s a coincidence.” He frowned a little at the device as he put it aside, seeming to decide something, and when he looked back at John it was with the same determination as before. “When Jackie brought you here, did you two discuss anything?”
“Only the very basics of what happened with you. She’s been on sessions with me before, she’s used to seeing me angry.” He’d only be asking after the topic of owls for one reason. “You think she’s one of them, huh?”
“She knew I cared about you enough to use me against Dr. Crane, she could’ve figured I would have kept you in the house and used the Gala as an excuse.”
He...supposed. She did crash it, and she wasn’t alone, and it was true how she had a list of dead friends as long as her arm and how some of them had been the result of murder and manslaughter, but... “She didn’t really look like she wanted to be there, though,” John said thoughtfully, “She’d said helping her boyfriend research at the gala was better than -” Research? - “ohh, I see what you mean! Could be, could be…”
“How was she last night?”
“Well, uh, I was kiiinda paying more attention to me, Bruce. Specifically the dark swirling thoughts of how I’ll never be truly accepted and how much of an idiot I was to think I would be. And how much I hated feeling everything around me. But that’s a hole we can spelunk into another time - how about we just go pay her a visit?”
As if on queue, like they were in some ridiculous play themselves, Bruce’s phone began to buzz by his hand, and Tiffany’s face took over half the screen, looking happier than John had ever seen her.
Bruce took a breath, nothing in his expression but the cool, collective sense of duty, and answered, bringing it to his ear so John couldn’t listen in. “Yes?”
John could hear something that sounded like ‘why didn’t you tell me you were okay’, but he could barely hear it over the tinny electronic whistling tune emitting from his own phone, telling him the person on the other end was a mystery.
Unknown contact, but a Gotham area code.
“Clown Funeral Services, where your last ride fits twenty,” John answered cheerfully, “Who’s the lucky bozo?”
“…John, do you answer all your calls like that?”
“Mickey! I didn’t know you had a contraband phone, you rascal! You should’ve told me, I would’ve thought of a better greeting for you.”
“I’m using the hotel’s landline,” the gruff voice of Mickey Williamson answered with a tone of mild bewilderment, “I’m calling because… You know how you were asking about that Ian guy the other day? The one who left after a month?”
“Yeeeah?”
“I saw him leave just a few minutes ago.”
“Ian just left The Lucky Hotel?” Ian Coggs, who Tiffany had been trying to track, who was the only known lead to finding Roman Sionis’ hideaway, was staying here? Was this some kind of whacked-up dream of a coincidence, or was it fate itself following them from the shadows? Either way, Bruce was paying attention, now. “Mickey, if I weren’t in a committed relationship with the love of my life, I’d come out there and kiss you right now.”
Bruce glanced over at him with a jealous squint and raised brow. John just nudged him with his foot in return.
“Um…thanks,” he answered, not sounding like he was really that appreciative of the idea.
John had several questions - What room did he come out of? What was he wearing? Did you see his car? – but figured he’d boil it down to the most obvious one: “Please tell me you overheard detailed plans of where he was going.”
“No, but, uh, I got the license plate of the car he hopped in. Does that help?”
John felt a laugh bubble in his throat, and he didn’t bother to stop it. “Does it-?! Yes, you big galloot! Ha ha ha! Oh, man, hang on a sec’,” he paused and snatched the hotel pen from the floor, where it had rolled with the broken lamp, and put him on speaker so Bruce could hear. “Okay, lay it on me, Mick’!”
“C-P-5-K-1-N-G.”
Bruce was suddenly paying attention, phone partway away from his ear, blinking at the phone in John’s hand as John scribbled the letters and numbers in ink on his palm. John couldn’t hear what Tiffany was saying on the other end, but it was quieter than before.
“Mick’, you’re truly my number two guy,” John praised, “Remind me to buy you lunch one of these days.”
“Thanks. I’ll…remember that.”
The call ended without a goodbye, but John beamed proudly at Bruce, who was ‘uh-huh’-ing seriously into his phone. “Right. Twenty minutes.” A pause, during which John could hear Tiffany’s tone all soft despite the muffled words, and Bruce gave a sigh through his nostrils. “I’ll check.” He put the phone down, muting it and staring ahead with a somewhat tired expression, and then looked back to John. “Tiffany wants to talk to you.”
John definitely did not want to talk to her. Not when he was in such a good mood; not when he’d finally ironed out a bit more of the grievances between him and Bruce. He wasn’t ready to take on more emotional pain. Not now, not later today…he’d prefer not to for the rest of his life.
“Don’t make that face,” Bruce admonished lightly, “she wants to apologize.”
“Don’t tell me how to feel,” John snapped lightly, “I don’t have to talk to anyone if I don’t want to. Especially not someone who was rude to me.” (He knew how that sounded. Like the old John. But it was how he felt, and wasn’t he still John? Weren’t his hands still that John’s? Wasn’t the scar on his hand a sign of the past and present and future blended together?) “Just…not right now,” he added, staring at the faded white line as it covered Bruce’s hand still lying on the sheets. Bruce’s skin always seemed warmer than his own. “Please.”
Depths of blue and black had never looked so non-judgmental as they did today. It must’ve been love. (No, it was. It always was. He’d always known it was, the fascination, the curiosity, the concern, the sympathy and understanding and passion of all kinds no matter how subtle – all Bruce’s love, on full display with a glance.) “You’ll have to talk to him later. Yeah. Bye.” The phone was black when he put it back down. “Tiffany’s informant here said the same thing: Ian Coggs left here five minutes ago, riding in a black sedan with the same plate. Tiffany’s following it – it’s heading west.”
“You’re following after them, aren’t you?”
“I have to.”
No you don’t, John wanted to say, but it wasn’t the truth. Bruce always had to follow through. Had to make that catch. “I know.”
“I’m heading right there, so Iman’s coming to pick you up,” he said, typing away a message in rapid swipes, “I want you two to check out the Nest on the Aylin Street theater. I’m telling her to bring some of my gear for you to use; I think the Nest is just used as an intermittent safe house, but take precautions.”
John was going on an investigation. He was getting responsibility – trust – directly from Batman, while his body ached and tingled with constant reminders of what happened between them last night. He couldn’t have felt more wonderful than if Bruce was jacking him off and letting John film the whole thing. “I won’t let you down!” (Did that come out too enthusiastic? Aw, hell, what did he care?!) “I’ll tell you what – I’ll interrogate Jackie while I’m waiting, too! She shouldn’t be too tough an egg to crack – not when we’ve split it open once already.”
He looked like he was going to protest about the idea, but he softened with a slight sigh and one look over at John. “You’d do it even if I told you not to, wouldn’t you?”
“Just as sure as you would,” John needled with a grin.
“Just…be careful,” Bruce seemed to land on as he slid away and started to put on pants, keeping eye contact for most of it, “I don’t want to catch Roman and then find out you’d been kidnapped because Jackie has a Talon on speed-dial.”
“Ha, that’s cute, you think kids still use speed-dial.”
“John, she’s almost three years older than Tiffany, she’s not a kid.” (“It was only a joke,” John muttered to himself as he made a mental note of Tiffany being twenty-three.) “Besides, my point still stands. Keep your eyes and ears open, and call me or Iman if you think something’s wrong.”
Bruce was edging on babying him again. A twitch of anger came, but John breathed slowly, staring at Bruce’s hard shoulders as he let it pass. There was more than one way to make him understand that he didn’t need that. “The same goes for you, Bruce,” John purred, throwing covers and any minute sense of so-called decency he had away to stroll up to Bruce, feeling proud at how Bruce’s face turned a nice shade of red as he seemed to struggle not to look everywhere he clearly wanted. It was funnier to see it burning in his eyes as John gently straightened his shirt by its ends. He could practically feel the rope on Bruce’s self-restraint. “Dancing wouldn’t be the same without my partner,” he teased slowly, trailing his fingers to the curve of Bruce’s rear, “You know I’ve always got your back,” he emphasized with a gentle squeeze. “You call, and I’ll come after you.”
Poor Bruce was trying so hard to keep himself together. It was so cute. John had to pretend not to see his Adam’s apple bob in his peripheral vision. “I’ll be fine.”
“I know you will, Batman,” John hummed, pecking him and feeling the brief warmth burst new life in his grin as he slipped out of Bruce’s arms and turned to clean himself up properly, “because I will be, too.”
† † † † †
The time it took for John to redress and down a very sugary cup of the terrible brown liquid that the hotel passed for coffee was small and unmemorable and annoying. The time it took for Bruce to snatch his arm in the hallway, kiss him deep, and wish him luck in a whispered voice coupled with adoration and determination in his eyes was only a handful of a seconds, and yet John felt like he was holding onto them and stretching them into something of an hour as he licked his lips, watching Bruce’s back disappear around the elevator doors with his own call of good luck still echoing in his mouth.
Jackie’s room was right across the hall from his. One heck of a coincidence, in John’s mind, after he ruled out the ridiculous idea of Mickey somehow being in on the whole thing. It was mere luck, and something even Jackie was surprised at when she walked him there last night.
He knocked, deciding on a fun pattern of ‘da, dada-da-da, da-da’, and heard shuffling. Then a pause, and he had the feeling he was being watched.
“Are you alone out there?”
“Aren’t we all?” John joked, rocking on his heels.
Jackie appeared in an instant, familiar dark circles under her brown eyes and her little spackle of freckles in full view. Her eyebrows were lighter than yesterday, her eyelashes weren’t as long, and she didn’t seem to care that she was only wearing men’s boxers and an oversized shirt with an oozing orange skull front-and-center. She looked at his neck, and then his arms, where Bruce’s hands had pressed sweet reality into John the night before. “Where did you get those?”
“It’s not important,” he waved off, not wanting to spill any details of last night, “You’ve got makeup, right? Think I could borrow some of your clown-whitest? I, uh, don’t want to be seen like this.” It was a complete lie, and she might know it – John wanted nothing more than to show off the yellow-purple mark left from Bruce’s hand. “Not by my therapists, anyway,” he added.
Jackie stepped aside. “I should have something. Come on in.”
Jackie’s room was identical to the one he slept in, sans the broken lamp and teeming with the contents of her luggage. She clearly didn’t care about her shoes, as they were thrown in the corner, but her dress was hanging in the open closet next to a neatly-kept tuxedo in a thin plastic sheet. He recognized the stuffed black cat lying sideways on the sheets, being the same one that had sat on her desk in her old apartment. Both pillows were dented and the bed was unmade.
“Sooo,” John stretched, noticing the desk-vanity had a variety of dirty makeup brushes left on it, “Your boyfriend around?”
“He had work this morning; some indie film, he’s been doing it most of the week. Take a seat – do you want coffee?”
John wrinkled his nose. “I’ve had enough hotel garbage water, thanks.”
“I brought my own grounds,” Jackie added, swinging a half-empty bag of hazelnut roast she’d picked up from the corner of the dresser. “And I’ve got good creamer.”
“Is it pumpkin spice flavored?”
“Caramel,” she answered, already heading to the bathroom. John leaned just enough to see and make sure she was doing what she said she was. Coffee was being put in the strainer and sure enough, there were little cartons of caramel creamer on the countertop, along with various sugar packets and jams he was sure she swiped from restaurant tables. “I’ve also got mini-muffins.”
Actual sugar? Owls, schmowls, he wasn’t going to pass up free breakfast along the way. “In that case, Jackie, have I told you you’re an absolute angel?”
“No, but please, feel free to tell me I’m a multi-eyed messenger of God whose physical form is incomprehensible to men,” she answered with a definite note of humor, “It sounds much better than ‘sweetie-pie’ or ‘doll-face’. Though… It is nice just hearing my own name again.”
John wondered how that felt. He’d been called ‘John Doe’ for so long he couldn’t imagine responding to any he might have had before. But he shook the thought away, a new question forming in his head as he scooted towards the makeshift makeup table. The little box on the corner looked like it was chock-full of goodies. “Your boyfriend doesn’t call you Jackie?” He asked, checking the labels - almost all of them had Janus stamped on them in elegant print. Powders and liquids and creams, oh my. It was probably worth taking a quick snap of anything that might help, so he pulled out his phone to whip open the camera app - snap!
“He doesn’t know me as Jackie,” she answered, something too flat about her tone of voice to be what John knew as dismissal, “I’m only Jaqueline to him. And the rest of the world.”
That must’ve been a weird adjustment… What did people say to things like this? He couldn’t just blurt out wow just how little do you trust the guy you like. He supposed joking about all the world being a stage would help, maybe with a French accent, but… Something didn’t feel right. If it were Bruce… “Um… I’m sorry to hear that,” he tried, “Even if you did sort of do it to yourself.”
“...do you think Batman would say that, too?” She sounded slightly...what, mournful? Maybe?
Well, why lie? Why not say what he thought and knew in his heart of hearts? “Probably. If he thought you were bad enough, anyway,” he chose, taking a peek into the trashcan nearby - a hand-sized piece of rubber or thin beige plastic was ripped and thrown in there along with some makeup wipes. Hmm. Picture-worthy, for sure. “You did try to kill a guy - and even if he does deserve to rot, pinning the blame on someone else falls a little high on the bad scale. But he did let you go, so it’s not like he’d think you’re complete scum or something.”
It was quiet, and John, despite knowing he could easily take Jackie down by herself, wondered if he’d said too much. The bathroom alcove was still.
“I’m glad you can say stuff like that,” Jackie answered solemnly, making John slowly move for the butterfly knife in his pocket and waiting for the ‘because it’s the last thing you’ll ever say’. “No one else is that honest.”
John hovered his hand over the knife handle.
“It’s weird how you’re one of the few people who’ve seen the real me,” she continued, not sounding like she was going to come out with a gun in her hand, “Everyone else treats me like some tragic heroine - I just tell people I used to live here and they pretend to be sympathetic.”
She seemed to be spilling out grievances rather than vengeance. John took the opportunity to peek into the dresser drawer. It was like three different men crammed their best outfits in one drawer, minus the shoes. Not exactly the artsy or fashionably-trendy wardrobe he expected from a handsome actor.
He should probably say something to continue the conversation as he poked around, though, to avert any suspicion. Time to see if she could crack. “What, do they think Gotham’s some crime-infested city where bat-people roam the streets and not having mace is practically illegal?”
There came the distinct noise of a choked laugh, and John knew he’d won a point or two in his favor. He pushed some of the material aside, but nothing was hidden in-between them but a few crumpled receipts that had definitely been shoved aside for later. (Bad Italian place, 13th Street gondola, All Stitched Up, good Italian place... Wow, The Two Gilded Cups was pricey - 223 bucks for two people?! And that was discounted, yeesh! Snap, snap, snap - he captured the whole drawer.)
“You know a lot of people thought it was really weird that I carried brass knuckles around?” Jackie asked bemusedly.
“So do I, a knife is way easier to hide on yourself, Jackie.” The second drawer had some of her trademark blend of dark and fall colors - even in underwear - as well as a lumpy plastic bag of used things he was not going to touch. It didn’t feel the same as when he poked through Bruce’s closet. It didn’t have that rush of being somewhere he shouldn’t… Maybe because he was nervous. Bruce wasn’t liable to whip out a Taser or whatever else Jackie might have on hand because he was snooping through delicate places; Bruce would just bottle it up a bit and pout.
“Heh… No, it was more that I was carrying around anything. I think only some of the girls I worked with carried mace. And I was always like, ‘what, you only carry mace? I’ve got three things on me at all times!’”
He could hear actual humor in her tone. See, she’s not going to run out with something in her hand. She’s fine. Just keep it up. “Ooh, what’s number three?” he teased, pushing aside some t-shirts. (She seemed to have dumped her professional-psychologist wardrobe in favor of comfier clothing. At least for her stay here…)
“A derringer.”
John stared at the tiny gun in its tiny Kevlar holster, hidden between a pumpkin-orange shirt and a thin yellow-plaid hoodie. How did these things keep lining up in perfect time for him?
“Oh, don’t worry, I don’t have it on me right now,” she waved off, “It’s tucked away. I won’t… I mean, you’re not - I don’t have any reason to use it.”
“I hope not,” he muttered to himself, carefully placing the fabric back around it closing the drawer quietly. There was a little buzz from the coffee maker, and John hurried to make himself look like he’d been sitting at the desk the whole time. He was glad she wasn’t there to see him wince and wiggle on the seat as aches from last night’s spanking-session sent a wonderful flare to his brain; that would’ve been very awkward to explain away. He distracted himself by poking around a bit more.
The makeup case was interesting. A lot of neutrals were used recently. And often, apparently, if their large portions of missing product were any indication. There were also little hard scraps of paper and a damp washcloth thrown on it. He took one last picture and shoved his phone in his pocket.
The foundation, brow, crease, and blush brushes had been used. John could see the clumps of powder and wet paste. He couldn’t resist the urge to touch the foundation one - smooth goop smeared on his fingers. Decent quality. “Must be a cheap set if your boyfriend has to apply his own makeup before he leaves, huh?”
“That’s the indie-film life,” Jackie shrugged, setting the foam cups and a plastic case of miniature blueberry muffins on the table, “Guy’s got to supply the costume, too. But he wears makeup everyday anyway, so I don’t think it’s that big a deal. Let me get my case, I should have Cadaver Paint to blend with some pale skin tones.”
Everyday really explained the missing chunks of neutral colors in the tubes. But something bugged him. A lot. “What kind of film is it?” he asked, popping a muffin in his mouth and peeking at a sealed Janus-brand tub of something called Moddy; it looked like a face mask clay.
“Some action thing. He always says he’s too good to play a small part, but he tends to take them if it’s something he hasn’t done before.”
The Moddy tub was almost empty. John spied another underneath its spot in the case. He pinched a bit of the stuff between his fingers from the open tub - it was almost like Play-Doh, only it made a funny tingling sensation on his skin, like he was dipping his finger in something warm and heavily carbonated. “What is this stuff?” he asked, wiping it off on the wet washcloth.
Jackie brought over a little plastic cutting board that had been stained with almost a rainbow of colors in one hand and tubes of cream makeup and a tiny spatula in the other. “Modification putty. It’s like sculpting clay for your face - you can use it to fill in gaps, add pieces to faces to make them bigger; pretty much anything. It’s good for temporary stuff if you don’t have the money to buy prosthetics. Or hate spirit gum,” she explained, squeezing white face paint onto the board and putting in tiny dabs of pink to blend. He could see Cadaver Paint in old-timey cursive on the white tube – definitely not a Janus brand. “I’m gonna test some spots on you first. You’re gonna be a fun challenge,” she added with a tiny smile. “Hold out your hand.”
John let her test colors, his mind churning like an ice-cream machine. Janus makeup wasn’t cheap. Matt-the-actor did his own makeup. Three different men practically sat in the dresser drawer. The thing in the trash had to have been a bald cap. Moddy could easily be used to cover and expand areas. It wasn’t a stretch to think Matt Chaney was the mysterious man-of-two-criminal-faces. In fact, it was a completely logical conclusion to come to, given everything in the room…
“Matt seems to go through a tub of that stuff every month,” Jackie commented, sponging a second test on his hand as he half-listened. “He has some serious facial scarring from a bad car accident in college. But you didn’t hear it from me,” she said with a sly smile at him. “I only found out because I caught him reapplying it in the dressing room when I was playing Antigone on a shoestring budget.”
John could practically feel his thoughts halt in their tracks as a pun bubbled in front of them. “Ha ha ha ha ha! Oh, you must’ve been a shoe-in for that role!”
Her mood had improved drastically, pride and joy lighting up her face. “Well, I did pop some of a prospects’ tires just in case, but yeah, I was. It wasn’t a good production, though. We did a fun 1930’s version of Romeo and Juliet that was way better; that one lasted a full month. You would’ve liked it, actually, it had gangsters versus cops instead of royal families.”
“So they didn’t take the two houses alike in dignity line seriously, then?” he grinned, seeing the punchline land successfully with her open laugh. “Romeo, Romeo - come out wit’ your hands up, Romeo,” he mocked, earning a sturdier giggle.
“What’s funnier is that was actually a line!”
Compliments, the way to anyone’s confidence, he told himself. “I bet you killed it,” he chose and regretted the second they left his mouth. But there was no fear, no pause, no shift of any kind to indicate she was thinking about her near-brush with being a murderer. Just a normal, non-malicious smile. The nice, honest sort he’d seen on Bruce, like it was a reflex they couldn’t help.
“I did. I even got reviews to prove it – my performance ‘turned a predictable script into a rollercoaster of dark comedy’. Didn’t have to pop anyone’s tires to get the lead, either.” She tilted his hand in the light, inspecting her work. “I think this matches, don’t you?”
It was hard to believe she was involved. He didn’t want to force her into a corner when she could be a bystander; it was better to build her up. “It’s like you skinned me and put me in a tube,” he praised, watching her nose scrunch in mock-disgust even as her smile stayed put.
“So… Did Bruce end up calling you or something?” she asked, sponging some of the foundation on his neck. John could see the bruises begin to disappear in the mirror as he popped another muffin in his mouth. “You seem a lot better than how I left you.”
He was so tempted to be honest. Mostly. He’d kept all the relationship stuff secret for so long. But it would be dumb to say anything when she could, potentially, pass information along. “Something like that,” he answered vaguely.
“Booooo. Come on, John, it’s just me; what am I gonna do, post it on Friendbook? Vlog about it? Run to the Moonrise? I’m practically the only person you can tell.”
Cheerful bonding followed by an I’m-the-only-one-you-can-trust speech? He wasn’t going to fall for that Harley-league talk. No siree, Bob - not this time. Two could play that game of manipulation. “Hmm, I suppose we do look like virtual strangers to each other,” he started smoothly, “Jaqueline Latern doesn’t know anybody real in Gotham… And Jackie Lant doesn’t have any friends left to tell...” That clearly struck a soft spot. “The only ones who know who and where we are are each other… Well, and I guess Matt has half an idea.”
“He doesn’t know you’re here,” she answered, dabbing slower with the less-pleased look of honesty, “He stayed behind to schmooze with some director. I didn’t think he’d take me driving another guy back here very well.”
“Ha! Don’t tell me he’d be jealous of someone like me.”
“Why not?” she put the paint aside and started to mix flakes of white foundation-powder with a pale neutral on a clean section of the plastic. “I lied to him about how I knew a good-looking guy - he’s already fragile with me knowing what he actually looks like. Not that he should be; I like him, you know?” She returned to powdering over the makeshift-foundation with a fluffy brush.
“Just ‘like’, huh?” he teased.
“It’s…more than ‘like’, I think. But I’m not sure how to put it.” Her brown eyes turned soft and contemplative. “It’s inspiring to see him on stage. He has this...presence, and it’s so immersive, it’s real. Some days I’m not sure if I want to just watch him and…I dunno, absorb it all, or if I want to be with him.”
That wasn’t good: John could feel a connecting sort of something in him. Like before, in her apartment, watching her pour her feelings out on camera. He was dangerously close to feeling sympathy for someone who might not be deserving of it. And this time it wasn’t as ironically funny.
“I mean, he’s also full of himself,” she added with a little tilt to her lip, “but he’s still thoughtful. Doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t seem to judge… Well, much.”
He didn’t know what he wanted to do. She hadn’t been a good would-be-doctor, but she might be trying to butter him up by pretending to feel the exact same way he did about Bruce. She might have heard him in those rare moments he talked about him, she might’ve remembered things, she might be throwing him off by making him sympathize with her and thus throw the whole idea of her being involved with Owls away. She might’ve planned this whole damn thing, there was no such thing as coincidence anymore and look where he was, right on the x on the antagonist's set with their guilty evidence in plain view like he couldn’t connect dots together and see the gun in her hand...
But the deepest part of him - the one that said Bruce loved him, that said he should take his meds, that told him he was here when sensory input was in focus - said she was being honest. He almost hated that.
She was putting the makeshift foundation on his wrist, seeming to think about who-knew-what. He snatched her hand, not caring if he got messy, the urge to squeeze hard sitting in his fingertips.
The proverbial cogs turned behind her darting eyes as fight or flight lit up her brain; John’s window to ask the questions that had been on the table since he walked in was shrinking.
“Sorry,” he said, half-meaning it as he let go, “It’s just…” People appreciated kindness, and honesty was usually a part of it - he had to lead with something he was sure she already knew and make it seem like a big deal, and let her talk. “Uncanny - how we feel about our prospective muses. They feel like they’re something otherworldly, but just seeing them makes you feel so real, doesn’t it?”
Jackie’s primitive urges died as understanding kinship seemed to take over.
“Of course, you’ve probably spent more time here alone with yours than I ever have,” he trailed with a shrug and a pout. “Though if I add every hour I’ve spent with Bruce up…” He pretended to count on his fingers. “Do you guys get a full eight hours’ sleep together, or…?”
“John,” she snorted into a smile, “even if he didn’t have a film to shoot, he still scouts jobs and visits his agent. I’m not around for all that. Trust me, you and Bruce have way more time together under your belt than the…” Jackie whipped out her phone and tapped around. “One-hundred and forty-four we’d potentially spend.”
One-hundred and forty-four divided by twenty-four… “You’ve been here six days already?”
“Mm-hmm.” Jackie sipped her coffee. “Matt started shooting on Monday night. I was pretty pissed about that - thank God for those corner gondolas.”
He left her here? That sounded like something Harley would’ve done. “Doesn’t he know how much you hate Gotham?”
Jackie scowled slightly into her cup and took another sip. “He knows I have issues here.” She picked up the powder brush and dabbed it over John’s arm, covering the last of the foundation. It was like John had never been bruised at all. It made the small pink cuts on his arm from where he’s torn the bandage off last night stand out a lot, but he didn’t mind walking around with those. “I mean, what am I supposed to do, tell him how I’m permanently mourning a lifetime of dead friends and my own name? Or how I almost killed a guy just to get out of the debt I sank myself in for a career I didn’t want? People already get weird around me when I get all moody,” she grunted, “He shouldn’t have to deal with all that.”
Aha ha ha hee hee! Now their kinship was ironically funny! “J-Jackie, you - you really do make a terrible psychologist,” he managed, his ribs aching with the rapid movement, “Mine have all been telling me to be open about these things with people, and until recently, I just ignored them! I mean, what do they know? Rejection for us in our cases means spiraling into another nasty bout of bad symptoms.”
He could tell she understood. He could see the dark sense of understanding there. They might have very different illnesses, but they were both a product of Gotham, with him born on the wrong side of its blanket and her forcibly rolled over to it. It was something she and Bruce shared - he couldn’t help but see it, and he felt the urge to both poke it and push it away to see what she’d do.
“But you know, it turns out they’re kind of right,” he continued, deciding to soften her up a little more with the truth, “I’d been hiding my symptoms from Bruce because I didn’t trust him not to be disappointed in me, and it only hurt us. Turns out telling him just opened both of us right up,” he emphasized with a spread of his hands. “I get not telling Matt about the whole attempted-murder thing, but to me, it feels like you don’t trust Matt enough with your feelings, and you excuse it by putting his before yours.”
She definitely seemed softened, if surprise counted as such. “I hate it when you do this,” she said, frowning into her cup and taking a not-very-angry sip. “Though I guess it’s easier to work through others’ problems than your own, huh?” she jabbed, taking a seat on the edge of the large bed.
“Now you’re just deflecting,” he teased, crossing his legs and taking a long sip from his own cup.
“Maybe,” she grunted, “It’s just… Matt and I have known each other a few months, but I’ve spent six days back in this shithole city, and it’s like I hardly see him. Monday was ‘surprise, honey, I have a shoot tonight’; Tuesday was ‘oh I have to shoot until after dark, my bad’! Just constant ins and outs and ‘my agent’s calling me,’ or ‘they need me back on set’ bullshit. I don’t even have the opportunity to open up to him.” She took a long sip as John nodded along.
“Matt’s the reason you’re in town, though, right? Since I saw you Saturday, there must’ve been some good days,” he said as innocently as he could, mentally ticking off the box for Muddy Nye’s and Ian Coggs’ doppelgangers.
“Saturday was supposed to be good,” she grumbled, “That went fucking bust. The best day was...probably Wednesday. We spent most of the day together… I got to see him eat a Peralta’s cruller first-hand,” she answered with a wistful little smile. “He makes a cute mmm-face... And he had this great idea - dress up as the producers he’d met on set, go to a fancy-ass restaurant, and reap in their frequenter-discount while they were stuck shooting a night scene. That was worth it.”
The Two Gilded Cups. Hmm, hmm, hmm. “Well, now I’m curious! How’d you look?”
“You tell me,” she smirked, handing him her phone.
Sonja Townsend, in an ironed pant-suit that Jackie definitely did not and would not have in her wardrobe, beamed at him from the selfie-style picture. Vindication burst in his head like a bottle of champagne - his prime suspect for The Wednesday Nighters’ murders was at dinner that night (according to Tiffany), and if Jackie was the one at the dinner, then it only reasoned the real Sonja was at The Lot.
“Pretty good, huh? I worked off a picture he took; no one suspected a thing,” she chirped, “We had to drop the costumes off at his costar’s place afterwards, but it was fun. We got prime seats, a special discount - even got a free bottle of wine out of it.”
But she had no idea. She had no inkling of what had happened this week. His joy at finally being completely right at something was quickly souring. Jackie was an innocent pawn. Disgust was twisting in his throat and palatable on his tongue. He couldn’t find it in himself to walk away and leave her there while he tracked her lying pig of a boyfriend down and gave him some scars he wouldn’t be able to hide… After all, it was much more cathartic for her to get some hits in.
“Uh, are you okay?”
Of course he wasn’t. He felt angry, and guilty, and really annoyed at how he couldn’t be happy about being right. “You really don’t know who this is, do you?” (He never could understand how Bruce kept so much anger out of his voice. How did he not feel it bubbling under his skin and radiating from his tongue?)
“A Mrs. Sonja Townsend - she and her husband are small-time producers.” She stared him down, searching and annoyingly stony. “Why?”
“She works for Wayne Enterprises.” John forwarded the picture to his phone and tossed hers next to her lap, scrolling through his own gallery. Eenie, meenie, miney, moe - the very-much-alive picture of Muddy Nye pulled from the BatComputer was the lucky first choice in the presentation he was about to throw her. “Have you seen this guy before?”
She glanced at it, recognition flashing in her eyes. “Where did you get that?”
“So that’s a definite yes. I’m guessing you don’t know who he really is, either? This,” he emphasized with a grand gesture of his hand at the picture, “is Muddy Nye, a once-budding member of the False Face Society turned-traitor and presumably-lone-survivor of the East Dock murders on Monday night. He was found chucked in a dumpster on Wednesday.”
He didn’t mind how she pulled the phone towards her to look. She was staring down at it, seeming to take in every detail, with a look John could practically feel. It was almost as if he was seeing her in his place, standing on the railings above vats of steaming chemical soups.
Treat people the way you want to be treated, he remembered. But you didn’t get a co-conspirator - innocent or not - to talk by being gentle, and he needed her to see the same reality that he could feel in the chair, in his pulse, and in the aches of his breath. “You said yourself that Matt’s shoot started-”
“This is a coincidence,” she said, staring back at him with clear denial as she tossed the phone back, “Matt always uses real-life references. What does this have to do with that woman I played?”
He fought back the urge to snap at her to just listen by squeezing his hands and remembering that her excuses were natural in the given circumstances. It was a very Bruce thing to say, really. “You haven’t read the news lately, have you?”
She sucked her teeth with a light sneer. “I stopped reading Gotham news a month after I left.”
Of course she had. Matt probably knew that. Or maybe he didn’t, and he didn’t care. “Well, that woman you played killed seven people in a casino on Wednesday night. Her only alibi is that she was at dinner with her husband.”
The surprise on her face shifted, and if looks could wound, he was sure he’d have a hole in his arm right now. “And you think we had something to do with it?”
No, I think your boyfriend did, he thought. Any hostility would result in a bad time. He had to be careful. “If I did, Jackie, I wouldn’t be talking to you - you’d have a knife lodged in your shoulder to match ol’ Scarecrow’s scar.” She sank a little. Funny how that seemed to be an okay thing with her. “I just need to be sure. When Matt left today, what did he look like?”
“Why?”
“Because someone visited All Stitched Up Alterations, threatened my very nice boss into filling a vest with plastic explosives, and handed it off to Black Mask to try and kill the only good Wayne at his own party - and I’m positive that someone isn’t who they say they are.”
Jackie was still for a moment, staring him down like she used to do at her notepad in the sessions she was ghosting on. Back then, she seemed to be a mile away or more, likely trying to plot her escape to try and distract herself from the way Arkham’s walls practically bled with the compounded toxicity of Gotham. The Jackie right now didn’t seem so different, only that she was doing it in her makeshift pajamas.
She stood, handing him her foam cup with a “hold this” in an oddly steady voice, and John watched as she dug around in what must’ve been Matt’s luggage, sorting through boring men’s shoes, short black umbrellas, and a curling iron to retrieve a rather expensive-looking digital camera. He heard a lot of beeps as she cycled through the pictures. “He doesn’t upload everything,” Jackie managed to say, only slightly shaky on the last word, “but he’s always proud of his work.”
In other words, he was narcissistic enough to leave some evidence behind. John hoped he didn’t like to throw away perfectly reusable costumes, too.
Jackie just stood there, gripping the camera too hard, looking caught between the budding reality that the person she admired the most was as rotten as the residents of Gotham Cemetery and the mind’s emergency exit.
“How about we trade?” he offered, wiggling his phone at her. “So we know for sure what the other saw.”
She blinked. “Alright.” There were a few beeps from the camera, and in turn he pulled up the picture of Ian Coggs. “Just don’t cycle back too far.”
“Ha! Ditto. On three,” he said, holding his phone sideways as she extended the bulky end of the camera at arm’s length, “One…” She didn’t look ready, but then again, who would be? “Two...” There was no time to think about what he would do if she went off the deep end. “Three!”
His phone was snatched out of his hand as he yanked the camera from hers.
Sure enough, there was Ian ‘Nito’ Coggs, tilting his head and trying to scowl in much better lighting than the hotel room actually had, in the same jacket and jeans that John had seen on Wednesday, piercings and tattoos in full view. He’d taken multiple shots, showing off the makeshift tattoos on his hands and neck (the sock and buskin masks still peeking out over the top of his shirt), doing multiple expressions and close-ups, and going back further were similar pictures of Muddy Nye in what looked like a studio apartment.
He’d hit the jackpot, but the same ugly disturbance sat in his mouth even as sparklers lit up in his brain.
He looked up at Jackie, half mad at her for ruining what should’ve been a good moment of catharsis by making him feel sympathy, and wondered if that was how he looked back at Ace Chemicals when the gray-hued truth had smashed the black and white lines his mind had drawn in the shape of a bat.
At last, it was like he could see the yolk for a second time, but it was in danger of bursting and slipping out of the shell and into the bubbling vats. She looked like she might somehow break the phone in her hand like a peanut.
So John did what he thought was best - he gently put the camera down, stood in front of her, and carefully put his hands on her shoulders to bring her back to Earth and away from the chemical fumes.
Jackie looked up at him, a step away from the big red exit sign with its tempting whisper of antagonistic nihilism, and pulled him into a crushing hug.
He didn’t know what to do. He was standing on the floor of the mediocre hotel room, letting her fingers dig painfully into his ribs as she squeezed him, hearing her scream into his shirt. And then choke into a sob and wail-scream like Cannibal Carl when he was desperate for his sense of taste to return at one in the morning.
Despite how this was really real and definitely happening what with all the different sensations he was experiencing, he had even less of an idea of what he should be doing. Still, life was short and fairly pointless and not knowing something hadn’t stopped him from experimenting before, so he reached around to return the impromptu hug and gave a pat for good measure. “It’s okay,” he tried, remembering how comfortable and reassuring Bruce’s hugs were, “Iiit’s okay.” He kept still, feeling a little less awkward as her grip loosened a little amongst another scream. “Cry it out, pumpkin-head, Joker’s right here.” There was a lower wail in response. “Do you want me to scream with you, so you don’t feel left out?”
Her sob choked into a laugh, shoulders shaking like there was no difference at all, and her grip on him loosened substantially. The laugh still came in little bursts as she pulled away, tears still streaking down her reddened face. “No - no, you don’t have to.”
“But I could if I wanted? Because it is really fun, especially when everyone’s asleep...”
She gave another few ha’s and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “It’s past noon.”
“So? We both know place doesn’t have a lot of early-risers.”
She sank back onto the bed with another amused ha-hmm. “When did you take that picture?” she sniffed as John picked the fallen phone off the bleached carpet.
“Wednesday morning, at the alterations place up the road.”
She was getting that bent-over-her-notepad look. “He walked me over there on Monday to drop off my dress.”
Scouting the premises, most likely.
“He chose this place, too,” she commented, wiping her face with downcast sort of sneer, “Said it was convenient.”
“It kinda is,” John noted aloud, taking his seat back in the desk-chair and scooting it closer to her, “Muddy Nye was found in the alley behind All Stitched Up’s fence. Closer to the docks.” He waited a beat as he let it sink in. He knew she didn’t like too much sympathy – it was best to get her mind jogging. “What did Matt do with his outfit on Monday night?”
“I never saw that one,” she shrugged, “only the test shots he’d taken. He said was getting changed on set that day.”
John pulled up his map application and zoomed in on 13th Street until he found the Lucky Hotel. “Do you remember where you went on Wednesday night, to drop the ‘costumes’ off?” he asked, doing his best to think like Bruce.
“Yeah,” she muttered, scrolling right and down and left, and swiping with an occasional pause – he noticed she had scrolled all the way to the Two Gilded Cups, and now was taking turns down streets like she was trying to remember the driving route. Apparently, they took some detours. “Here,” she said, pointing to the corner with the fishmonger and Muddy’s makeshift coffin of rotting fish, “We changed clothes in the car. His costar offered to let him drop them off.” Her face twisted into a teary scowl. “I’m so fucking stupid. I should’ve known something was off when I didn’t see any lights on upstairs. But nooo, I trusted him…”
John remembered the empty rooms above the fish place. That had been Tuesday, but what if… “What’d you guys put the clothes in?”
“A duffle bag. I thought it was something he’d borrowed from the set.”
“Ooh, that’s devious,” he chuckled to himself, “These guys have got balls, I’ll give ‘em that.” She looked confused. “See, Muddy was found here,” he accentuated with a point at the alleyway, “There’s spaces above the fish place. I bet they had that bag waiting in one of those rooms. Wednesday, Matt goes to pick it up, brings it here, you guys play dress up - and once it’s over, he throws it back right where he found it, and someone probably came to pick it up the next day. Probably Sonja herself; she or some P.A. she’s got on a leash came around before I got to work on Tuesday – looong story there - and as far as I know came back after Wednesday.”
“Uh…what?”
“Look, I said it’s a long story. The short, short version is someone close to Sonja dropped off an item at work and it was still there when I left Wednesday.” He sat back on his hands, tapping his feet to help him think. It might be safe for her to check out that place. She wouldn’t be as obvious, and she could probably think up a good excuse to go in the first place. Hmm…
“Well… At least everything else suddenly makes stupid sense,” Jackie muttered, “Earlier, I kept thinking ‘He wouldn’t have brought me with him if he knew Black Mask would crash, right?’ But why else didn’t he want me seeing him on set? Why didn’t he want me meeting anyone he worked with? Why was it sheer luck that he pulled me out of the party to go bone in the bathroom minutes before it all went to hell?”
“So that’s where you went!” John exclaimed, “I thought I didn’t see you during the raid! I thought you just hid under a table or something…”
Jackie seemed surprised at that. “Wait, you went back – did you and Batman team up?” she asked, leaning in with an almost awed sort of look, “Everyone was saying he crashed! How? Did he follow those masked guys there? Did he follow you there?”
It had certainly changed her mood, but he wasn’t about to suggest that… Well, actually, maybe. Hah - why not?! “He came there to see me,” he boasted, “Bruce took me out of my home-away-from-home after the little attempted-murder-by-sniper incident the other day, and Bats was hounding me for clues.”
“You were shot at?!”
“Oh, yeah, that’s another story. Stuff just keeps piling up, really,” John added, tapping his feet together, “Though that does bring up something - you remember the Court of Owls, right?”
“Uh… Yeah, Dr. Crane was interested in them.” She squinted at him, seeming to put the pieces together. “You’re not saying they’re behind the attack on you?”
“Bingo. The mass murders of Black Mask’s crew on the boat and the docks, Muddy Nye and Hubbard Jr.’s murders, the casino slaughter of The Wednesday Nighters – all of it was orchestrated by them, using Black Mask’s inside info. Which is where Matt came in. Oh, and me and Catwoman got targeted, too, but…here I am!”
She seemed… Well, the best thing he could think of was the sort of bewilderment that might come with finding out aliens were real, but also ate planets whole. “O-kay… That’s a lot.”
“Ha ha! Yeah, it’s been one hell of a ride!” he chuckled to himself.
Jackie breathed deep. The tears had long stopped trying to flow, but the tracks could still be seen on her flushed face. “Okay… Ignoring my constant internal screams and urges to bite anything in range, you and Batman are working together on this, right?” She looked at him with a sort of wild, determined hope that made him think she was going to start muttering to herself that everything would be okay.
“Um, yeah?”
“Thank fuck. I know this is all evidence, but you have no idea – that is the only thing stopping me from destroying everything in here right now.”
“Ha ha ha hee he! I have plenty of ideas, actually - you’re feeling like everything you knew is breaking apart, right? It’s like -” he made a fist and slammed it into his open palm - “BAM! There goes your hopes and dreams!” He kicked the air in front of him. “SMASH! Your trust in anything is gone! WHAM!” - he flung himself backward in the chair, exaggerating falling - “Nothing matters anymore! Aha ha ha ha ha haa! It hurts reeeeal bad!” he added, sitting back upright and giving her a light smack on the shoulder, “Trust me, Jackie, I’m literally the only person in Gotham who knows exactly what this feels like.” Did that sound like too much? He wanted her help, but getting it was going to take more than repeating things… Though it was also the truth. “It’s gonna hurt like hell for a while, but I know you’ll pull through!”
She looked at his thumbs up and offered a little chuff noise and tiny smile in return. “I don’t know how you’re so optimistic about it. Then again, I don’t have a Batman here to beat some sense into me,” she joked. It faded after a moment. “Thank you for telling me all this, John. And...being here. I don’t think I’d be able to restrain myself if I discovered any of this on my own.”
“Hey, what are friends for?” John nudged, the Speaking of which on the tip of his tongue dying as she scrunched her brow in the confused manner that couldn’t be good…
“We’re friends?”
At least it wasn’t derisive sounding. Or sarcastic. Or anything that made it a clear rejection, actually, but it was best to cover himself... “Well, yeah, we both went through the whole Scarecrow fiasco together – sorta – and you helped me out last night without asking for anything in return. And now that you know what it feels like to have your muse break your perception of reality, I’d say we have a proper enemies-to-friends buildup here,” he finished with a general wave to the empathy-fueled-vibes between them.
“I’d say ‘knowing my track record, this won’t end well’… But you are weirdly lucky. And annoyingly right about some things.” She pursed her lips and blew air up at a stray lock of her very curly hair, slapped her knees, and stood as tall as her legs would let her. “Okay. Let me help you guys. I know Matt, I can find any evidence you might need and tell you anything you need to know – passwords, phone numbers, whatever. He’s too proud to just throw his tools away; I’d bet anything he stashed his costume someplace, probably with his other one for the dead guy. I can find them and either put them here or in my car, whichever’s safer.”
Yahtzee! “And you promise you won’t run off with any of it?”
“Because as much as I’d love to burn everything he ever had to the ground right now,” she scowled, poison practically dripping from her mouth, “I’ve been through enough breakups and psych classes to know that won’t fix anything. The only way I’ll get any kind of catharsis is to see him break – and I guarantee he’ll do that before a judge.” She picked her phone up and tapped around. “Besides, we’re friends, I’ve got nothing to lose, and if I can help out some of the only people worth a shit in this hellhole, I’ll do it. Here, add your number.”
John dolefully typed in his personal number, adding the little joker-card emoticon on either side of his name, and sent himself a text. “Think you can copy what’s on that camera for me?”
“Sure.” She took her phone back. “I’ll send you his MuSec and InstaPic logins, too,” she added as John’s phone gave another short buzz. “Might be worth a look.”
The text was from Iman: I’m out front.
“Looks like I’ve got the red light, kiddo.” John dusted himself off a bit, failing to brush off the empathy that seemed to stick there. He guessed he had to learn to live with this, too, like he didn’t have enough guilt and woe and bouts of sympathy to deal with. “I’ll give Matt a little stab in the kidney for you if I see him,” he joked, taking the edge off himself.
“Your prince is waiting to take you away in his chariot, huh?” Jackie picked up her coffee cup, drained the last of it, and crushed it in her fist, not seeming to care about the drops on the carpet or her hand. “That’s okay. I’ll text you if I feel like I’m going to high-dive off a building or something.”
John snorted into a laugh. “Aw, Jackie, we both -” John emphasized with a light boop to her nose - “know you’re more a danger to others right now. You should really just call me if you feel like you’re going to go off the deep end, anyway, a real voice helps more. And that includes if you get gun-happy.”
Jackie had gotten a little pink in the face, but she looked better, even mumbling a sincere ‘okay’ as she followed him to the door.
“Text me anything you find and I’ll make sure you get a few brownie points from Bats, too.”
“If these come in the form of an autographed photo, I’ll take ‘em,” Jackie seemed to joke, “Oh, and you can do me a favor, since I keep helping you out - tell Bruce to stop and say ‘hi’ before he leaves next time.” He must’ve had the ‘but how did you know?!’ written on his back, or else he froze in the doorway a second too long, because she snorted before he even turned to look over his shoulder. “You make it too obvious. Besides, I know a hickey when I see one, Joke-man,” she elaborated with a smirk. “Stay safe out there.”
With a little wave his way, John was again alone in the hotel hall at a loss for meaningful words, feeling like he was in some weird space where time didn’t mean anything. “Uh, thanks,” he said to the door, unsure if it was the right thing to say.
He breathed in, focusing on the plot of his feet on the out-of-date carpet and the smell of diluted off-brand cleaning solution that seemed to stick everywhere. It might have felt like a strange place, but this was a strange week and he was able to cross multiple goals off his list barely an hour after waking up. He was so damn right about so many things! And he had evidence to prove it! He could take this all back to the rest of them and shove it under their noses and go HA!
“That went well!” he affirmed to himself as he strut into the same elevator Bruce had taken down, “Bruce’ll be so proud!”
† † † † †
True to her word, Iman had been parked and waiting right outside the hotel in a very sleek silver sedan, the tinted window rolled down so John could see her face. Upon closer inspection, the car had no identifying hood ornament. Or really, anything extraneous at all.
People had always joked about how you could always tell an Agent by their shoes, but surely an unmarked car was another dead giveaway.
“Gooood morning, Iman,” John greeted, sliding into the passenger seat, “You ready to do a B-’n’-E?”
“I like to think of it as more of a surprise covert inspection.”
That would explain the dark jumpsuit and the messy bun she’d put her hair in. “What’s the ‘G’ for?” he asked, pointing to the patch over the breast pocket.
“Gotham Construction. Bruce thankfully has a closet full of things like this. Though I don’t know why the ‘G’ on some of them are shaped like this
gear… But it was the only one that fit me. Yours is behind the seat. I also picked you up-”
John was already popping open the grease-spotted paper bag next to the matching jumpsuit, the unmistakable smell of grease and fried meat hitting him like a slap in the face. “A pancake burger?!”
“Egg-sausage-muffin. I’m guessing a pancake burger is exactly what it sounds like?”
“Yup! I’m about ninety-percent sure I didn’t dream that food-truck,” John said, biting into the woefully-unsyruped sandwich. At least it had cheese. “T’ey’re ‘mazin’.” Realizing he was being rude, he swallowed to speak. “But this is good, too!”
“I’ll have to find that truck for next time,” Iman smiled as she merged into traffic. “I’m guessing things went well last night?”
“Mm-hmm!” John flashed a thumb’s up her way while he swallowed another bite. “I’m glad you’re not weirded out about it. I take it this is your way of apology for not telling the others? I mean, you did figure it out before last night, right?”
Iman shot him a look he couldn’t decipher. “I’m not apologizing for anything; I just figured you’d be hungry by now. And just because I figured it out on my own months ago doesn’t mean it’s my responsibility to act as Bruce’s psychiatrist and tell him what to do, let alone tell his secrets for him.”
He didn’t want to tell her she should’ve said it anyways for his sake. “I bet you still hint at him,” he said instead, hoping that was true, “You’re good at subtlety.”
“Only when I think he’s going to do something...” she trailed off, seeming to search for the word she wanted.
“Stupid?” John offered, “Asinine? It’s okay, you can say it - for all his smarts, he has his dumb moments.”
“I was going to say ‘detrimental to the cause’,” Iman finished, not looking at him. “I joined the Agency because I wanted to help save lives. But I’ve always admired Batman’s commitment to pursuing justice outside of the legal limits that don’t always work in our favor - it’s why I came to Gotham on the Riddler case.”
He felt like he was back at the visiting table in Arkham, examining her little movements and steady gaze with as much scrutiny as he could allow. She was holding herself up, all pride and seriousness, reminding him very much of Bruce some days. “I…kinda knew that.”
“Batman’s whole purpose is to clean up the parts of the city where regular law enforcement don’t. I’m proud to be a part of that, even if I’m not in the field,” she noted with a twinge of regret, “But Bruce is Batman, and he’s human - consequently more people know about Batman. If I thought someone, or something Bruce has done was going to interfere with Batman’s work in some way, I’d tell him.”
They stopped at a light - she looked back at him, serious but not reprimanding or upset. It did not calm him at all. He could feel stress blooming in his brain at the implication she was making. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, let alone think – he might as well not be in the car or the city at all, but on Dr. Leland’s bench.
“I know you won’t betray Bruce, John,” she said with all the honesty of the top brass of St. Dymphna, “and I know that he trusts you, but I need to know you can work with us on the same level.”
Relief unraveled the knot in his stomach with one simple tug and let the air out of his lungs in a joyous burst. “Ha ha ha ha ha! That’s all? Whelp, good news – I’m way ahead of you!” John whipped out his phone to pull up the gallery, finding a text from Jackie with app links attached:
MuSec has play scenes with lofi and some sos of Bludhaven. :/ So good luck with that. InstaPic has got a million selfies of his usual looks + stage work at least, maybe prototypes.
“I’ve got all the dirt on our two-timing man on the inside.”
Sos??? he typed back.
Shot on shitteos. Grainy vhs filter + dark filter + indie = ~tortured artist~ lol
Login w MasterOfClayFace / #IdW3arThat
“Such as?” Iman asked, clearly waiting for more. John supposed it wasn’t a great start to their team-up to get distracted.
“Name, real face, evidence a-plenty! Guy by the name of Matt Chaney – a real master of makeup with image issues. He crashed the Gala last night with our little pumpkin-headed former-antagonist.” He pulled up InstaPic and logged in, finding rows of Matt’s face in various outfits, makeup tweaked just enough to make him look like whatever character he was playing while maintaining his Hollywood-handsome face. Jackie was next to him here and there, along with other co-stars. “Not that she’s been part of it. Knowingly, anyway.”
“You’ve…lost me.”
“Oh, you never met Jackie, did you… Bruce has her pumpkin mask in the case by Scarecrow’s.”
“Jackie Lant.” Iman scrunched her face thoughtfully. “You don’t think she’s had a hand in with either the Owls or the False Face Society?”
“Nope! Because I was right - Sonja Townsend is our Lot killer. Matt coerced Jackie into dressing up as Sonja, and they made sure Mr.-and-Mrs. Townsend were seen on Wednesday night.”
“And you have proof of that?”
Something about her tone rubbed him the wrong way. The way that started to brew that old familiar feeling in his head that normally lead to…outbursts. “Sonja actually being there is…complicated,” he shrugged, trying and failing not to sneer, “You guys never said you found anything at the scene, so I only have her signature on that alterations receipt. And the relation to the card-carrier. But I know I’m right!” He knew it wasn’t what a lawyer might call concrete, especially since you weren’t supposed to show yourself riled up in court, but that was what brass-knuckle confessions were for. “Here’s Jackie as Wednesday-Sonja,” he emphasized, pushing the picture he’d gotten into her field of view. “And I have the receipt from their little excursion – the time on it puts her squarely there! And I’ve got a gallery of proof that Matt’s Ian Coggs!”
Iman glanced over, seeming to take it in, and returned to driving as usual. “I meant of Matt coercing Jackie. I can stretch my sense of disbelief to include Sonja Townsend masquerading as a younger woman and using her son-in-law’s card to register the room. But it’s hard to believe a young woman who had once planned a murder and eventual cover-up by pretending to be someone just swept up in a psych-experiment-gone-wrong could be coerced into anything. I watched the tape of her shooting Dr. Crane,” she added with an air of one of the Arkham doctors walking him through the concept of ‘consequences for his actions’, “It was cold and calculated; she’s the type to plan far in advance. Neither you nor Bruce had suspected her of tampering with your visiting rights at the time. And if ‘Matt Chaney’ is the one who’s disguising himself as Muddy Nye and Ian Coggs, then there’s no one to say Jackie Lant isn’t doing something similar.”
“I can say it,” John grumbled. Iman didn’t see her try to desperately cover for Matt before scream-crying on him.
“But I only have your word.” The car stopped again. “I want to trust you on this, John, but I can’t trust your interpretation without any proof.”
“You’d trust Bruce’s,” he scoffed quietly, spitefully taking a larger bite.
“You know Bruce would say the same thing,” Iman added gently. “Send what you have to the BatComputer and we’ll look over it together.”
John could easily imagine Bruce asking for evidence, but that didn’t stop irritation from growing and sitting in his jaw. He didn’t know how else to prove that Jackie was exactly as innocent as she seemed without any physical proof, and she was currently trying to gather further proof that Matt had been Muddy Nye.
Hey, send me your InstaPic too, he typed, hoping she had something that concretely put her far and away from any of Matt’s fishy business.
What you can’t see my face on Matt’s page? 9_9
xXPumpkinPrincessXx
Sure enough, Matt’s InstaPic account had Jackie’s face near the top of his friends-list. John decided to check that last.
Matt had a lot of stuff in his direct messages from people trying to impress him with reactions, flirty messages, and boasts about buying tickets to various projects he must have had a role in. John couldn’t really see the appeal of him, outside of his mildly-handsome face and lightweight build – sure, the costumes were nice when he wore them, but Matt had far too many public-facing selfies, the majority of which was just Matt doing normal things. A simple picture of him drinking a smoothie in a tank top got him fifteen-thousand likes, and the ones that featured Jackie or other people he guessed worked in Bludhaven’s theater troupes (an awful lot of women, John noticed) got maybe six-thousand at most. There were some flagged-for-review selfies that definitely edged the line between appropriate and softcore porn that had gotten a few thousand before they were pulled from the public. Ones of him in costumes seemed to get ten-thousand on the regular, with the most-liked in the bunch being a silent time-lapse video of Matt transforming into a near mirror-image of Vincent Price two months ago – even John had to admit that the head-explosion emoticons people had commented with were appropriate…
John blinked, looking at the grid of pictures, and realized that something was missing from the looping .gif of Matt in the makeup chair. Something obvious. Something he’d seen in plain daylight for himself.
“Now that’s interesting…”
“What is?” Iman asked from the driver’s seat. John didn’t look up to see where they were, but they were still moving.
“Matt Chaney didn’t have his tattoo two months ago. The one with the theater masks.” John scrolled down – there were some entries that had been removed for violating the site’s policy, but the last shirtless picture Matt had taken was three months ago. John circled back to the top, looking at the picture of Matt sucking just a little suggestively on the smoothie straw four weeks ago in his plain white tank, and noticed the inked mask of comedy sitting above the fabric line. “But he had it last month.”
“Quite a few of the False Faces had mask tattoos,” Iman commented thoughtfully, “Including the theater one.”
“Oh yeeeah,” John mumbled, “Roman split the gang up into sections, didn’t he? What was that Melpomene-Thalia group assigned to?”
Iman’s mouth curled into a disgusted frown; that was a first for her. Her eyes crinkled and narrowed, like the car in front of her had a racist bumper-sticker. “I don’t believe those are as cut and dry as some of the others.” Her clean polished fingers clenched the steering wheel a little. “One of the masks we captured last night was on the Agency’s watch-list for threatening public officials, suspected blackmail, and grand arson. Another had a previous charge for assault, vandalism, and stalking. What does that say to you?”
Ooh, test time! Threats, destruction, stalking abilities… Put together right it could be a little terrorist group. But unlike Harvey Dent and his little militia, Roman didn’t seem to have an interest in taking a government position or two and using it for personal vendettas; he liked keeping things underground. “Sounds like the right-hand messengers – dish out destruction as your last warning before the boss order’s your death.”
“Exactly. They’re some of the top brass, so to speak. So why leave ‘Ian’ out of the Gala… Just because he was newer?” She tapped the wheel as they came to a stop. “Matt might have done the initiation and gotten the tattoo in Ian’s place, assuming Ian was dead before that. But how long had he pretended to be him? How did Ian get pulled into the gang in the first place…?”
“Probably knew a guy who knew a guy,” John shrugged, thinking of the cronies that had been brought into the Pact. “Word gets around in all kinds of circles. I bet Matt was doing ‘research’ and overheard some of Black Mask’s goons looking to hire. I’d be surprised if he didn’t stalk Ian for a while beforehand.” He drummed his fingers on his phone. “Besides, Ian’s real-life-rap-sheet wasn’t up to their level, so I bet he got put on retainer in case the Bat hit the fan. That, or they drew straws.”
She blinked, arching a brow at him. “Straws? Really?”
“Sure, the guys did it all the time in the Pact! Only hand-picked ones got to have the special jobs, y’know. The light’s green,” he added with a point.
Iman didn’t say anything, but the ‘why didn’t I think of that’ look said enough as she took off again. “I’m guessing Matt wasn’t in the ballroom when Roman showed up,” she said stiffly.
“Nope. Took Jackie to bone in the bathroom. Her words,” he explained at the look thrown his way, “Guy really plays both sides of the field – he could’ve high-tailed it before the masks arrived, but he went and stayed behind to see who survived.”
“He wasn’t there to see the end results, John – he was there to spy on Bruce.”
The thought hadn’t occurred to John before, but it seemed like made sense. “You think?”
“Bruce is a billionaire with some serious social connections and an infamy for throwing money around various charitable causes. I’d be surprised if the Court of Owls wasn’t trying to circle his heels – on paper, he’s a potentially ideal pigeon.”
John’s grin practically split his face in two as he cackled, slapping the door’s armrest before remembering he shouldn’t break things that belonged to friends. “Ahee ha ha HA – a-a STOOLIE thinks Bruce is a PIGEON !”
John could’ve sworn he’d heard something that sounded like a chuckle not coming from him, but Iman definitively cleared her throat as his last laugh petered out.
“Ha ha, sorry – I couldn’t resist. You really think they’re after him for his money?”
“If not, it’s probably to get close enough to kill him,” she continued as if she wasn’t also feeling like icy water had slipped down to her stomach, “He might have had a hand in dismantling the Pact, but even if they don’t put his own criminal behavior during that period or his family name against him, everyone knows he’s close to you – they might want to kill him on principal.”
That was an interesting thought. The kind that jabbed him in the ribs but sent that helpless spark of intrigue into his brain. “I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am,” he ribbed lightly, “Guess I should’ve taken that book’s quote about the slightest hand being guided by the Devil a little more seriously…”
“Well, I didn’t think about it until this morning, either.”
There was a pause, and John drummed his fingers against his thigh, unsure of what to say. If Iman was right – and there was a pretty darn high chance she was – that meant Bruce wasn’t safe in or out of the Batsuit. And he was already halfway into the suit, following an Owl wearing a literal False Face right into Black Mask’s hiding spot. That…might not end well, if Matt was able to get a message out to the Owls before Bruce or Tiffany body-slammed him.
It was probably a good idea to tell Bruce that. Just in case something over-the-top levels of weird happened. Be careful buddy!!, he started, Jackie’s boytoy from the party is our mysterious double-agent – aka that guy Matt Chaney ur chasing rn. And yeeees I’m uploading everything so just concentrate on plucking his feathers and punching Skullface so I still have a Bat to smooch later. ;p
Iman seemed to be thinking. That, or she was concentrating on the road – they had come to a weirder part of town, where street names were confusingly labeled with similar (if not exact) names one after another. They passed a Rodney St only to see Rodey St right after it.
John decided to scroll through Matt’s MuSec page, which automatically sorted by most popular and didn’t change when the filter was set to sort by date. A lot of it looked like duplicate videos from InstaPic, but the ones of Bludhaven stood out like the Batsignal against a cloudy night sky, most of them looking just as Jackie had described. He ignored the bulk of them, eying date stamps instead, thinking back to the original Ian Coggs’ last day in Bludhaven’s mental care facility.
Nothing, nothing, and more nothing. He guessed it was too much to hope for something obviously linking him to Ian ‘Nito’. The only thing he could discern was that Matt never seemed to take videos with other people unless he was on stage with them. No hangouts with friends, no secret recordings of strangers – just Matt, his career, and his home. Just him, him, him.
It didn’t feel familiar to John at all. He pulled up InstaPic again, scrolling through the group-shots - it was just the same kind of smile on Matt’s face plastered on each one, barely varying between fans and costars, the angle always being a tilted selfie from Matt’s hand. It was almost like the attempt at Bruce’s charming photo-ready smile John had seen back at the Gala. But of course anyone who knew Bruce beyond the surface knew that those smiles were -
…ah.
As fake as Bruce’s past “romances” – maybe some had substance, somewhere, but ultimately they meant nothing.
The MuSec page might have held no criminal evidence, but it sure helped prove that Matt Chaney was a selfish prick.
Now Jackie Lant, on the other hand… One glance told him her MuSec was the opposite of Matt’s. The thumbnails showed clear collaborations and only a couple of standalone videos of her on stage or in her makeup chair. Her InstaPic showed a lot of the same things, but with a UBox link at the top and Matt’s face on every row of images with some different and seemingly-genuine expressions. She had less
followers – 3055 - to Matt’s ridiculous 8055 – but she had likes and reblogs a-plenty on both pages, and where Matt had three uploads all week, Jackie had three or more every day. Particularly of various takeaway outings, the last of which showed a Citizens Against Bats flyer in the window – the bat symbol crossed out in red, of course, and a group meeting advertised for next week with a burner number – and the caption “signs that your restaurant is a front for something shady #OnlyInGotham #atleasttheirpizzasmellsgood”.
The upload times were erratic, but Wednesday highlighted her story of being out with Matt there – any opportunity for a picture of or with him was there for everyone to see. Nothing concrete from a hah-they-weren’t-doing-crimes-together perspective, but from a character one…there was only one conclusion he could draw.
“What’s so funny?” Iman asked from the driver’s seat.
He’d didn’t think his giggling was that obvious. That, or her peripheral vision was really good, even when driving. “I was in a really dark place last night. The itching to hurt myself and anything around me kind of place. And when I saw a car pull around at an opportune time, I didn’t care who was in it – and for someone who couldn’t sympathize enough with the horrible thoughts us patients spilled on the couch, Jackie had no problem putting up with me. Even today! She just welcomed me in helped me out like we were pals. And I didn’t really think about it before, but picture after picture here proves what I could guess - she did it because she was lonely! Ha ha ha - imagine being so desperate for company you’d let me, the mental patient your boss wouldn’t let you talk to without supervision, in your car! Aha ha ha ha ha haa!” The laugh made his lungs ache with pressure, but he didn’t care. “What’s funnier is… I get it! It’s like getting a visitor after being in the Hole: you don’t care who it is; anything’s better than being by yourself.”
“I don’t see how that’s funny,” Iman said coolly, “She didn’t have many friends living in Gotham by the time she left. I imagine she’s had a hard time really bonding with other people due to losing so many in traumatic fashions – and after a traumatic event like last night’s hostage situation, it’s reasonable that she wanted to help you, especially since she knows you already. It would be both grounding and give her a sense of accomplishment and heroism that she couldn’t have fulfilled at the manor.”
Man, Iman sure had a way with words. “Yeah, but you missed the point – it’s me. That’s what makes it funny. If it were almost anyone else…ehh,” he added with a shrug. “I mean, if we only mildly knew one another – like we parted ways after my whole stunt trying to kill Waller – and you saw me stop your car and just hop in it, gnashing my teeth and barely holding myself together, would you just go along with it?”
“Yes, I would,” Iman answered, not a dishonest syllable to be heard, “Though I’d make sure we’d talk to your doctor right away and get you to a safer place than that hotel.”
John hadn’t really expected that answer. He knew Bruce would say yes, but he didn’t like leaving hurt people alone to begin with, and Bruce was less likely to call a doctor and far more likely take care of things himself. John had expected Iman to think carefully before answering with a noncommittal variation of ‘yes’. What a caring gal. “Man, you were wasted on the Agency,” he answered warmly, “You’re way too good for them.”
Iman gave a soft smile in return, which John took as a wordless ‘thanks’. “Is everything sent to the BatComputer?”
He’d forgotten to start the transfer. “Iiit’s still working on it,” John fumbled as he pulled up the share function of his phone’s gallery. Sure enough, the crummy tower signal he was getting told him it would take a while to upload anyway. Sharing the texts was much faster, at least. “Still no response from Bruce, though…”
“Just because he can text on his gauntlet doesn’t mean he should,” Iman teased, “He’ll be fine. He and Tiffany are looking after one another.”
John hummed, wanting to believe that despite the sting at the mention of Tiffany. Bruce usually texted back fast, even as Batman…
The Herold Rite’s Theatre appeared around the corner, tearing John away from his thoughts. Its old playbill sign was yellowed and empty, but the lights surrounding it weren’t broken and the theater’s name was still perfectly legible. It just looked…dreary. Sunburnt paper covered the inside of the ticket booth’s glass behind the thin metal storm shutters. Laminated notices on each of the doors’ shutters showcased the place as under construction, do not enter, yadda yadda yadda, but the fractured plastic and faded ink reminded passerby’s it had been out-of-commission for some time.
“I’m guessing we’re not taking the front door,” John joked.
“There’s a staff exit we can break into around the back.” Iman pulled the car into the shady alleyway nearby. “I’ve already checked for city footage, this place is almost invisible. City inspections haven’t been officially done in a month, and it’s been closed for a couple of years now.”
“So we should expect lots of graffiti and garbage inside, huh?”
“Most likely. I’d be surprised if someone hadn’t tried living in it before now. If anything, we at least have to watch out for rats.”
“I thought owls ate those,” John nudged, getting a chuckle in response.
“I don’t think they’ve gone that native.” She parked just in front of the dumpster. “Get changed, I’ll wait where you can see me.”
The jumpsuit was loose enough to cover John’s clothes; he didn’t like the idea of taking anything off in Iman’s car (even if the windows were tinted and she was waiting with her back to him by the driver-side door) so he simply zipped it over everything else, tossing his St. Dymphna phone in the center armrest for safekeeping. The coveralls were annoyingly baggy to the point where he found himself pulling at the bunches of fabric around his waist and trying to figure out if he could tuck them in as he trailed behind Iman’s flat thuds of proper work-boots.
The sun was clearly already in early-summer mode, beating down on his shoulders the second he’d stepped out of the car – it didn’t matter that the sun wasn’t actually shining in their dark little corner, of course. It was omnipresent and tearing through layers of brick to hit him, specifically, like a punishment for looking where he shouldn’t. At least it felt like it.
John rubbed the back of his neck, the heat of his palm not helping. He didn’t know why he felt...paranoid. He was here, right now, growing steadily sweaty with stupid layers and summer heat, and he had a right to poke into business if it was his. Which this definitely was. He looked over his shoulder, not seeing so much as a camera, and looked around the roof edges for any sign of life.
Of course there was nothing there, because for all the strides he’d taken, his brain still liked to trick him.
Iman bent before the door with a very used-looking toolkit. John wondered at what to say.
He pushed the ideas of ‘Should we really be here’ and ‘Do you think they roost on rooftops’ away. “Didn’t you normally just kick the door down?” he joked lightly.
“I thought it would be best to be stealthy about this.” The lock clicked. “Besides, it’d be a waste if I didn’t get to actually use this after all the practicing I’ve done,” she boasted, tucking the kit away in one of her very deep pockets.
“You’re not gonna start wearing leather and cat ears on the job, are you?”
Iman pulled a face somewhere between amused and disturbed. “No. At least I hope not.”
The theater was even drearier inside. It reminded John of the Old Five Points, minus the working lights and water, and plus the smell of buttered popcorn practically soaked into what was left of the carpet. It felt as damp and dark as it looked, mold and mildew creeping in his nose to mingle with popcorn only a few steps in.
Iman passed him a small clip-on flashlight, having her own clinging to the pocket with the gear-shaped ‘G’. John clipped it to his jumpsuit’s collar, remembering how Bruce had a similar one on his cape when they had explored the mausoleum last year. Only now they were dependent on only the flashlights and not on loud EDM and glow-stick-filled pumpkins to guide them.
“There don’t appear to be any heat signatures in any of these…” Iman turned her head slowly, seeming to scan the hallway of supply rooms like a robot.
“Ooh, did you steal Bruce’s special contacts?”
“I borrowed them – with permission. Same goes for these,” Iman emphasized with a smile, handing John a few Bat-decorated goodies. A small can of tear gas, two Batarangs, and a palm-sized remote taser . John ran this thumb just over the edge of the thin blade, excitement prickling at his temples. “Hopefully, we won’t have to use them. These are strictly loaner pieces.”
John tucked them all away, no longer hating the roomy coveralls. “Oh, no worries, I get ’cha.”
“You can’t keep them,” she added pointedly.
“I wouldn’t dream of it! And I’m sure you wouldn’t keep them in your car for a rainy day and write the loss off as a misadventure,” he needled, “Not that I’d say anything if you did.”
Iman looked like she was definitely noting that to herself. “Let’s start checking rooms. I’ll take the right side.”
“You got it.”
Graffiti of all kinds was plastered on the walls, mostly tags covering parts of worn-out posters or stickers. Which would’ve been fine, if it hadn’t been clear that someone had gone to the trouble of drawing thick black lines over the middle of them all, regardless of size. It reminded John of censor marks over people’s eyes in photos. Some were darker than others, showing the paint can was running out but still usable, and it brought to mind the tics made on the asylum walls, counting days like they mattered.
A couple of Bat-symbols not unlike the one shown from the G.C.P.D. roof were scattered around, all but one in bright yellow crossed out. The paint had dripped from the wing and tail end before it dried. John took a picture of it, feeling like he’d seen the beacon itself, and then opened the supply room it was next to, finding replacement seats stained with something dark he didn’t want to think about and two very broken popcorn makers shoved inside.
A prop room was next, so cluttered he didn’t think he could walk three feet into without getting impaled on a plastic spear. He spied a copy of his clown smiley-face tucked away by a familiar red-pyramid-and-floating-eyeball that had been crossed out with a large ‘x’, but decided against taking a picture of it. He wasn’t sure if he liked his logo there, sitting among the scrawled-out bats…
“Nothing here.” Iman had seemingly found a cleaning closet with a crudely-drawn pentagram and ‘hail satin’ still legible by the door.
“Ha, talk about your false idols,” John cracked as Iman followed his line of sight, “Now, velvet - there’s a fabric I could worship!”
“Personally I don’t think there’s anything better than a cashmere sweater, but I don’t think I’d hail it,” Iman shot back with a chuckle.
John peeked in a blank dressing room, seeing nothing but a costume rack with two moth-eaten dresses, a dressing table with half its bulbs missing or broken on the floor, and a lot of molding cardboard boxes, most of which had been upturned and whatever contents inside torn apart or left on the floor. John spied a broken beer bottle and a suspiciously familiar sort of stain on the wall. “Nooothing here.”
“John, come look at this.”
John went over to her side, passing two doors that clearly didn’t open, and peeked over her shoulder at what looked like a dressing room. This one had more dust-covered boxes and a foggy vinyl sheet hanging over a long rack of costumes shoved in the back, with just enough room to walk. It looked like just another haven for moths and dust. “It sure is a room of gross moldy boxes,” he commented.
“No, look – that costume rack is half-full.”
“So?”
“So there’s a pathway back there and the people who trashed this place didn’t think to take a look?”
“Ah-haa.”
Iman went straight for the rack, carefully stepping around boxes as John examined the ones that seemed open, finding old promotional trading cards for an old sci-fi film with big-brained aliens sitting on some boring looking documents in one. Another had costume pieces, which he almost didn’t bother with until he saw a flash of purple, and then the instinct to rifle through things fell in his hands. He tossed things out and shoved everything aside in a flurry of colored fabric and plastic and pulled out what he could only think of as the best hat he’d ever seen.
A violet-colored and practically pristine wide-brimmed fedora. John couldn’t help but let out an ooh and turn it over in his hands. It was almost, if not exactly the color of his long coat back at the cave. It was like it was made for him. Even the dark fabric band on it was more deep green than black.
“John - don’t. You don’t know where that’s been.”
“Aw, come on, it’s clean! And look, it has a real label inside!” He flipped it to show her the faded gold print, hoping to turn her concerned frown upside-down. It did not, and he could practically hear what she was going to say next. “Fiiine, I’ll keep looking for evidence,” he groaned, putting the perfect hat gently back in the box. “I’ll come back for you later,” he muttered to himself.
His phone buzzed in his pocket – another text from Jackie:
Camera pics uploaded to my share drive: https://bit.gt.gd/S3272019F?=RO
Sorry it took so long. Kinda forcing myself to feel like this rn lol
She tacked on a picture of a dog calmly sitting at a table surrounding by a raging fire, staring at their coffee mug like nothing was wrong. John snickered to himself.
Ha ha ha ha!!! You’ve done it!! You’ve boiled this whole week down into a single classic meme!!! He texted back, Thanks pumpkinhead, I’ll pass these on to Bats!! ;D
“Was that Bruce?” Iman asked as John forwarded the link to the BatComputer’s catch-all.
“Nope. The other photographic evidence finally came in,” he answered, resuming his search.
The last visible open box held a lot of plastic badge holders – the kind that he’d seen the Arkham and St. Dymphna staff use to display their ID’s. But behind the boxes, not covered in a speck of dust… “Now what do you suppose a perfectly good printer is doing in a place like this?” John asked rhetorically.
“Probably making ID’s to match these.”
John peered over at the costume rack –polo shirts, dress pants, and bullet-proof vests hung there with an array of logos.
“Gotham Construction, Janus Industries, G.C.P.D., Gotham E.M.T. – Wayne Enterprises…” Iman grumbled, her thoughts seeming to swirl behind her brow. “Is there a laptop or tower connected to that printer?”
“Nope. There’s only…that thing near it.”
She peered over his shoulder. “That’s a signal repeater. It’s an older model.” She looked at her phone for a moment, poking around. “We can probably trace the router signal; the network its broadcasting isn’t from the surrounding buildings.”
John snapped a picture of the setup. “What, you think they have an Owl-themed computer set up somewhere?”
“That’s possible, but I was thinking more like a tablet or laptop that’s making the IDs. They’re portable, easily hidden or disposed of, and can easily support the software. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were trying to take down security systems or using social media to recruit, too – but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
He snapped a picture of the rack of clothing, too. “You really think they’ll leave that laying around in here?”
“I’m more hoping they have. But I bet we’ll find the nest if we find the router this signal is coming from.”
The room next to it was wide open and all but beckoning them inside, a spray-painted black bat flying above the door. It was another dressing room, but it looked cleaned out – the makeup table was dust-free and had all its bulbs, and there was a minimal amount of boxes in there.
Iman walked in, heading straight to the lone garbage can and squatting to take a better look. “At least we know someone used this one for more than making fake IDs.”
John took a look at the table. A smear of a peach-toned neutral was left on the surface otherwise wiped off with what smelled like cheap makeup remover. “And they left a mess.”
“That’s good news for us,” Iman chuffed, “Looks like they tossed their contact in the wrong place. It doesn’t look tinted – probably corrective.”
John watched as Iman pulled tweezers out of her pocket and prepared to tuck the evidence away into a small plastic bag. “Someone came prepared,” he muttered enviously, looking around for anything that could be considered useful.
The streak was likely residue from Sonja’s makeup, since Bruce thought it was connected to The Lot. She might have changed in there, too, both heading in and out… If Bruce were here, he could likely use his amped-up forensic skills and handy-dandy gear to analyze the chair, but unless Iman had a pocket-sized version hidden on her, that was a moot option. What he did have was an imagination and a penchant for peeking in places he normally shouldn’t.
The only working drawer had a mish-mash of makeup in a rainbow of powders, pencils, and various flesh-toned pastes sitting next to a tub of Moddy and an empty bottle of Janus Clear-Away Makeup Remover. The tiny brushes and sponges besides them were all, unfortunately, clean as bristly whistles.
John eyed the streak on the tabletop, picturing someone sitting there and wiping foundation away…
Actually, the smear on the surface went all the way around to the edge, like someone had spilled or squirted too much from the bottle. And there was one broken bulb at the corner of the lined mirror, like something had knocked into it…
“Hey, Iman – the Lot shooter, were they left handed or right handed?”
“Left handed.” Iman stood next to him, examining the table. “She carried her purse on her right shoulder and opened the room door with her left hand.”
“And Jackie’s right handed, further proving my side,” he rubbed in, “So if I dropped it here,” he tried, miming dropping a bag on the table and sliding his hand on the left to crash the bottle of foundation into the bulb, “it might’ve fallen over.”
“There’s scuff marks by the chair,” Iman pointed out, “She was wearing heels, I wouldn’t be surprised if she slipped after wearing them for so long. Especially if she’s not used to them.”
“So, like-” John popped into position, miming a fall while keeping his balance on one leg – “whoooops!” He spread both hands, as if knocking things over while trying to catch himself on the table. “Crash!”
Iman kneeled to the right of his leg. “There’s a tube of foundation under here. And it looks like...” She reappeared a moment later with a poker chip held in her tweezers. “Good thinking, John.”
John straightened, pride inflating with a self-esteem boost.
“Looks like a promotional chip – they leave them in the rooms for guests.” She turned it over, exposing the logo – it looked a series of sticks in a fist. “It’s definitely from The Lot.”
John took a picture of it. “Five bucks? Cheapskates.”
Iman tucked the new piece of evidence back where she had picked it up from. “I’ll just make a note of this one.”
That was…unusual, to say the least. “Uh, why?”
“Because the Lot killer wore gloves; this just proves that they stopped here. If the G.C.P.D. does a raid later, they can point to it as evidence. Even though it’ll be labeled as circumstantial, it’s something noteworthy.”
“Buuut you’re taking the contact lens…?”
“So I can run a DNA match, if there’s anything on it. I’ll just put it back later.”
“Iman, that’s cheating,” John said with a titter, “I knew I liked you.”
There didn’t seem to be anything left in the room for them to search, so they moved on, turning the corner and finding locked or obstructed doors or rooms stuffed full of garbage from squatters one after another the closer they got to the stage entrance; the graffiti continued with them, countless symbols of anarchy censored out, the bat symbols disappearing altogether as the wireless signal Iman was tracing got stronger.
Iman pushed open the stage door, a dreadful squeal ripping through the air. John expected a pigeon or two to fly from the holes in the curtains up to the burnt, partially-dilapidated ceiling barely illuminated by a few leftover construction lights running on power-saving mode. The projector screen that had clearly been added after the initial build was still hanging stubbornly from the shoddy catwalk. The whole place smelled strange, must and mold mingling with a smell like cigarette burns on sheets.
“There should be a trapdoor under the stage for performers,” Iman commented as she led the way, “I’ll bet that’s where our nest is.”
John followed her, glancing out over the open stage and feeling something hitch in his stomach at the sight of the rows and rows of empty seats. They stood sturdy against the test of time despite the occasional moth-eaten holes, all silent and dark, not a flutter of movement among a single seat all the way up to the rafters. He could see the black, shadowy area in the back where the fire had seemed to start and trail away up to the ceiling. “Why is this place so creepy?”
“Because you’re expecting an audience when you go on a stage, and there isn’t one,” Iman said, prying at a section of the floor with a small crowbar she had pulled out from her jumpsuit. She grunted, prying hard at the section of floor that was suspiciously less dusty than the rest. “Can you give me a hand?”
He couldn’t resist. The joke was right there. “Sure!” He clapped his hands together. “Good hustle, kid! I like your realism!”
“Very funny,” she grumbled, prying again.
“Ha ha, sorry – but you walked right into it!” John moved to the opposite side of the trapdoor, stomping hard on the end he was sure was meant to go down. One foot wasn’t enough, but he felt a shift, so he stomped harder as Iman pried. “Ugh, come on, move!” He jumped on the end with both feet, realizing too late it was a bad idea as the floor gave away.
He landed with a hard thud on the balls of his feet, automatically bending at his knees and finding himself still stumbling to his side and knocking over something tall with a fwump and clatter of wood. “I’m okay!” he called up, rubbing his newly-bruised elbow, “But I definitely didn’t stick the landing!”
Iman landed next to him with a soft plat of boots, hands already steadying him as he rose back up. “Are you sure? Can you rotate your ankles?”
“Ha, it’ll take more than a poorly-placed coatrack to take me down.” He squinted at the little green light in the corner of the room over her shoulder. “At least we found your mystery-router.”
The wireless router was plugged into an outlet that looked like it had hastily been rewired, sitting by an open door that was obviously made to blend into the wall. There didn’t seem to be any lights strung up anywhere for easier viewing.
“Hopefully we’ll find what they were connecting to it, too.”
Their clip-on lights illuminated some of the room, showing another costume rack with several empty hangers and not a piece of clothing in sight. An old map of Gotham could be seen among a throng of paper tacked on the walls. A few plastic grocery bags holding emptied, bug-attracting food containers and the squashed couch shoved in the corner with a cheap blanket made it feel like it was a squatter’s den; the difference was the large picture of an owl that had been carved on the wall over a century ago, it’s clawed feet bared viciously at them.
“Seems like more of a burrow than a nest,” John commented, spying a cockroach scurrying to hide beneath one of the makeshift garbage bags, “‘No amenities; makes Arkham feel welcoming. Zero stars.’”
At least that made Iman laugh a little, which toned down the creepy vibe and widened the smile on John’s face.
Iman seemed to gravitate towards the wall of paper, so John followed suite. Mug-shots and stolen police forms were front-and-center, faces crossed out with a black ‘x’.
“Ugh, and someone’s crossing people off their little list,” John grunted in disgust, looking over the crossed-out faces. “Hey, that’s the guy who got stabbed in the eye on the Chandis!”
“That’s not surprising, Randolf Barron is over here. And Jack Whendleham, Kirby Noltz… It looks like everyone found on board the ship is here.”
“Plus a few gals from Poison Ivy’s gang… I know that guy’s in with the 8-Bits… Little Nel from the Rossi family? I thought he left Gotham seven years ago.”
“He did,” Iman grunted, “He was released from prison on good behavior; the Rossi’s blew up his car when he decided to leave the mob. He changed his name and moved to somewhere on the East coast. I think we can officially cross off any personal grudges,” she continued, shining her light elsewhere, “since Selina Kyle’s picture is also over here.”
Hers was the only one unmarked, and one of three on the whole wall that weren’t official police photos. John (thankfully) did not see his own face up there.
Iman turned to face the old wooden office desk behind them, so John followed along.
A knife was sitting on a pedestal there, clearly some kind of ceremonial dagger with the image of an owl bearing its claws and spreading its wings up the handle. The filing drawer was ajar and the surface was partially littered with highlighted and circled article pieces about Batman, even the Gotham Moonrise picture of Batman, Joker, and a somewhat-concealed Jim Gordon standing at the back of an ambulance.
Only where Joker was supposed to be, there was nothing but crooked edges– John had been cut out of the picture entirely. “Looks like our Owl’s a jealous rival Bat-fan, too.”
Iman flipped through the other half of the papers. “Looks like they stalked Selina for a while,” she mumbled, “They found her rental contract for her gallery and got a copy of the blueprint.”
John peered over at it – exits were marked and security shifts were scribbled on the printed map. Pictures were called for; he made sure to get the whole wall of photos.
Iman pulled open the top drawer slowly, revealing several charging cables in varying degrees of broken and two bottles of medication with the labels torn off. She shook the bottle to take a closer look at them without opening it. “White powder, pullapart capsule type… NVR R20. And I don’t have a signal down here. I wish I knew a pharmacist.”
John perked up. “Ooh, wait! I know that one…” he trailed, mentally sorting through the list of all the drugs he’d ever used, traded, or stolen, “Ritalin!”
She hummed thoughtfully, putting the bottle back and taking out the other, with little dull-green capsules rattling around. “And what I’m fairly sure is R-2 - Rohypnol.”
“I don’t remember seeing anyone up there being drugged before they died. That we know of, anyway…”
“They could be using it as a counteractive to the Ritalin, if they take a high enough dose. Some cocaine users take Rohypnol to come down easier. Anything in your side of the desk?”
John pulled open the first drawer. A few more paper copies of police reports and photos, with Harvey Dent’s picture on the top of the pile. His police report and a messy copy of his Arkham admittance sat underneath. “Looks like our next set of fresh victims include some more notorious Gothamites; ‘Big Bad Harvey’ is in here.” He flipped more, spying ‘Cannibal’ Carl Whistley and Victor Zsasz. “And some of the guys from my floor…”
“I’m not surprised, at this point,” Iman commented, wedging open the stuck filing drawer.
John flipped further, and felt his heart jolt horribly. “And Bruce.” He was sure he wasn’t imagining the photo in his hands of Bruce Wayne at the podium during his publicity stunt almost two years ago, where he announced devoting his money to fixing Arkham before he was almost run over. Everything felt too real. “I can’t believe they’re using this photo.”
John had found the whole segment amusing at the time, mulling over how handsome he seemed, all clean-shaven and acting all daring by getting out of the way just in time like he’d done it before, wondering to himself just how much danger Bruce could actually handle, how much they could both put themselves in on the outside together…
John scoffed at himself. “I really should’ve put Bruce and Batman together when I saw him dodge that van like it was no problem. But I thought ‘nah, Batman’s a completely different person!’ But I also thought Bruce would fit in with Harley’s ideas about stealing a potential cure for our little problems – shows how much I knew.” He flipped the picture over, spying the very shoddy record of Bruce’s time with the Pact laid out in a photocopied police form. “Looks like you were right about Bruce’s Pact past coming back to bite him; his form’s in here.”
“At least we know he’s not a current target,” Iman said, not comforting John very much, “This person seems like they want to finish what they started before moving onto something new. And if they were after Bruce now, they would’ve followed him straight to you a dozen times by now. We know that’s not the case,” Iman soothed with a light hand on his shoulder. She took it away a moment later. “And there is some good news – we have their tablet,” Iman added, holding up a tablet computer that was far too thick to be new. “Which means we can get out of here and reconnect with Batman and Robin.”
“I don’t know about the Robin part right now,” John pouted, walking out alongside her, “but I’m all for leaving the Gallery-o’-Death.”
Iman tucked the tablet into the fabric belt around her waist and dug her foot into the makeshift foothold nailed to the wall who-knew-how-many years ago. John looked away, not wanting to be weird and watch her as she hoisted herself up to the edge of the opening, but didn’t want to turn around entirely in case she slipped or needed a boost.
Just as he folded his arms and tapped his fingers against the healing cuts on his forearm, he heard an odd hiss.
He looked up too late – Iman slipped back down, coughing as she landed on top of him, sending them both to the ground in a bruising heap.
John grunted, trying to sit them both up and ending up sliding backwards instead as Iman struggled to not collapse back on top of him, coughing into her hand and trying to wipe away something from her face. “Hey – are you okay?!”
She didn’t look like she was. She was blinking hard, taking in sucking breaths, and doing a bad job of trying to point upward. John followed her finger towards the only exit.
The light was blocked out and there came a soft thump as a tall dark figure with broad shoulders and the painted wooden face of an owl with short horns protruding from the top of their head faced him, the eyes glowing white in the light.
The Owl-man tilted his head, as if regarding John like a curious animal, and light blue mist puffed out of the thick metal tube wrapped around his outstretched arm before John could move away.
John coughed and sputtered, tasting salt, and saw the world around him tilt on its axis as he tried to move backward, Iman’s weight collapsing onto his legs with a sighing breath.
There was little room to move and Iman was suddenly heavier than normal, but John still fumbled for the Bat-stamped taser in his pocket, hoping he could throw it or shock the Batman-knockoff when he came close enough.
He thought he might throw up from the sudden blurry movement of everything. His fingers wouldn’t move the way he wanted them to. Everything felt like it was teetering nonstop.
He felt the taser in his hand. Heard boots on the floor as he blinked away the awful seesawing layout.
He could feel the button trigger under his thumb, he just had to get his arm to move...
John blinked hard, feeling a familiar tug of his conscious towards the void at the back of his brain as he tried to focus on the closest thing he could, the bare coatrack lying on the floor.
“You shouldn’t be here,” a low, hoarse voice whispered to him in the dark, as it had done a hundred times before...
† † † † †
Notes: John's path to a better life outside of Arkham is a rocky one filled with the kind of problems he's very tired of dealing with. But unlike Bruce, who channels his issues into his drive to keep Gotham and his loved ones safe via detective work and kicking criminal butt, John finds it difficult to sort through his problems because he mainly needs emotional support. He and Bruce both have to face harsh things in this story, but John's journey is always the driving force behind it's very creation. It's interesting to really look at the parallel between Bruce and John right now: John has few people who's supportive of him (and would have less if "the player" made bad decisions regarding his new friends) and desperately needs it, and Bruce has a very steady group behind him 24/7 but still struggles with wanting to be alone; John struggles to hold onto reality and needs to remind himself that Bruce is always there for him, and Bruce just wants the escape from the world that John brings but can never seem to have him around long enough; Bruce is almost overly-protective over the people he works with and John is a little over-confident in people's abilities to take care of themselves. (Though both have problems taking care of themselves, ha ha!)
Have some fun facts!:
1) In this storyline, if Iman wasn't around, John would've gotten a Ryde; in the Villain route, John's clown-posse would've picked him up…or maybe he drives his own clown car?
2) If Jackie wasn't around, John bumps into Matt directly at the Gala, steals a car to go to the Hotel/the Theater, and searches the hotel room by himself. Jackie's part of Sonja is instead played by an innocent nobody Matt is dating and John doesn't get as upset.
3) I debated the "destined hat" John finds for, like, an hour. I think BtAS had Joker in a bolero, and I am a sucker for that style and making loving homages. I ended up with a fedora because it leans more with John's budding mockery of a classic detective.
4) You know, I mentioned the villain route…yes, Bruce has the option to fuck Joker (/cheat on Selina, if applicable) last chapter in that route, too, because who am I to stop you? ;) He and John do still have their little heart-to-heart here, but since the story plays out a little differently, it's missing the heart-wrenching confession John gives and the acceptance he gets, and is instead a convo/argument centered around John's and Bruce's possessiveness over one another.
5) If there's no Robin or Iman, Alfred is actually who alerts Bruce to BM's hideout, even if their relationship is rocky and regardless of which John you have.
6) If by some miracle Jackie is here, but your John's a villain, their interaction is a lot more tense and there's no real friendship forged.
7) The camera feature John has wouldn't be allowed all the time - like you couldn't take pictures of Bruce's butt, or the inside of Iman's swanky ride, for example - but I think there would be spots, like the Theater or Hotel Room, where you'd have free range. If I were making this a real game, I'd probably sneak in a bunch more Easter eggs: references to Condiment King, Bat-Cow, fandom members' usernames… What would you guys add?
If I had to pick a favorite thing to write this time around, the first is John's conversation with Bruce because I've been building to it, and the second is Jackie Lant! My Halloween baby, my pumpkin-pie, my darling depressed mess! I was planning her breakdown with John ever since the start of the story, but it was nice to craft her and John's bonding points over time.
Next chapter (which hopefully will be less than 3 months from now) we join back with Batman and Robin. Considering the timing of everything I've planned, it might be the first chapter that has both Bruce and John's "perspectives" in it… That, or I'll have to split it into two chapters. In the meantime, wear your mask, wash your hands, donate to BLM any way you can, and take care of yourself. (⌯˘̤ ॢᵌ ू˘̤)യ♡
#ttoj#the tolls of justice#batman the telltale series#bttts#batjokes#juce#because i was like 'omg a dagger symbol??? yeah that works'#telltale batjokes#iman avesta#jackie lant#john doe#bruce wayne#onlyingotham#(hope you don't mind me borrowing that tag....)#that http link doesn't go anywhere it's literally a fake url with the fic start date referenced#i can't believe it's already been a year since i started posting ttoj!#🥳#@ all yall who keep on creating - can i borrow your energy for a while???#spare me a cup of energy one neighbor to another#iman&john friendship is interesting to write#:)
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spoiler: into the stephanie-verse
Lex Luthor made a multiverse machine, in order to mine Kryptonite from other dimensions. It was kinda a good idea, except the machine was faulty, and kept dragging other stuff from the multiverse into Lex’s earth as well.
The League was dispatched to deal with the alternate versions of themselves that were brought into their Earth. Before he left, Batman assigned everyone in Gotham to guard the city from the various monsters and Rogues who roamed the city.
Spoiler had just finished a fight with a female version of Oswald Cobblepot and was headed to Nightwing to help him deal with a pair of mischievous twins, when the air in front of her opened up and a dark shaped tumbled through. Spoiler grabbed her bo-staff and dropped into a crouch, wary.
The shape sat up, and Spoiler absorbed the dark cape and pointy ears, the purple flashes on the suit, and the golden curls tumbling down her back.
Spoiler met her own eyes.
“Shit,” the other girl said, and she stood, brushing off her knees. Spoiler lowered her bo-staff and straightened, looking at herself curiously. “Did you pull me here?”
“No,” Spoiler said. “Lex Luthor made a machine….”
“Say no more,” the other girl said, and Spoiler noticed a yellow bat emblazoned on her chest. Her mouth fell open.
“Batgirl?” she gasped. She vaguely recognized the suit from the images of the other timeline that she’d seen, months ago.
“Yeah,” Batgirl said. “And you’re Spoiler. I haven’t been Spoiler in years, but you make it work. I like the half-mask, it’s nice.”
“Thanks,” Spoiler said, feeling a little ridiculous. “Sorry, I’ve never met an alternate version of myself before.”
“Me neither,” Batgirl admitted. “Although you always hear about it, don’t you.”
“Yeah,” Spoiler agreed. This was seriously surreal. Seeing herself--same height, a little longer hair, but standing so confidently? Spoiler blinked and told herself not to compare. They were different, after all. “So, Batgirl, huh? How’d...how’d you land that?”
“Cass gave it to me,” Batgirl said, shrugging. “When B died. But he’s back now, don’t worry.”
“Huh,” Spoiler said, and she remembered the mentions of Cass as Batgirl, too. “So where’s Babs, then?”
“You mean Babs is still Batgirl in your universe?” Batgirl asked, eyes wide. “This universe?” She gestured around them. Spoiler nodded.
“Yeah, nobody else has ever been Batgirl,” Spoiler said.
“That’s so fucking weird,” Batgirl said. “Babs hasn’t been Batgirl since before I started out, and that was like five years ago. You mean she didn’t get shot?”
“She did, but there was an implant,” Spoiler said. “So she’s better.”
“Wow. That’s great but--how do you survive without Oracle?” Batgirl asked. “I want my universe back.”
Spoiler agreed with her, and wondered how to put her back. Should she take her to Batman? Hm. For all the multiverse shenanigans she’d heard about, she really didn’t know how to deal with them, what the protocol was.
“Let’s go find Drake,” Spoiler said. “He just got back from a multiverse adventure.”
“Drake? Like the rapper?”
“No, like Tim. My boyfriend? It’s his new code name.”
“Tim picked his own fucking last name? That’s so stupid,” Batgirl said, and although Spoiler agreed, she didn’t say that. Spoiler checked her trackers, and found that Drake was across the city. She got out her grapple, and Batgirl did the same.
“Wait,” Batgirl called a minute later, when they were already in the air. They landed on the roof of the next building and Spoiler turned to her expectantly. “Did you say that he’s your boyfriend?”
“Yeah,” Spoiler said. “Is he not?”
“Not since like, middle school!” Batgirl cried, and Spoiler rolled her eyes.
“We don’t live in the same universe,” she reminded her. “Our Tims are probably totally different.”
“Yeah, right,” Batgirl said, and then there was a flash of purple light and Spoiler turned to face it. Two people appeared. One of them was in a purple bodysuit with a lightning bolt emblazoned on the chest, blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail. The other was wearing fishnet tights and a leather jacket, an armored purple unitard under the jacket and a skirt over that. Her blonde hair was long, nearly to her elbows, and free-flowing. The new pair blinked at Spoiler and Batgirl.
“Holyfuckthat’susbutBats,” the girl with the lightning bolts said, her words tipping over each other, and Spoiler said, “Before today, I’d never been involved in multiverse shenanigans, and now this!”
She gestured at the duo.
“I’m Dart,” the speedster-Steph said, holding out a hand. Spoiler shook it, dumbfounded.
“I’m Canary,” the other Steph said. “Violet Canary, but generally they just call me Canary.”
“Like Red and Gold Canaries,” Dart said gleefully.
“....No,” Canary said. “I don’t know who that is.”
“Black Canary’s partners,” Dart said, rolling her eyes. “Cass and Jason.”
“Cass and Jason are Bats,” Batgirl said. “Not Canaries.”
“Not in my world,” Dart said. “What, in your universe is everyone a Bat?”
“Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, Damian, Babs, Duke,” Spoiler rattled off.
“Duke?” Batgirl asked.
“Yeah, none of those people are Bats in my world,” Dart said. “Dick’s a Super, Cass and Jason are Canaries, Damian’s a Lantern, Tim’s a Martian, Duke’s a Wonder, and Babs is Aquagirl. Or, well, she used to be, before the accident.”
“See?” Batgirl demanded, gesturing at Spoiler.
“I didn’t give her the implant!” Spoiler said. “It happened before I even started crime-fighting!”
“She’s not Oracle in your universe?” Canary asked, looking wildly startled. Spoiler threw her hands up.
“Sorry that you guys landed in a garbage universe, I guess,” she said, and Dart patted her shoulder.
“So this is your place, huh? Kinda nice,” she said. “You know, I’ve never really been in Gotham before? Not since I moved away, anyway.”
“Yeah, how the fuck are you a speedster?” Canary asked. “I’m not even a meta, and my job depends on me having superpowers.”
“I was going to ask the same question,” Batgirl said.
“I mean, basically the same way everyone else did,” Dart said. “I made Wally tell me how he did it, who made Barry tell him how he did it, who made Jay tell him how he did it. And, uh, the rest is history.”
“But why were you with Wally--? Never mind,” Spoiler said. “We really need to find Drake.”
At Dart and Canary’s confused looks, Batgirl said in a loud whisper, “As in Tim. That’s his new codename. And yeah, we know it’s stupid.”
“Thank you, Batgirl,” Spoiler said loudly. “Let’s just go, yeah?”
“Won’t Batman snipe me?” Dart asked, and Canary asked Batgirl for a spare grapple.
“He’s out of town,” Spoiler said. “Just follow us.”
“Sure thing,” Dart said. “Wait, what’s your codename?”
“Spoiler,” Spoiler said. “You mean you were never…?”
“I used to be Kid Flash, but never ‘Spoiler’, whoever that is,” Dart said. “Sorry.”
“Even I was Spoiler, and I’m not even a Bat,” Canary said, and Dart said, “Okay, we get it, I’m a weirdo among Stephanies. Let’s go.”
They went, and Spoiler wondered if the other Bats were also dealing with themselves. She was leading the way, which was weird, because she never led any ways. Maybe if it was just her and Tim, or something.
Below her, Spoiler caught sight of a swarm of Clayfaces, and she had to stop. She yelled to the others to help her, and they dropped into the alley below.
Fighting with only herself as backup was weird, Spoiler thought. Batgirl threw batarangs that had stuff inside them. Dart sped around confusing the Clayfaces and Spoiler brought her bo-staff down hard on one, but it just sloshed through his arm. Oops.
“Cover your ears!” Canary yelled, and she threw a little device at a Clayface. It screamed, a loud noise that was what Spoiler assumed the Canary Cry sounded like. The Clayfaces barely reacted.
From above, a dark shape descended. Spoiler could’ve cried in relief, even though she was sure it wasn’t her own Batman.
Batman threw a device at a Clayface, which sent out some sort of signal that froze all the Clayfaces that weren’t already frozen by Batgirl’s batarangs. Icearangs? Whatever.
Quick work was made of the Clayfaces, and then Batman led the Stephs back into the air.
“You saved us!” Dart said.
“Yes,” Batman said. Spoiler inspected their new friend. This Batman was shorter than Bruce, and the bat across her chest was purple. The eyes on the cowl glowed with purple light, but it was still unmistakably Batman. She had on purple lipstick, and Spoiler spotted a scar near her mouth. She knew who this was.
“Holy shit,” Spoiler breathed, and beside her, the others seemed to come to the same conclusion. “You’re me.”
“I would argue that I’m me,” Batman said, her mouth twisting into a smirk. “But yes, I am another Stephanie Wayne.”
“Wayne?” Spoiler and Batgirl cried at the same time.
“Fuck,” Dart said. “If that isn’t a weird last name to think of me having.”
“It makes sense that circumstances would differ,” Canary said. “Although in my universe, I was never truly a Bat.”
“But Wayne?” Spoiler said, waving her hands.
“Bruce actually adopted you?” Batgirl asked.
“No,” Batman said. “He left a portion of the estate to me in his will, and after I took up the mantle I changed my last name.”
“What the fuck,” Spoiler said, and Batgirl seemed of the same mind.
“Why are you panicking? It’s not that weird,” Dart said. “And I mean, clearly you all aren’t Stephanie Allen.”
“Allen?” Batgirl repeated, her voice an octave higher.
“Sweet Jesus,” Batman said, and Spoiler pushed that image aside for examining at a later time. “The pair of you never shed ‘Brown’, didn’t you.”
“No!” Spoiler cried.
“I’ve never even thought that was an option!” Batgirl said, sounding distraught.
“I’ve just been daydreaming about the day Tim proposes so I can be anything besides a Brown,” Spoiler admitted.
“That’s disgusting,” Batman said. “You and Tim, really?”
“Why not?” Spoiler demanded. “Everyone seems to be of the same mind--what’s wrong with him?”
“I mean, besides that he’s an asshole?” Batgirl asked. “Uh, two words: Super. Girl.”
“I’ve never even met Supergirl,” Spoiler said, struggling to imagine herself dating Supergirl.
“Tim’s dead,” Batman said flatly. “But I agree with Batgirl’s assessment.”
“I think Supergirl and Babs have a thing going on?” Dart said. “Maybe? But anyway I’m more of a Wonder Girl kinda gal myself.”
“Ditto,” Canary said.
“Okay, I get it, you guys are hetero-shaming me,” Spoiler said, lifting her hands up. “For the record, I am bisexual.”
“Good,” Batman said.
“Although, speaking of my lovely boyfriend, I should probably tell him about this….Stephplosion,” Spoiler said, waving her arms at them. She put her finger to her ear to comm Drake, but then the air folded in on itself on a roof within Spoiler’s line of sight and she saw a flash of a familiar color that made her blood boil.
“Shit,” she said.
“What?” Dart asked. Spoiler pointed.
“There was some….orange over there,” she said significantly.
“Jesus fucking christ,” Batgirl said. “If I have to deal with alternate Cluemasters I’m going to slaughter someone.”
“We need to check it out,” Batman said.
“I’m only agreeing since there’s five of us,” Canary said.
“I haven’t seen Arthur since I was eleven and I’m not about to start now,” Dart said, and Spoiler pushed down a surge of jealousy. Batman led the way, grabbing Dart to carry her across the gap.
They stopped at the edge of the roof and looked down at the kid--the kid!--who was sitting on the rooftop below them.
She had on an orange skirt and shirt with blue suspenders. Her tights--also orange--were ripped and she had on orange combat boots. Her bandana was pulled down from her face to rest around her neck, and her blonde hair was in tangles.
Spoiler stared her thirteen year old self in the face and thought about fainting.
“What the fuck,” Batgirl said flatly.
“Don’t hit me!” the kid cried, scrambling to her feet. She had braces, Spoiler noted dimly. “Who are you? What happened?”
“We’re in an alternate universe,” Batman said. “Something’s wrong with the multiverse.”
“Lex Luthor,” Spoiler provided, dazed. “Mining for Kryptonite. Batman--my Batman--is taking care of it.”
“Oh,” tiny, orange Steph said. “So...who are you, then?”
Batman pulled off her cowl. Her blonde hair was short and messy and her face was--old. Spoiler pegged her to be late twenties, probably. Huh. The other Stephs were all teenagers like Spoiler.
“Stephanie,” Batman said, her real voice jarring after the modulated one was gone. “I’m you, okay?”
“In an alternate universe, I’m Batman?” the younger Steph whispered.
“Yes,” Batman said, her voice soft and kind of tender. Spoiler wondered what experience she had with kids. She realized that she could have a Robin. “And that’s Batgirl, and Dart, and Canary, and Spoiler. We’re all you.”
“Spoiler?” the younger Steph said, her eyes wide. “Holy fuck.”
“Language,” Batman said.
“I’m thirteen, not a child.” The younger Steph turned and pulled off her backpack. “Look!” She opened it and pulled out a homemade black bodysuit and hooded cape. “Here’s my Spoiler outfit.”
“I’m going to cry,” Batgirl said. Spoiler’s heart was doing something weird, looking at this tiny version of herself wearing Cluemaster orange.
“Oh, yeah, well. Being Spoiler is my biggest secret,” younger Steph said, putting her costume back away.
“Why are you dressed like that, then?” Dart asked.
“Well,” Steph said, drawing out the word. “I thought Dad might, like, kill me if I didn’t say yes when he asked, so I’m Cluekid by day and Spoiler at night. But, uh, I’m working on bringing down the empire from the inside.”
“Empire?” Spoiler repeated.
“Yeah, Dad’s criminal empire,” Cluekid said. “I’m taking it down.”
“Criminal empire?” Batgirl said, sounding shocked.
“By yourself?” Batman asked, putting her cowl back on. Cluekid pulled up her bandana.
“Yeah, it’s like...someone’s gotta do it, right?”
“Was anyone else’s Cluemaster, like, vaguely incompentent at best?” Batgirl asked, and Spoiler and Canary rose their hands. “Criminal empire, really?”
“It’s super fun that you guys weren’t Cluekid, but leave me alone about it,” Cluekid said. “My dad’s the real deal.”
“Then what’s your plan for when he finds out you betrayed him?” Batman asked. Cluekid blinked slowly.
“Well,” she said, then she stopped.
“You don’t have a plan,” Dart said knowingly. “I can relate.”
“No, she does,” Batman said, horrified.
“You’re just gonna let yourself die?” Spoiler asked. Cluekid shrugged, her arms going up past her head.
“If I have to!” she cried. “Someone’s gotta take him down and I’m the only one who can!”
“Dying’s no big D,” Batgirl said. “I do it all the time.”
Everyone turned to face her.
“I mean, once, but that’s like, more than most people do it,” she amended, and Spoiler shook her head.
“Jesus christ,” she said. “I have to get you guys out of here. I’m going to call Drake, and we’re going to find out how to return you guys. Except maybe Cluekid, cause your universe sucks.”
“Yeah, well, your universe has people leaking into it, so it can’t be all that great,” Cluekid shot back, and Spoiler had to admit she had a point.
While they grappled towards the other end of town, Batman carrying Cluekid and Dart running below them, Spoiler put in a call.
“Batman,” she said. “I have five alternate versions of myself with me.”
“Five Spoilers?” her own Batman asked, his voice gruff.
“Five Stephanies,” she corrected. “A Batgirl, a speedster, a Canary, a kid, and, well. A Batman.”
“Interesting,” Batman said. “Luthor has been apprehended and once I turn off the machine, everyone should return to normal.”
“Okay,” Spoiler said, and Batman disconnected. Spoiler stopped grappling and the group gathered around her. “According to my Batman, you guys should just...go back soon.”
“It’s been nice getting to know you,” Canary said. “Although really weird.”
“Agreed,” Dart said. “I can’t imagine being a Bat.”
“I wish that would happen to me,” Cluekid said. “But…”
“It’ll be okay, kiddo,” Batman said.
“Hey,” Spoiler said. “Batman, do you have a Robin? You’re pretty good with kids.”
“Yeah,” Batman said, smiling. “Her name is Carrie.”
“Hell yeah,” Batgirl said, raising her hand for a fistbump. Batman obliged, and from the corner of her eye Spoiler saw the universe begin folding in on itself.
“Damn, this is me,” Dart said, looking at the wrinkle in the air. It was tied to her leg, so not a difficult conclusion to make. “Well, it’s been nice knowing you ladies. I wish all of you every success--especially you, Lil Steph.”
“Thanks,” Cluekid said, and Spoiler nodded at Dart before she vanished in a puff of purple lightning.
“I’m going to turn on my earplugs,” Canary said. “Who knows what’ll happen when I get back--but anyway, I’m going to be in the dark, hearing-wise.”
“Okay,” Spoiler said, a little confused, and Canary gave everyone a smile.
“It’s been real,” she said, and then she turned on her earplugs. She signed something at them--Spoiler knew only a few signs and couldn’t keep up. Batgirl nodded thoughtfully.
“What’d she say?” Spoiler asked.
“Oh, I have no clue,” Batgirl said. “Come to think of it, the signs me and Cass use aren’t strictly ‘real’ sign language.”
“She said that she turns off her hearing so it’s not damaged by the canary cry,” Batman said. Everyone looked at her. “What? My brother was mute and he had to talk somehow.”
“Brother?” Spoiler repeated, and Batman said, “Damian.”
Damian, mute?
Damian, Steph’s brother?
“I’m leaving,” Canary said loudly, and they turned to face her. She was vanishing just like Dart, and she gave a little wave, then pointed at Batman, who was also disappearing.
“Goodbye,” Batman said, and then she and Canary were gone, leaving Spoiler with Batgirl and Cluekid.
“I’m gonna be real with you guys,” Cluekid said. “I know it’s only been like two minutes but seeing myself, older and with a place in the world….it’s pretty inspiring to think that in another universe I grow up to be Batman.”
“Maybe you still can,” Spoiler suggested, thinking that she didn’t like the idea of this tiny version of herself planning her own death.
“I don’t think so,” Cluekid said, smiling sadly.
“I’ve been through a lot of shit,” Batgirl said. “I’ve even died before. You can’t let any of that stop you, okay? You just gotta push through it.”
“Keep on coming back,” Spoiler said.
“However long it takes,” Batgirl said. Cluekid blinked, tears welling in her eyes, and then she reached for Spoiler and Batgirl, tugging them both into a hug.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” Spoiler said, ruffling her hair, and then Cluekid was gone.
“Damn,” Batgirl said. “She says she’s inspired by us, but I’m inspired by her. She’s so brave.”
“Yeah, I know,” Spoiler said, her throat sort of rough. “Geez.”
“Well, it’s my turn next,” Batgirl said. “So, uh. Bye? I guess.”
“Have fun in your universe,” Spoiler said. “With Oracle and Supergirl.”
“Oh, I absolutely will,” Batgirl said. “Have fun with….Drake. Seriously, we give you shit, but if he’s good for you--”
“He is,” Spoiler said, trying not to think of their breakups.
“Then that’s all there is to it, isn’t it,” Batgirl said. She grinned, and the air behind her began to fold. “Oh, what timing!”
“Goodbye, Batgirl,” Spoiler said.
“Bye, Spoiler,” Batgirl said. “You know, it’s nice to see that somewhere out there, we’re still in the mantle we created.”
“And it’s nice to see that we’re in a mantle given to us,” Spoiler said, and Batgirl grinned.
“Hell yeah it is,” she said, and then she was gone, and Spoiler was left alone.
She sighed, and kept moving.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
dart from here & here
canary from here
batman from here
cluekid from here--(don’t worry--she doesn’t actually die!)
(all are my own work!)
& then spoiler’s from rebirth and batgirl’s from preboot canon AMEN
#stephanie brown#bruce wayne#my writing#anti tim drake#this is just stephanies roasting each other (but especially the reboot version lol)#long post
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