HERE COMES THE FIGHTER

“Yeah, you installed these completely wrong. Like, completely wrong.” Luke grins and rolls his eyes, spares a glance at Dick who’s leaning against the skeleton of his car like some kind of Abercrombie and Fitch model--Luke has often wondered if he’s aware of it, or if his body just holds itself like that without effort. “This is why I woke up last week and felt nauseous, isn’t it? My brain was trying to tell me that something terrible was happening. Had nothing to do with leftover sushi at three in the morning.” The car might be Dick’s brainchild, but it’s Luke’s way of decompressing--when the weight of the job starts to feel like too much to carry around he finds himself here, trying to figure out new ways to incorporate all of the things his friend wants included, constructing parts from scratch because he trusts himself more than anyone else. If Dick has noticed the pattern he hasn’t said anything, which in Luke’s mind speaks volumes to how good of a friend he is, or is an outright manipulation to get Luke to spend more time on his car. 

Two AM trips to the bodega should be strange and far between, but between taking on a full slate of fights again and his work as Batwing--he’s getting used to being the only one in the place besides the cashier (Mrs. Banks, who’s been an insomniac her whole life and always pats Luke on the cheek, tells him to take better care of himself) and the eerie top forty radio that has no business being so poppy and enthusiastic that late at night/early in the morning. He’s here yet again because he’s starving after taking down some hot shot from a fancy gym in LA and a wannabe Riddler in quick succession, and he’d arrived home only to discover that his fridge was woefully empty. Like, have I actually been eating for the last week or did my brain just make that up empty. He pulls his hood up over his head and tosses a wave at Mrs. Banks, scrubs a hand over his face in an effort to wake himself up--only to inhale sharply through his teeth when he glances over a bruise. 

He throws a couple of things into the shopping cart without really thinking about it, finds himself at the end of a long and empty isle. Through the foggy haze of exhaustion that’s settled over his brain, he’s struck with the strong desire to just sail down it standing on the cart--it does seem like a hell of a lot less effort than dragging himself along on his borderline useless legs, and there wouldn’t be anyone else around to see it. He takes a running start and can’t help but laugh as he starts gliding, holding out his arm to knock a box of cereal into the moving target. He’s only successful at knocking down several of them, one of which happens to knock in like a domino, and though he’s half doubled over in laughter he can see that he’s no longer as alone as he thought. “Judge all you want bro, that was way more fun than I thought it would be.” 

Luke doesn’t really believe in the concept of a night off--he’s never been particularly good at handling down time, and he can practically hear his dad’s voice in his head, telling him all of the different things he could be doing to better himself instead. However, he’s fresh off of a fight just the wrong side of brutal from the night before, and he’s a little bit worried that he’s starting to trend towards becoming too much like his father--so he decides that New York has enough heroes to watch it for one night, and he decides that it’s high time he checked out the bar that’s been a block away from his place since he moved in over a year ago. 

The place is immediately too warm for the leather jacket that he’s wearing, filled with people gathered around pool tables or around televisions broadcasting the Yankees game--a scene that briefly causes him to wonder if it’s weird for him to have shown up alone, and how he really should try to step away more often if he has to question the logistics of simple social interactions. He spots an empty seat at the bar itself and makes his way over, next to a young man with his head resting on his arms, the fabric of his t-shirt pulling at muscled shoulders. It’s hard to tell from the angle that Luke is sitting at, and the way the young man is bent over--but he appears to be constructed entirely out of long lines of lean muscle, easy to trace from the curve of his bicep to the valley between his shoudler blades. A gymnast maybe, or a dancer. 

Luke puts a hand on his arm gently, trying not to startle him awake. “Y’know, a handsome guy asleep at the bar is practically the cold open to a Law and Order episode.” He chuckles, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. 

“Okay, so based on the information you gave me, I think I came up with something that might help. Emphasis on might, I don’t know the first thing about genetic mutations versus regular superpowers.” He gestures for Babs to follow him into his apartment, towards the makeshift lab he has set up in his bedroom. They’ve been working pretty much non stop on finding a way to reverse this whole body swapping thing, but they have yet to come up with anything viable, which means that the focus has to shift more to what to do in the immediate future. Apparently the body that Babs is in is pretty much a constant conduit for cosmic energy and constantly converting it into plasma, and it’s very tied up in her (his?) emotional state--which means that they either need a way to modulate the blasts when they happen, or Babs is going to need to be calm--and they need her full brain power working on this. 

“It’s just a temporary set up, I haven’t had time to look for a more practical space yet.” He says by way of explanation, reaches for a circular plate on his desk. “This should focus the energy, and I’ve programmed it to send readings to both your set up and mine. There’s virtually no data on any of this stuff, so at least we’ll have something to work with.” He shrugs his shoulders, before helping her slide the harness over her arms so the plate is in the center of her chest. “If it works you can give it to him when all of this is over, maybe it’ll help or something.” 

Luke has been tracking this particular arms dealing operation for a month now--following them through the city and dingy cache warehouse after dingy cache warehouse, trying to get them to lead him to the head of the snake. It looks like tonight is finally going to be his night--the abandoned factory he’s sitting across the street from is more heavily guarded, has a carefully regimented cavalcade of cars and people going in and out--it might as well have a giant neon sign that says “PLEASE COME IN AND BUY GUNS”. He needs to hold his position on the roof a little while longer, until the armed guards change shifts and leave him with five minute window to make his entrance--if all goes according to plan? He should have this wrapped up before the sun even comes up. 

He gets his window and swoops down onto the street, presses a button on his armor to set his computer running all the possible combinations for a standard electronic lock on a building of this age--but it’s not going as quickly as it should be. Of course they had to splurge on some high tech door lock, when everything else has been sloppy and not exactly inconspicuous up to this point. He triggers the lights in the eyes of his suit to see if he can get any fingerprints or detect more wearing on specific buttons, but just as he’s about to try what he thinks is the most likely combination he hears footsteps landing behind him. “Unless you’re ready to take on some pissed off arms dealers in the next three minutes, I suggest you find some other fight.” He spares a glance at the hero, clad in purple of all colors. 

Luke’s not hiding from the situation outside--he has two separate degrees from MIT and two tours of Afghanistan under his belt--he regularly works with Batman. He does not hide from his problems--but he’ll freely admit that he’s ready to think about something else, at least for a couple of hours. He’s got a fight next week that he hasn't spent nearly enough time training for, and he’s got a hard and fast rule that his phone and everything that could potentially be used to reach him is off in the gym--so it’s an easy decision to sling his bag over his shoulder and grab his headphones, let pure physicality take the driver’s seat for a while. 

He spends a little longer than he normally would stretching himself out, a small moment of self care for the body that he is still present in--and he loses himself in the repetitive movements of hands against punching bag, the music washing over him in an energetic way that he doesn’t have to internalize. The gym is empty for the most part, the walls plastered with posters and pictures from fighters that trained in this space through the decades--which is part of the reason Luke likes it so much, that he can be alone in a physical sense and not so alone in a more spiritual sense. He goes longer than he should with the bag this close to a fight, until the white tape on his hands turns dingy with blood from split knuckles, but he already feels better for it. He pulls at it with his teeth, notices a figure hovering near the door and blinking a disconcerting amount. 

The man is looking at a picture of Jack Murdock in his prime, and Luke isn’t even sure that he notices another person approaching him. “I heard his kid trains here, I’ve never run into him though. Kinda think it’s a myth the old guys like to pass around.” He says slowly, in an effort not to startle him.