꧁༺sarcasticwalrus ༻꧂

“Ma’am, can...hear me?” 

No, or... maybe. You’re not quite sure. It’s too loud, everything's too loud. 

“...disoriented and.... a fire...” 

Oh. The fire. The... 

“Small injuries...smoke inhalation... the cat.” 

Buttercup. She’s gone. Dead. As in, no longer breathing. Something is in my hand. 

You look down to find Buttercups collar, all bloody, in your tight grasp. 

My sweet Buttercup. 

Your vision is blurry, and it’s been that way since you first entered your home. If you could even call it that anymore. That was two hours ago, or... maybe it was three. You don’t know. You’re not sure of much at all in your current state. The time, your location, what awaits on the other side of this impended doom. With your mind and body slipping in and out of consciousness, nothing is easy to discern nor pinpoint. Images flash in your mind, old memories of her as a small feline, and newer ones, of her pinned up on the wall and- 

Someone is screaming. You think it’s you, and when you feel a sharp sting in your arm and look down to find a needle, you don’t have enough time to process what’s happening before everything blurs and your body goes limp.  

Gordon had stated that he would check something out quickly when movement was detected on cameras you both had placed the week prior. You had advised against it, but well, he is your superior and who were you to tell him what to do? When he didn’t come back after the timer he had set for himself, you got concerned and left to find him... which led you here. 

“You fuckin’ bitch! Get the hell outta here before I bust your ass!” A big, burly and rather grotesque man one could say, was stood not far from your position. He was holding a knife in his hand but based solely on his stance and the way he was holding his weapon; you deemed that he wouldn’t be a threat unless close combat ensued. Something you would make sure to avoid. 

“You’re threatening the wrong fucking person! Put your weapon down before I shoot!” The first thing police departments ever teach interns and students about when holding a gun is the trigger-happy cops, who frequently kill innocent people every year simply from the device they’re given at the earliest opportunity. You had always thought it was a bunch of bullshit. Killing someone isn’t accidental, and you learned to keep your finger off the trigger in case of accidents.  

That doesn’t stop you from using it to threaten perpetrators in a deadly situation. After all, you were still human. However, you had hoped it wouldn’t come to this because although you weren’t naive, a part of you held onto that sliver of hope which in and of itself could be considered naive. Whatever, less thinking and more doing. 

“Dirty pig moron! I’ll kill you before you have a chance to spell out your name-” 

A sharp crack cuts him off, and you watch the bullet you shoot deliberately aimed to miss whizz past his ear, to which he falls on his knees and starts begging. Although it was a slightly dramatic reaction, you think as he trembles pathetically on the floor, it’s sort of your fault. 

“W-Wait! I have a family, a wife and-and two children! Don’t kill me!-” 

“Toss your weapon toward me and lay flat on your chest with your legs spread. Fuckin’ idiot...” You mutter the last part under your breath as you near his large figure, still sobbing which is quite a comical sight in your opinion. Bringing out the handcuffs on your hip, you barely manage to band his hands, roughened by work, together. Along with that, you make a point of tying his feet with thin rope in case he tries to bolt. Once finished, you make your way to the nearest wall and slide down its fortunately clean path. The old radio on your hip crackles and Gordon’s voice comes through, to which you pick up his calls and answer questions. Maybe you brag a bit about your capture, but that’s a different conversation. It doesn’t take long for the police sirens and shouts to hit your ears, and you stand up as Gordon enters your field of vision. His gaze flickers between you and the perp on the ground and orders a few cops to take care of him before he steps toward you. 

“Good job, detective. You did well in catching him-” 

“I mean, it wasn’t that hard. He’s kinda terrified man...” You grunt out, a little weirded out by his unusual reaction to an arrest, considering the crimes he’s accused of. “Uhm, anyways. What now?” 

“I was getting to that. For now, you’re dismissed. Unless you would like to assist in the report-” 

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll uh... I’ll see you tomor-?” 

“Meow.”  

Something is clawing at your pants, the light body of a small creature attempting to venture onto the scaling field that is your calf. You look down to find a little feline, seemingly malnourished and likely hurt, an observation you made by the cat preferring to rest on its front legs, rather than to equally distribute the weight between them all. 

Gordon attempts to bend down and pick the animal up, to which it hisses angrily at him before returning the attempt of having you pick it up. 

“Well, it seems to favor you Y/N. You gonna take it home?” He says it with a laugh, though you can tell his ego bruised slightly at the rejection. Maybe you’re a terrible person because the thought makes you smile slightly, and well, the idea of being chosen by an animal was quite flattering. You have always liked cats... 

Picking up the meowing kitten, you observe the way she reacts to your hold around her, her soft purring at your soft caresses and the sudden flinch when you start feeling around for tender spots that may indicate injuries. Eventually, you conclude that except for the presumably broken left hind leg, the cat seems fine. It’s also a girl, which means she’s either going to be the nicest cuddliest kitty, or the most aggressive tiny tiger you’ll ever meet. As she meets your stare, she meows again, causing another small smile out of you. 

“Maybe I will. She seems nice enough, right?” The question was thrown sarcastically at Gordon, who huffs out a laugh as he turns to leave to continue investigating the warehouse. Since you were dismissed, you took your leave for the preferable air of your home, cat snugly resting in your arms. But you’d need to visit a vet first. 

Within just a few hours, you had become responsible for an innocent life and something within you tingled at the notion. Gordon would probably state that it’s your ‘Icy heart finally defrosting’, and although you’d never admit it, he might be right. She continues jumping around and eventually tires herself out, to which you pick her up carefully and set her down on the newly bought cat bed. You find that her fur is silkily smooth to touch as you pet her carefully, a fact that you hadn’t anticipated due to the circumstance of how you found her; in an abandoned building, dirty and not particularly willing to receive affection from anyone but you. 

“My aunt always insisted I learn about plants ‘n flowers and their meanings. So, I think ‘m gonna name you...Buttercup. It’s a little yellow flower that symbolizes playfulness and joy”, you whisper the facts out quietly, and the little cat snuggles softly in your hand as you do. Unknowingly, a soft smile graces your lips and a warm, tingly feeling spreads in your chest. 

A sour taste is left in your mouth at the thought of Bruce, so you quickly push him away. However, it doesn’t take long for your mind to get occupied because the thirst in your throat was starting to feel unpleasant. Looking around for the water pitcher commonly found in hospital rooms, you find that there seems to be a distinct lack of objects made of glass. There is, nevertheless, a bathroom where you could satiate the itch crawling in your body. Attempting to swing your legs over the squeaky metal bed frame, you note that just sitting up hurts. Your hand goes to your midriff, and when gingerly patting your fingers onto the sore area, you realize there’s stitches where there shouldn’t be stitches. 

“Fuck...” The curse slips out and you throw your head back in a sigh. Carefully, you attempt to stand again when the hospital room door swings open. In the opening, you find Elenor standing still at the sight of you, arms full of snacks to satisfy her sweet tooth. For a moment, everything is still, where neither of you moves. The next, she’s running at you full speed, practically dropping the bags previously held so closely. They seemed to no longer hold priority. 

“Oh my god, you’re awake!” She basically ambushes you, pressing you into her warm embrace, a stark difference to the cold room you had been sitting in. Thankfully, she seems to mind the injury at your side as she carefully positions herself to avoid it. Elenor’s shoulders start to shake, and soon you start to feel her tears stain the fine material of your gown. You awkwardly pat her back, her reaction sudden and not expected. At her thunderous exclamation of your awakening, a nurse bursts through the door and immediately scolds Ellie for ‘distressing the patient’, though she would be completely wrong in that regard. The nurse writes something down on a board and informs that a doctor would later inform you of your medical state. The second she leaves, Elenor is on you again like a hound. 

“I got a- a call informing me that you were here and that I had to come down because I’m listed as an emergency contact,” she manages out between sniffles. Elenor places her hands on your shoulders and faces you. “I came as soon as they told me. But when I got down here... you-you were acting weird and freaked out. Threw vases and shit, cut yourself bad in the process.” 

She points down at your abdomen where you had felt the stitching earlier. Instinctively, your hands return there, stroking across absentmindedly. For a minute, you both sit there silently. The whirring and beeping of machinery along with her quickly subsiding sniffles the only noises audible in the room. A disturbing feeling starts settling heavy on your chest, like a pressure that you yourself cannot control at the newly acquired facts. In a moment of no sense, you had lost your touch to reality, a complete blackout of events your conscious mind had not experienced. 

“’m so sorry Ellie, for all this. The emergency contact thing was supposed to be temporary, and I didn’t want you to see me like this-” 

“Please, stop apologizing. I’m glad they called me honestly. Means I get to see my best friend.” 

Best friend. 

The words help calm the residual feeling from earlier, appreciation and love blooming in its place. Your past few hours have been hectic, hell you don’t even know how long it's been since you were last at the apartment. Tears prickle at the thought of home; a place once full of warmth gone up in flames. Literally. The irony hurts, but you can’t help but let out a helpless chuckle at your current circumstances. 

“Thank you, Ellie.” You mutter the words carefully, strongly enough for her to understand how much it meant to you but slowly enough so that you would not go through another breakdown. She walks closer and places her hands delicately over yours as guides you both back to the stiff hospital bed where you both sit down. Elenor embraces you once more, much more cautious than the first one. You hug her back, breathing in her floral perfume and newly washed hair. 

“Don’t scare me like that again, got it? Or I’ll kill you.” She mutters into your hair, hands tightening slightly around you, as though she were afraid you would disappear should she let go. 

“I’ll try my best.” You separate yourself from her, not because you don’t enjoy hugging, but because of the lingering smell of musk of sweat, smoke and residue of medicinal cleaners on you. Elenor seems to get the hint and stands up to hand you a bag, seemingly full of clothing. 

“Since I couldn’t get to your clothing because of... well you know, never mind. I got you clean clothing to wear as I suspect you’ll wanna get outta that hospital gown. The ones on the chair aren’t exactly clean... or whole. Hopefully you don’t mind what I got you!” She looks sheepish as she extends the bag, and you nod at her with an appreciative look before standing up and treading over to the bathroom. You and Elenor had quite different senses of style, while you had a more professional and comfortable wardrobe; she chose a more stylish and wilder one. Which is why you aren’t surprised when you find a hot pink thong to watch the equally pink push up bra, along with the most low-rise jeans you ever had the shock to witness and a thankfully rather normal tank top. 

Before you put on the chosen outfit, you decide to take a well-deserved shower, as well as a better look at the injuries you’ve suffered. Turning the shower knob on to release a sprinkle of water, you strip off the dirty gown and step underneath the stream, the relief instant. Slumping against the wall, you take a few moments for yourself to reflect and check your abdomen simultaneously where the stitches look fine. Searching leads to the conclusion that you got beaten quite badly, bruising along your whole body and scratches against your arms. Eventually you start washing your hair and lathering yourself in body wash, and as quickly as you had gotten in you finally get out and change into the clean clothes. Whilst you’re in the bathroom, you make sure to brush your teeth. 

Elenor is sitting in one of the chairs when you leave the now humid bathroom, towel across your shoulders. She’s eating from one of the chip bags she had brought in earlier and invites you to sit next to her by waving you over and offering her sacred snacks. You pick something random and end up with simply flavored buttered chips and slouch as much as your stitches allow into the loveseat opposite her. Elenor glances up from her phone to whistle at you, a small smirk twitching in her face. 

“You look fuckin’ good like this. Might get a guy or two on your tail in that outfit.” She chuckles out, chewing on her chips between laughs. You groan slightly; clearly, she’s having a fun time with your misery, and this was most likely a setup from her to dress you up the way she’d like. “Y/N, you can’t deny what these clothes do for you, girl!” 

“’m not denying anything, jus’ don’t like the implications of your words.” You murmur, face hot with embarrassment. Elenor lets out a loud cackle and pulls you up from the seat to lie down together on the stiff hospital bed. Settling into a snug position, Ellie turns on the TV where she puts on some shitty reality show you had never heard of, and for the next few hours you both noisily commentate the choices made by contestents, stuffing your faces full of snacks. Eventually, she falls asleep next to you, lightly snoring and drooling into your shoulder whilst you continue watching the show on your own. A few minutes into a new episode a drum of knocks is heard at your door. Seperating yourself from Ellie’s ironclad hold takes a moment, but once you’re out of it, you step toward the entrance and open it slightly, where you find Gordon, who instantly seems to breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of you. 

“You’re awake. Nurse told me you might not be, but... I know you better than them,” He takes off the hat he was wearing and places it on his chest. He glances at your outfit for a second and looks confused, like you had just come out with a clown outfit on. “You look... different-” 

“Don’t question the outfit, it wasn’t exactly a conscious choice. I got help from a friend,” you say, widening the door enough that he sees Elenor’s huddled body on the bed. “How are you?” 

“I should be askin’ you that. The past few hours ain’t exactly been a happy ride for you. They uhm... informed me of your injuries, down at the reception.”  

“I dunno, been through about a thousand different emotions, jus’ feel kinda empty. What am I supposed to feel after my whole life disappears in a few moments? No one knows how to answer that question and I... I wish I could’ve been quicker, took precautions-” You don’t get to finish the sentence, because Gordon pulls you into a soft but firm embrace. 

“Do not finish that thought. You could not possibly have known that would happen. There’s no point thinking ‘what if’, or you’ll spend your whole life miserable. Take it from someone who’s been through it, Y/N.” He lets go of the embrace but keeps his hands on your shoulders. For a second, your line-of-sight blurs, but you quickly wipe away the forming tears. “Let’s go get coffee from the lobby, yeah?” You can only manage a nod at his suggestion, so you slip on the slouchy slippers by the door and head down.  

Gordon starts talking to you about work, a distraction you’re grateful for. You weren’t great at talking about your feelings, even with him it could be difficult, despite the amount of time you’ve spent together and how well you know each other. He talks about the newest with Riddler, and what went down after they caught him at the diner, how he’s being held at Arkham Asylum and how he’d been requesting to see Batman. 

“He’s planning somethin’, why else would he want to speak with Batman?” You mutter to Gordon, swirling the black coffee around in the cheap paper mug. 

“Then, what? And how is he planning anything from Arkham?” 

“I don’t know but somethin’ about this whole thing is fishy as fuck, Gordon. We’ve seen what he’s capable of already, what’s to say he doesn’t have anything crazy up his sleeve? Our job is to figure out what he’s planning and stop it before it happens.” You look up from your drink to find Gordon already looking at you with furrowed brows. 

“I trust your judgement, but without any real hard evidence we can’t do much.” 

“Then let him have Batman. Let Riddler speak to him, find out what he wants, and move forward from that. Unless... you’ve got a better idea?” You suggest freely, finding no alternatives seeing as you have met a big roadblock and a hard stop to the investigation. He shakes his head and slumps back into the chair, considering your idea which is where you find an opportunity. “Sooo... when can I get back to work?-” 

“Absolutely not anytime soon, young lady. You’re supposed to be resting; I am not letting you back out in the field until I get a clear go-ahead from the doctors.” Gordon sees you roll your eyes at him to which he glares at you enough that you understand how serious he is, but it doesn’t last long. “New topic, you got someplace to stay?” 

“Gonna ask my aunt if I can stay with her at the family estate ‘til I find a new place somewhere. She likes me enough that she’ll say yes to me,” you comment absentmindedly, the task of texting her stored away in your brain. You start picking the skin around your nails, body tingling to get back to work, but with Gordon persisting and, unfortunately, having your best interest in mind, that won’t be happening anytime soon. “You’ll call me if anything comes up? Please?” 

He sighs loudly and looks down. “I will inform you, but I count on you not to make any rash decisions, you hear me? You will under no circumstance come down unless it is explicitly ordered of you, Y/N,” Gordon enunciates clearly, not leaving any room for miscommunication. Nodding to show your understanding, your shoulders slump down, tension releasing in waves. A few moments pass before a doctor walks up to you and introduces himself as the one who had been responsible for your care. He lets you know in a short conversation that you’ll be discharged that morning in just a few hours and prescribed medication to help handle the pain. The doctor tells you how long you’ll be taking them, not to move excessively, the whole nine yards. Finally, he also recommends seeking therapeutical help, a part which you choose to simply ignore; you feel perfectly fine, and past therapists hadn’t done anything to help. You would rather skip the dramatics of getting one only to stop attending sessions after the first. When the doctor leaves, you find Gordon anxiously looking down at his clock every few minutes. 

“You rushin’ somewhere? I don’ wanna keep you waiting,” you mumble quietly, hoping you don’t come off as dismissive. 

“No, you’re alright. Just a lot going on today, with the election and all...” 

Fuck, that’s today already? 

You sigh and rub a hand over your face. 

“You sure you won’t want help? Today will probably be messy and-” 

“I’m sure as hell, Y/N. I’ll handcuff you in your aunt's house myself if I suspect anything.” 

“Kinky,” You joke with a smirk, to which Gordon lets out a sound of pure regret at his word choice. “But fine, will you at least bring me my laptop from my desk at work?” Gordon nods as he stands up to escort you back to your room, and you make small talk on the way. The walk doesn’t take long, and he pauses in front of you with his arms open in invitation, which you gladly take.  

“Take care of yourself, kiddo. Don’t do anything reckless, remember I’m only a phone call away.” He pats your head and separates thereafter. 

“You too, Gordon. Call me if anything comes up, I’m serious,” you plead as he leaves with a wave and an expression you can’t quite pinpoint. After he heads into the elevator you walk back into the room where you find an awake Elenor continuing the show from earlier and she greets you sleepily on your way in, which you return. Deciding on calling your aunt, you stand out in the short hallway of the room where the leisurely ring feels almost painful. 

“Hey, Little Sherlock? Why are you calling so late, sweetheart?” Aunt Ceclia seems to have woken up, and guilt strikes you at having called her in the early morning twilight. 

“’m sorry for calling so late, auntie. I need a place to stay, like first thing tomorrow. Shits gone sideways for me,” you’re careful not to let the sniffles be heard through the phone as you swipe your hand across your nose and your eyes. “Can I come to yours?” 

“Of course, my sweet, don’t worry about it. I’ll have it ready. Would you like me to pick you up tomorrow?” She asks softly, sheets rustling around her. 

“Thank you, Cee. Can you pick me up from the uhm... the hospital at 9 am today?” 

“You’re at the hospital? What’s happening, Y/N?” From the sounds around her, she seems to have sat up in a fright. 

“Can I jus’ explain it later, please?”  

For a moment, the line goes quiet and you think she’s hung up before you hear her talk again. 

“Fine, I trust you enough. But you’re telling me everything when you get settled.” 

“Thank you, auntie. I love you so much,” you can’t help but sniffle the words, a fact you are sure she picked up on, based on the silence. 

“I love you too, sweetheart. Be safe, okay?” Although she can’t see you, the response you give is a shaky nod before hanging up. The second you do, you’re heading over to where Elenor is sitting and curling up as much as you’re able to with her. Sleep doesn’t wait, and soon enough your breathing calms into a natural pace. 

“I will not question the outfit, for I suspect they are not from your closet. However, I must admit it does wonders for your body-” 

“Please, move on to the next topic, aunt Cee.” Not for a moment did you think this many people would find something to say about the clothing. If you had, you would have probably chosen to settle for the hospital gown given to you along with the scraps of clothing from before, that you had packed in a bag. Along with the annoyingly heavy, likely extremely expensive cape left by Bruce.  

I must face him if I want to return this. Or maybe he’ll just make a new one and I can avoid his stupid face. 

But things were never that easy. Not for you, at least. Trouble always followed you, and now it feels more like a curse than another experience with thrill. Out of the corner of your eye, Cecilia pulls out a cigarillo with the taste of vanilla and pulls it into her mouth. She hands you her lighter, and you carefully grab it from her hands to light the slim cigar. The windows are already down, but the smell still hits you. A sting of tobacco followed by a sweet aroma that you can only guess would be vanilla. It smells familiar, almost like home, or maybe just Aunt Cee. You almost drift to sleep when she startles you with her voice. 

“So, are you going to tell me why I picked you up from the hospital?” She asks, glancing over at you while flicking off the ashes from the stick. You decide to be blunt; no soft words, no sugarcoating it. It’s a way for you to come to terms with it, too. 

“Got a weird call yesterday... or a message? I don’ remember... it was.. someone who had broken into my apartment and threatened to do things. Came running back home to find my apartment burning down and my cat... my Buttercup, dead. Got pulled out unconscious, surgery done on me and now here I am. Maybe it was stupid to run back home, but I had to go.” You purposely leave out some rather important information, like the Riddler, the gory details of Buttercup and the apparent breakdowns you had after the fact. 

“Sweetheart, I-I'm so sorry to hear that, baby,” she says sweetly, words spoken in a tone you hadn’t heard since your adolescence. The way an adult would speak to a child who had hurt themselves. “But why would you go back there”- 

“You’re the last person who should tell me that, and I honestly really don’t want to hear you criticize my choices, please Cee,” you say almost bitterly. Your mother had told you stories of ‘your reckless aunt who always did things the dumb way’, and one of her stories hits close to yours, almost creepily similar. Her story had made headlines; it wasn’t every day the beloved husband of a Gotham elite passed away to a low-level killer, who then gets killed by said wife. Thankfully, she got away with it in self-defense. But it still meant that every news article reached the news of a famous wife who had killed her husband’s murderer in justice. Cecilia goes quiet, and you feel a bit guilty for even bringing such a topic up to her. She reaches a hand over to your own and holds it softly. 

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean it that way, sweetheart. I just don’t want you to fall into the same evil cycle as I. However, you are an adult who makes her own choices,” she speaks so carefully, one could imagine the glass around you would shatter otherwise. “And I will be here for you no matter what. But you must understand that as your aunt, I will have something to say because I love you,” Cecilia whispers the last part, yet you hear it clearer than anything ever spoken directly at you. She parks the car outside the grand family estate. Time had flown by before you even realized it. For a few minutes, you both sit in the silence of shared breaths. 

“I know, ‘m sorry, Cee. I love you too,” you whisper, and Cecilia squeezes your hand and envelops her arms around your body, stroking your hair with nimble strokes. Her words had always been genuine and spoken with a level of respect you hadn’t received from others, and it is ultimately the reason you trust her beyond just spoken words. It’s a connection that runs far deeper than any one you have. Had someone else spoken those same words, they would likely have gotten the punch of a lifetime right at their face. Cecilia lets go and pats your face and smiles gently, looking down at her watch and looking back up at you. 

“It’s lunchtime soon, would you like anything specific?” She asks you, gesturing to leave the car as she gets out of her side. You shake your head, not feeling particularly fussed after having only had coffee and a large number of snacks that hardly pass as food. “Okay then, would you like to get settled into your old bedroom?”  

“Yes, I’d like that. Thank you for everything, truly. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” You both walk to the front entrance where a footman is waiting for the keys to properly park the car. Aunt Cecilia instantly goes off somewhere as you stand in the entrance. It looks mostly the same; the large hall takes off into a banquet room right in front of you, the double staircase full of greenery this time around. The bag is in your hand as you walk the stairs, aware of the way your stitches are pulling your skin with each step. Eventually, you make it up and continue walking down the hall until you pause in front of your old room. The gold embellishment assigning it yours is still as shiny as the day you got it, and your fingers delicately brush against it before opening the door. Surprisingly, it looks the exact same as it did the day you left, with posters hung clumsily on the wall, the book nook in the corner in the same order as you left it and you wonder if the room has even been touched at all, but the lack of dust would prove you otherwise. 

I wonder if other things are still the same. 

Treading over to the bedside table, you open the hidden pocket to find exactly three blunts in a plastic bag, next to a lighter you had been looking for and sooner or later given up the search on. It was the last gift from your cigar smoking grandfather. It seems like some things run in the family, even if the type of tobacco, or weed in this case, changes. You chuckle and close the container, keeping in mind that you’ll smoke them later. Besides, you needed a well-deserved nap. With as much grace as you can muster, you plop onto the bed and curve comfortably and slowly drift into dreamless sleep. 

The pain is still prominent, but you decide to push that though away and focus on the lunch that had been prepared for you as you sit down at the table in the sunroom. Surprisingly, there is sun out here, far enough away from the Gotham gloom for a bit of vitamin D. Cecilia gestures for you to sit opposite her, where a dish has been placed for you. Its simplicity is startlingly stark to this grand home, but your aunt has always been quiet in her luxury. The meal is nicer than anything you have eaten in a while, and you make sure to savor every bite. 

“Fuck, this is good,” you almost moan out in delight, but settle with a sigh instead. Your aunt lets out a full laugh at your pleased expression. 

“I had it prepared to your liking, or... your old liking at least. I must say I’m glad some things never change with you,” she hums out, drinking out of her wine glass. Her eyes admire you with affection you hadn’t felt from family in a while. “So, how long are you planning to stay?” 

“Uhm, until I find a new place, if that’s okay with you? Don’ wanna barge in on you,” you blurt out swiftly and this time, your aunt bellows out the loudest giggle you had heard from her ever and you wonder if you said something weird or have food on your face. “What-... what’s up?” 

“Oh nothing, nothing, only, I would lock you in here if I could. Stay here as long as you like, my little Sherlock. Oh, look! Dessert is coming now,” Cecilia beamed with childlike excitement, and you don’t blame her, for the chocolate cake that comes out looks perfect. “Got room for cake?” 

“’Course I do, kinda question is that?” You breathed, having just finished your food. The first bite of chocolatey goodness melts in your mouth, a perfect balance of bitter and sweet making you properly slump into the chair, and this time you do moan from pure joy. “I could die happy right now..” 

“Your time isn’t yet, sweetheart-” Her phone starts ringing and Cecilia rolls her eyes mindlessly. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid our lunch is going to be cut short because of this phone call. Some charity event again, you know how this goes.” She gets up and passes you on her way in, pausing at your seat to give you a kiss on your forehead before answering. The click of her heels disappears with every step she takes. You take a deep breath to enjoy the fresh air as the sun beams down on your face and you finish the last of the cake.  

For the first time since you had woken up, you start thinking about what you had just been through. About Bruce saving you, your breakdown, about sweet Buttercup. Her remains are likely gone, but at least you still had her collar. Your eyes flutter open and you look over in the garden, at the large willow tree you used to play next to as a child. 

There. It’ll be the perfect place for my dear Buttercup. 

Unknowingly, tears had started streaming down your face, and you tried pushing it down until you felt the sobs bubble up and shake your entire body. A scream wants to tear through your chest, but this time you do force it down, to avoid alarming Cecilia and other house staff that may be working. Minutes pass like this, but the sobs get softer, and the tears get silent until you finally settle down, just staring out and listening to the birdsong that chirps in the distance. Despair turns into a melancholy feeling and when calmness lastly washes over your soul, you decide to sleep the rest of the day off. Your feet drag behind you as you reenter your bedroom, plopping onto the bed and dozing off. 

13 hours later, a loud buzzing forces you to get up. It’s your phone calling repeatedly, and you almost put it on DND until you see the caller ID of the person trying, for a little while based on the notification logs, to reach you. A few of them are from your Department Chief, and the rest of them are from Gordon. The next call that goes through, you answer instantly. 

“Hello? Gordon? What the hell is happening?” 

“Are you safe, Y/N? Are you alright!?” Gordon asks, clearly panicked through the phone. 

“What? Yes, I’m safe! What the hell is happening Gordon!?” You’re fully awake now, panic completely eliminating any residual feelings from earlier. 

“You were right, Riddler had a whole fuckin’ setup, people dressed like him doing his bidding.” As he speaks, you turn to the mounted TV and look for the remote on your bedside table to turn on the news, but the remote slips from your grasp, so you try looking for it in the dark. “Tried assassinating Bella Reál and almost got Batman in the process!” Your mind is going at a million miles per hour, but the only idea running through your mind is that you need to go down and help them. 

“I’m coming down to help, right now Gordon, where should I-” 

“There’s no use, Y/N. He’s flooded the whole city. Riddler is flooding the whole fuckin’ city,” he warned and for the first time you pay attention to the background noise. Children screaming and crying, water swooshing as if someone is moving through the shallow parts of a pool and the orders of security officers all around. “No serious casualties that I know of yet, but I wanted you to hear from me first. Listen, I gotta go now, shit’s getting out of hand.” 

“Shit, okay. Be fuckin’ careful Gordon, and please update me when you can,” you tremble out, and the phone call ends right there. At some point the controller had ended back in your trembling hands and turned on the first news channel you find. Helicopters are swarming the city, trying to direct and save civilians from crushing waves of water that keep flooding into the city. A photo showing a mapped-out Gotham city pops up on screen, and the reporter explains where bombs were placed accurately and with immediacy put the whole area under water. An uneasy feeling floods your mind and body, so you pick up your phone to text Elenor to make sure she’s okay. When you open your contacts, a new number has been added under the name B.W., and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who that is. 

You:  3:18 Hey, u ok? 

Ellie:  3:20 u sound like my ex rn  but ya im fine, nasty water almost got to me earlier tho  hbu? feel better?? 

Not really  Where you at rn? 

top of some building  batman saved us ;) 

Whats w the winkey face  

isnt he ur boyfie? 

Now girl... gtfo 

he's kinda hot tho  oh dude i gtg ttyl ily  

Be safe!!!  Ily 2 

Ellie has liked your message. 

Phew. 

You huff a sigh of relief after knowing of her safety, but small part of you feels weird after the conversation, like a big stone just settled into the deepest part of your stomach. You’re not sure why, especially since nothing is particularly wrong with Elenor. You shake the feeling off before attempting to sleep, which you fail greatly at. You toss and turn with no luck, wanting to scream into the pillows from frustration. With no thought in your mind, you pick up your phone and reluctantly text the newer number unknowingly placed into your phone. 

How did he even add his number to my phone without unlocking it? Damn him. 

You:  4:02 Hey, are you alright? Text me when you’re safe  -Y/N 

Instantly, you shut your phone off, throw it at the edge of the bed before you regret your choice, tuck yourself into the soft bed, and turn your mind off in an attempt to sleep. Unfortunately, it doesn’t come easy, and you continue tossing in turning in bed until you give up and get out to grab a snack from the kitchen. Throwing on a pair of slippers, you quickly grab from your old closet to avoid walking on the cold floors and start the walk toward the kitchen. Thankfully, your room was always close to it, a fact that a younger you took advantage of since your family put a big ban on food inside the bedrooms, not that you ever followed that rule anyway. 

You search the cupboards for a while since everything had been switched around, and soon enough you find a bag of unopened pretzels that you settle onto the center counter and take a seat on one of the chairs and rip open the bag. Meanwhile, your other hand is scrolling through news outlets where everyone is in a complete frenzy about all sorts of shit, and you scroll so far you find one titled: “Riddler was correct: Here’s why” and your brows furrow as you click into the anonymous sender article. It’s awfully long, and you scroll for a while until you pause and actually start reading. 

... Though many may disregard Riddler as a lunatic killer who merely spreads fear and hatred within our community, a lot of people do in fact agree. If one can see past the unfortunate but necessary murders he has committed, one will find a man concerned with the way things are or have been run the last few years in Gotham City. Corruption, poor crisis management, lack of accountability, worsening crime rates, increase in homelessness, the list simply goes on and on. 

Perhaps it is time to follow Riddler, to see past his radicalism, to stand with him as he falls and to... 

It continues in a similar fashion, spreading more of Riddler’s ideas to the world and trying to convince the people disappointed in the political system. The whole thing is about spreading hate and encouraging rebellious actions against higher authorities. You stop reading it when it starts to mention elitist Gothamite families. Instead, you set your phone down and place your hands over your face to rub the stress away. 

Crazy fucking idiots. 

Apparently, you had been sitting there a long while, because when you check the time that reads 5:14, an hour had suddenly gone by, and you wonder why you’ve spent this long just reading terrible news and now propaganda articles. Hopping off the stool, you find a bag clip to seal off the pretzels, so they don’t go stale and store them back where you first found them. You’re just about to leave when your phone pings with a message, and dread fills your gut right back up. 

B.W.  5:17 Hello, I’m fine, thank you for asking.  How about you? 

I’m alright  Gordon told me what was happening  Wanted to check in with you after the ordeal  When can I give you the cape back btw? 

Thank you, I appreciate it.  And soon. 

God this is fucking awkward. It’s like texting your parents. 

Okay, goodnight then 

His text bubble disappears and reappears continuously, and by the time he sends a text, you’ve changed into old PJs and tucked yourself back into bed. 

Are you sure you’re alright? 

Yes I’m sure  Goodnight now 

Goodnight, Y/N 

You have liked this message 

Without a second thought, you close the chat and almost instantaneously fall into a deep sleep. The next morning is full of buzzing energy; from the moment you’ve awoken by your aunt who enters your room unannounced and rips open all the blinds in the room to wake you up. A loud groan escapes your throat and to the best of your abilities, turn away from the blinding light. For a moment, you think you’ve escaped her evil wrath until your aunt pulls off your blanket with lightning speed. 

“Leave m’alone...” you whisper, snuggling into your pillow that is quickly snatched out from right under you and this time you sit up and glare at Cee.  

“We’re having breakfast on your balcony, so get up,” she says, pulling you to your feet. Your head falls back in annoyance. “Get changed and freshened up while I finish breakfast. I’ve made you coffee!” Cecilia singsongs the last part and you perk up at the mention of your very loved drink. Maybe that’s just your caffeine addiction speaking. Cecilia leaves the room to prepare the food, and you walk back to your old closet to find clothes that hopefully still fit. Unfortunately, most of the outfits you find are from your party days, and not much is appropriate nor comfortable enough to wear. Eventually you settle on a pair of jean shorts that are battered but clearly loved at one point and a simple babydoll top. The least promiscuous articles of clothing you could find that you had clearly outgrown in a lot of places. For one, your curves had filled out over the years, nearly spilling out of the top. Your shorts, however? Well, you might as well wear booty shorts, because they damn near look the same anyway. You can’t deny you look good, again, but you’d rather dress like you’re ready for action, since you could get called in at any moment.  

Never mind, Gordon won’t let me work anyway. This’ll have to do. 

Before you leave the bathroom, you take a look at the stitches that seem to be healing nicely, though still very tender to touch. You glance at the pain medicine and ignore it, seeing as you no longer feel the sting from after the surgery. Not to mention, you felt funny after taking the first one and not the good kind, so you stash them into the drawer underneath the sink and make your way out to the balcony where Cecilia is already seated at the round table with a whole load of breakfast goods. Pancakes, fruits, cheese platters, perfectly cooked eggs, an assortment of pastries; you name it, she’s got it here. 

“Wow, I haven’t had breakfast like this since... like ever. Thank you, auntie,” you exclaimed with a broad grin, pressing a kiss to her forehead before sitting down next to her. She smiles softly at you and gestures at you to dig in, which you gladly do. The meal goes by with comfortable small talk, laughter and you realize you haven’t felt this light in a long time. Perhaps it’s good food, the company, or being away from work. Wait, no scratch that; work gives you a purpose, but you can’t deny it feels good to have a break. 

“By the way, a police officer by the name Martinez came by earlier today and gave me your work computer. I set it aside in your grandfathers’ office, if you would like to get it,” aunt Cee added, leaning back in her chair. You give a simple nod and get up to help put things away. “Nuh uh, sweetheart, you go do something else, like resting. I’ve got this.” She shoos you away with her hands and begins to clean up, and though she told you to leave, you can’t help the guilt that chips at you for letting her do it alone. But the anxiety that strikes you at having to enter your grandpa's office overpowers it. No one really spoke about him after his death, something that made you in particular miserable. You loved your grandfather, used to call him Poppy after his favorite flower, and he loved you just as much back. He passed after making the wrong deal with the wrong people, and though he tried to negotiate, pay generously, they started threatening family. Your sweet old grandpa couldn’t let that happen, so he involved the cops and after that it was a whole mess. Got him when he was out with your Nana, and the news quickly reached the rest of the family. You remember the funeral well; it was spring, right when the poppies were blooming, on an oddly beautiful day for Gotham. Your tears never dried, and you had to be pulled out of the church. Everyone knew your grandfather had a special affection for you that he didn’t show with the others. 

Fortunately, the office was opposite your room, but unfortunately for the constant reminder of his absence. He used to keep the door open in case you wanted to join him when he worked. You watch the golden door tag glint in the light, before slowly pushing the door open and string tug at your heart to see the room look the exact same as it had all those years ago. Similarly to your room, it looked untouched since he had been there, but with the obvious lack of dust. His desk facing the entrance still has papers on it, light from the windows behind beaming down at it. The couches in the middle of the room with the coffee table still have his old mugs on their tray, placed upside down like he always did. Your fingers trail against the back of one sofa before walking around the desk and carefully sitting in the chair, as if it would break had you done it too quickly. Opening the drawers to the desk, you find old possessions of his. A pack of cigars, his personal lighter, a pack of gum, and a memory strikes your head.  

In the book lined walls lies a secret ‘book’ that your grandfather told you about should you like to hide something. He’s also the one who custom got you the hidden drawers and told you it was your little shared secret. You crack a smile at the fond conversation and go check the book. As a teenager, you did a whole load of rebellious things your mother would faint at should she be notified, so you had to find solutions to hiding things. And as much as you hated going into the office after Poppy died, you still hid things in here. On the spine of the pocket, the ‘book’ was titled ‘The Obvious Secret’, which at the time you found silly, but now it’s just funny. Your mother would have never thought about looking in here, which is why it was good. Your hands trail the books until you find it, and when you pull it out, you find, guess what- more weed. 

“Damn, the fuck was I on...” you mutter to yourself, pulling out the bag and going back to your seat. If you were going to be off work and enjoy it, you were going to enjoy it to the absolute fullest. Sorting the papers and putting them along with your laptop away, you kick your feet up and light the blunt, puffing out a huff of smoke. By the first inhale, you feel normal and by the second, you start feeling dizzy and giggling like an idiot. You hadn’t gotten high in a while, and you felt it quick, but it was nice. Mindless, in a way things hadn’t been lately. Until the door starts knocking and without a moment's notice, opens. You turn your full body away from the entrance in fright and to the best of your abilities, hide the smoke still clouding from your blunt. 

“’m a bit busy, Aunt Cee, can you come here later-” 

“Sorry to disappoint, but uhm... I’m not your aunt.” Your eyes widen in shock as you turn at the familiar voice, only to find a suited man with that same cut of hair and you only put your hands over your face in embarrassment and a feeling you can’t quite place. Bruce is standing awkwardly right where he came in, as if he was afraid to come any closer. With a sigh, you rub the feelings away and gesture at the seat opposite you to which he takes the invite and sits down. His brows furrow at the blunt in your hand, and he nods at it. “Didn’t think you would be the type to smoke blunts.” 

“I don’t, these are old, from when I was younger. You uh- you want a puff?” The second that last sentence leaves your mouth you wince, but thankfully he denies it with a simple shake of his head, and you continue with the awkward stare down and put out the blunt for later. Bruce starts looking around the office space, and you do the same to not continue looking at him. Admiring his features, his eyes and-  

What the fuck. No, absolutely not. High has got me crazy. 

“Soo, what are you doin’ here?” You break the silence, hoping to remove some of the tension in the room. He looks back at you for a second and starts fumbling with his hands messily, head hung low.  

“I wanted to check in on you after the whole... thing went down. And to answer any questions you might have of Riddler,” he ended, looking back at you with a different feeling in his eyes, a sort of anger you don’t understand. 

“I- well, I’m doing fine, no need to come all the way here for that. As for Riddler, Gordon told me you visited him- or that he wanted to see you. Did you go see him? I just- fuck, did he say anything about why he did what he did to me?” Tears unwillingly spring back in your eyes, and you turn away with shame burning at the back of your head at the fact that you’re still this emotional over it, not to mention in front of Bruce. 

“Talked about the old orphanage, that I- that Batman helped him with his plan, but I didn’t get it at first. Went back to his place and he had a whole goddamn map under the carpet, and I found out about his- his plan and fuck, I was too late. I could’ve stopped it-” 

“Fucking hell, Bruce I-” You feel all sobered up now, and Bruce looks... devastated. As if he failed the one thing he was supposed to do, the one mission he was supposed to uphold. You stand up and walk around the burly man to sit him down at the couch instead while you make coffee at the tiny bar in the office. Whilst it’s brewing, you sit down next to him and firmly place your hands on his shoulders. “It’s not your fault, I had a feeling Riddler was planning something, concerns I shared with Gordon but I- I was useless whilst you guys were fighting, should’ve just helped but...” You trail off, and bring him into a clumsy hug, stroking his back. He seems to relax in your hold, or maybe that’s just your foggy brain imagining things. You let go and look into his eyes, that he quickly casts down at your intertwined hands. With a burning face, you let go of them and fiddle with your own as he opens his mouth to speak. 

“Riddler told me ‘we’ failed to kill two people, Bruce Wayne and... you,” he blubbered, looking back at your now rigid gaze until he shakes his head with a sigh and seems to shrink even further than before. With the coffee seemingly finished with brewing, you bring over two cups and fill them. “How do you like your coffee, Bruce?” 

“Bitter.” The one-word response triggers a small smile from you; that is quickly shut down when you turn back to him, handing him the mug and settling down next to him once more. Bruce looks hesitant as he slowly drinks from the hot mug, dark circles prominent under his eyes. 

“What’s on your mind?” You ponder, swirling around the liquid and taking a few careful sips to avoid burning your tongue. 

“Went back to your apartment when the firefighters finished taking care of the fire. I assumed Riddler left me a letter, which he did, but- I wanted to make sure some things were salvageable,” he faltered when speaking, but Bruce checking in on your things has your heart fluttering in appreciation, eyes softening. 

“Thank you, Bruce. Is uhm... is anything okay for me to get?” You almost don’t want to know the answer, and dread builds every second Bruce takes to tell you. 

“Your room is mostly fine, but with the risk of gasses seeping into clothes, furniture and whatnot it’s not safe to take home. I don’t know if you store anything in it but... the safe is good, metal things should also be fine to take home,” he states, this time keeping your gaze. Knowing that your safe is okay has your shoulders relaxing from strain. “Could take you back there if you’d like to pick up your things?” 

“I’d like that,” you blurt out without thinking, and internally you blame it on the weed, but a deep part of you knows you can’t go back there on your own, which also reminds you of something. “Oh yeah, you probably want the cape back, right? We can pick it up from my room and then go?” You suggest standing up. Bruce follows your lead as you go to the bar area and place the mug in the sink, and he hands you the mug from behind you where your fingers brush. As if a spark of electricity goes between your hands, you quickly retract yours from the physical contact, face practically burning. 

It’s the weed. The weed. I’m just high. 

Your consciousness is arguing back and forth with itself, and for a moment you think you see a devil and an angel perched on each shoulder. Walking out of the office and into your room, you wince at the evident messiness of it all. Bed not yet made, clothes thrown here and there, and for a moment you think it’s okay until you spot a bra thrown over your vanity chair. Rushing forward like a maniac, you grab it and throw it into the vanity drawer and slam it loudly. Bruce looks shellshocked, and you hope it’s from the sound and not that he got a glance at your underwear, so you chuckle awkwardly and stand in place until you remember the reason you came in here in the first place, scrambling around to find the bag “Sorry, it’s a bit messy. Haven’t had the time to settle yet.” 

“That’s fine,” he affirmed, gaze travelling around the room. “It looks the same in here, except for a few things,” he comments, trying to avoid the silence. 

“Uhm yeah, I haven’t really changed much. I moved the second I was allowed to, so... here!” You sigh, finding the bag stashed underneath the bed for reasons unknown to you. Pulling out the cape, you realize it got dirty and hasn’t been cleaned since, and you feel weird giving it to him in this state. “I... haven’t had the time to do laundry...” Bruce’s lips twitch slightly, and the ghost of a smile settles over his face.  

“That’s alright, I doubt normal laundry detergent would do the job anyway,” he says, holding the fabric between and playing with it. Standing there for a moment, you simply watch Bruce hold the cape whilst he glances at you every now and then. Up until a loud cough is heard from behind, and to your horror, your aunt is staring at you. You scramble next to Bruce in an attempt to hide the vigilante costume. 

“How long have you been standing there?” You interrogated with a tight-lipped smile. Cecilia walks in like she owns the place (she does) and starts talking to Bruce like you’re not standing there (you are).  

“Bruce, my dear! My doorman told me you came but I was too busy to welcome you! It’s been a while since you’ve been here. How are you?” She beams him in a way she hadn’t beamed at you ever, and you suspect she would do anything to please Bruce. She, along with your mother, was very close to the Wayne’s, hence your childhood friendship. If there were one person you would think your aunt loves more than you, it’s Bruce Wayne himself. 

“Hi Mrs. L/N. I’m fine, thank you. How are you?” Bruce acknowledged your aunt, which is a worse scenario than if he had ignored her entirely. 

“Better now that you’re here! How about you stay and join us for lunch today?”- 

“Bruce is a very, very busy man, Cee. I’m already taking precious time from his cramped schedule, and we really must go now,” you drawl while pushing Bruce towards the doors, making sure to emphasize the importance of you leaving right now. 

“But, Y/N, sweetheart!-” 

“Go, go, go!” You grab his hand instinctively and run away from your aunt, who is still calling out after you both. A giggle escapes you without your intention as you navigate the long hallways, hurrying down the stairs and out the front entrance, where Bruce parked his car. Even though you’ve been out of action for only a few days, you still feel a little out of breath. Something twitches in your hold, and you realize you still haven’t let go of Bruce’s hand, which you instantly do now. “Sorry, I...” your voice trails off, not knowing where to end. 

“You should stop apologizing so much,” Bruce mutters, a tight line forming between his eyes as he gets into the driver's seat of the car. For the nth time of the day, you sigh in frustration and get into the car after him. The drive is quiet, but not uneasy. Music is playing softly in the background, and you get to the apartment in no time. When you come face to face with your boarded up door, your breath starts coming in short, rapid bursts, and your heart feels full of sand weighing it down. A heavy, reassuring hand is placed between your shoulder blades. “You don’t have to go in there, if you-” 

“No, I- I have to face it sooner or later,” you say, and with shaky feet, walk up to it. Bruce asks you to step back as he kicks down the bolts, allowing you entry into your home. You keep in mind locking it after leaving with the spare key you keep inside. Stepping over ash, broken furniture and moist carpets, you step into the hallway that leads you into your room, where the door is slightly ajar this time. Bruce is following close behind. “How did you get in here last time if the door was boarded?” 

“I got up with the emergency stairs and in through your balcony door. Made sure to lock everything when I left.” Bruce stands at the doorway as you rifle through things left on the floor. Walking to the case, you unlock it and open the small door to find a leather bag with old photos, important papers, a spare gun with ammo, emergency cash, and a few family heirlooms given to you in your grandfather's will. You shove everything into the bag, close the safe and stand up. “Ready to go now,” you say, eyes downcast to avoid looking around the home where you have spent a big majority of your life. Bruce nods and you don’t hesitate in rushing the hell out of there. The spare key, though small, feels heavy in your hold as you close the door shut and lock it, much to your surprise. 

Bruce drives you back home, where it starts raining on the way back. A soft pitter patter of rain settles in the car, and you rest your eyes to enjoy the sound of rain falling. Out of nowhere, it starts to thunder, and at the first sound you jump slightly, heart racing at the sudden noise. Bruce glances at you but doesn’t say anything.  

When he parks in front of your family home, he hands you a leather coat that looks extremely similar to the one you had before. You hold it in your hands and whisper out a soft thank you with pronounced lines in your face. 

“It’s no bother. You know you can uhm.... call me if you need anything, or just want- like someone to talk to,” Bruce shared, running a hand through his parted hair, gaze almost hopeful as he stares at you. 

“Then the same goes for you,” you reply. “See you soon, Bruce.” Unlocking the door, you step out of the vehicle but before you can regret it, you lean into the car and hug him over the console. 

“See you, Y/N,” he mutters softly, almost leaning into your touch until you separate from him, leave the car and hurry up the steps. Pausing in front of the entrance, you give him a shy wave that he reciprocates and finally, you step inside, watching him drive away until he’s no longer visible.

A shot of pain pierces through your head and jolts you awake, and as you’re coming to consciousness, you feel the stabbing ache in your neck and back from the uncomfortable position you had slept in last night. Not to mention sleeping on the couch had probably not been the best idea. The soft huffs of Buttercup’s breathing grab your attention, eyes traveling to gaze over the softly snoring cat on the opposite end of where you sit. The silence around you is calming and slightly helps the thumping in your head. Unfortunately, the comfort doesn’t last long and the memories from last night come back in a rush. Words spoken in a hurry drive into the most responsive parts of your brain, and embarrassment quickly follows at the emotional outburst that seemingly came from nowhere. Pushing your head into a pillow, you wish to take it all back. But what’s done is done. Seeing Bruce Wayne might be more awkward, but you’ll only ever see him when he's Batman. Or maybe that’s simply something you prayed for, to spare your dignity currently hanging on by a thread. However, embarrassment won’t solve crime, and so you force yourself up, but not before petting Buttercup on the way to your bedroom.  

Passing by the kitchen, you decide to grab a cup of water to take a pill for the slowly expanding headache. Entering your bedroom, cup in hand, you rifle through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom connected to the room and find the small container. Slowly and carefully, you take the pill and the discomfort of swallowing it passes quickly. Stripping off the old clothing, you pull out new ones from the dried-up clothing on the small rack in the bathroom. As you finish getting ready, you walk out to place the cup in the kitchen sink when you trip and drop it, resulting in glass shattering all over the floor. Due to your vision going all black for a sudden moment, you don’t plan your landing particularly well. 

“Shit!” Specks of blood form on your hand from where you caught yourself on the floor, tiny crystals of the material digging sharply into your penetrated skin. Slowly standing up in hopes of getting your bearings a bit better, and to assess the damage, you notice your non-dominant hand received the most damage. Blood drips between your fingers, a slash letting the liquid seep freely onto the wood floor. You pick up an old shirt and wipe it away before it dries. Pushing yourself up and heading back to the bathroom to patch up the cuts, you internally curse yourself. It’s not like you to trip and fall; clumsiness was a flaw you could not afford, ever.  

As you clean the wound with alcohol wipes, your phone starts ringing absentmindedly. With your good hand, you reach over to the counter where Gordon’s name flashes across the screen, vibrations sounding across the quiet bathroom. You answer it, lips folding in at the notion of whatever news he may be carrying.  

“Hello Jim. What’s up?” You hiss out, wiping away the remaining blood before moving to wrap it.  

“Where are you, detective? Should’ve been here half an hour ago,” He mumbles out and pauses, then goes to speak again. “Somethin’ happen to you?”  

You glance at the time on the phone and feel your heart drop.  

“Shit. I’m so sorry Gordon, woke up late and I jus’ cut my hand with glass. I promise I’ll be there, just give me a minute-” 

“It’s okay, I’m waiting for you outside. Figured you might’ve just slept in by accident. Just hurry out if you’re done cleaning up,” His voice doesn’t sound too irritated, so at least there’s that. You let him know you’ll be out in just a moment, and hurrying out the room without removing all the glass. Since Buttercup had long figured out how to open the doors, you’d have to lock it before leaving, which you made sure you did. The feline steps between your legs as you do so, with Buttercup tailing you out into the hall.  

“I’ll tell the ol’ granny next door to feed you in a bit,” you coo at the cat, scratching softly behind her ears to which she meows back in pleasure. Then you remember to hurry out the door and not keep Gordon waiting. Stepping out of the entrance to the apartments, his car glints in the moody lighting of Gotham.  

Easing into the soft cushions of his car, you sigh and slump back against the seat. Gordon looks concerned next to you but doesn’t comment on your relatively disheveled state. Deciding that the odd silence is awkward enough, you move to turn on the radio to which he doesn’t protest. The voice of some new rising pop star filters through the whole car, and you pick up your phone to text your neighbor about Buttercup. When you place down your phone and look out, the window is when your senior apparently decides he’s had enough of the shrilly singer.  

“You seen the news yet?” He asks the question, and for the first time since entering the car, you watch the way his shoulders tense. Based on that fact alone, you know you’ve missed something important. 

“No? What’s happening now?” It’s a question you don’t quite know if you’ll want to hear the answer for, but if Gordon is asking you then it’s likely connecting to aspects other than asking just because. He glances at you, brows slightly furrowed as he thinks over his words. 

“Old videos and rumors are resurfacing about Thomas and Martha Wayne. And... some stuff about your own parents as well, since they were well connected way back.” He swerves into the police department, and you can hear your heartbeat speed up, hands going clammy. Your parents had loads of connections and people who either hated or loved them. No in between. So, people spreading rumors around them currently isn’t ideal, especially considering your position within the department and Gotham.  

“Riddler’s sayin’... that way back some reporter was going to expose Martha Wayne’s family secrets, and since Thomas Wayne couldn’t afford that before his mayoral campaign... tried to pay him off. But it didn’t work. So, he turned to your father... and Carmine Falcone.” 

If your heartbeat had gone any faster, you were sure you’d collapse then and there. Sweat gathers at the back of your neck, all this information completely new to you and now to the entire world watching, following, judging. You had already known that Carmine Falcone and Thomas Wayne were involved as friends, acquaintances, or whatever they had been. 

You had never heard anything about your father being involved.  

“He’s... he’s saying Falcone killed the guy and your father let him off, for Wayne. Now he’s saying that ‘Children answer for the sins of their fathers’.” 

You groan loudly, slamming your head against the dashboard. Conflicting and confusing emotions brew within you. 

Anger, at your father for getting involved with a man like Falcone, and then for not telling you about it. 

Sadness, for the sole reason that it went that far, sadness for Martha. 

Confusion, because why would your dad have ever gotten involved with Falcone, a man he for years had tried taking down? 

But mostly, you were scared. Sacred of what else could come out that you don’t know about. Scared of how it could ruin everything you’ve worked towards. And another tiny part of you? Scared for Bruce.  

He was unpredictable, and extremely, utterly and wholly reckless. It wouldn’t surprise you should he seek out answers; you wanted them as well. Which is why a part of you wants to find your mother and interrogate them out of her. And you know, that’s likely the only way you’ll find them, because you sure as hell weren’t going to trust Falcone. 

Maybe you’ll have to talk with Bruce, too. 

The idea of having to face him after yesterday is still a searing embarrassment. You almost violently recoil at the thought but quickly shove it away. Then, for the first time during this whole conversation, you fully turn to Gordon. 

“I’m going to be honest with you; this is the first time I’m hearing this. But I’m going to find answers,” You sound determined, and a little pissed when you speak, enough for Gordon to pick up on it at least. “Also, aren’t we, like super late now?” 

“Oh. I lied about that. Meeting this morning got canceled, but I wanted to have this conversation with you before getting here so that you’re aware.” An almost grin tugs at the corners of his mouth as he says that and steps out, you closely following him with a multitude of ugly curses escaping your mouth for the stress he had caused you. 

When you enter a few heads turn your way, their gazes drill uncomfortable holes through the back of your skull as you continue walking. The man a few steps ahead notices, and Gordon leads you both into his personal office to discuss last night's catastrophe and today's sudden news. 

His personal board was both larger and messier than yours, which was unexpected for a man so usually organized. At the top, the title of the board is RIDDLER, in bold letters scribbled hurriedly, as though time would catch up had he taken the time to write them properly. Red strings attached from different faces with articles hanging here and there. It looked a hell of a lot like yours, just more... irregular. 

“That’s one big fuckin’ board you got, you seen mine? Tiny thing they expect me to fit a whole murder case on...” You grumble slightly, engrossed in the board and trying to decipher his seemingly random connections. Gordon doesn’t comment and instead gestures for you to sit down in front of him, which you do. 

“Could you recap everything that occurred yesterday to the best of your abilities?” Gordon asks, momentarily taking off his glasses to rub a hand down his face as you nod, recalling the events. 

“We receive a letter sent by Riddler, who sends us to Wayne manor. Upon entering, we find words leading us into a sort of hall where we find a video of Thomas Wayne speaking to a crowd of people about changing Gotham for his mayoral campaign. The room is mostly dark, but we find words sprawled across the walls, and through them figure out that the next victim is, uhm... Bruce Wayne. He’s... not at the residence when a c4 explosive goes off and instead greatly injures his butler and once care-taker Alfred Pennyworth.” At the end of the sentence, you start picking at the skin around your fingers and the wound on your hand starts stinging again. 

“And today we find out why Riddler wants him dead, for the ‘sins of his father’.” Gordon scoffed, pursing his lips in thought. 

“My question is why he’s yet to attempt to kill you,” he says it so casually, you almost miss it. But you don’t and instead choke on your own spit at his revelation. It’s not necessarily wrong, just a bold statement coming from him. 

“Maybe it’s because I’m not as influential? I mean, I don’t exactly swim in money every morning. My family may, but I live on my own salary.” You don’t dare mention the weird text messages you had been getting over the course of a few days. Since you were working a lot with this case, Riddler likely thinks of you as a threat to his plans. 

How flattering, he wants to kill me, before I ruin his psycho plans. 

“Have you talked with Wayne regarding any of this? I know you’re close or at least used to be.” The question lingers in the air, and you don’t know if you wanted to answer it truthfully or not. On the other hand, Gordon was great at reading you, and he’d know the second you start lying. 

“I, uhm, seem to be on terrible terms with everyone currently around me. So, short answer, no.” Awkwardly playing with your hands in your lap, you avoid his gaze in fear that he’s judging you, or worse, watching in disappointment as you detach yourself from everyone around you.  

“This job seems to have that effect, especially on those who care dearly about it. You’re an adult, I trust your decisions and choices, but if you need anything don’t hesitate in calling me, detective.” Gordon absorbs your reaction as you huff out a sigh of relief, thankful for him both as a colleague and friend, and you show him your gratitude through a small smile and nod. 

“Since we didn’t do it last night, we’ll have to report everything we saw yesterday, so we need to get to work. If you need a moment for anything, now would be appropriate.” He doesn’t say it outright, but he gestures towards your phone. 

“Thank you, Gordon. I’ll be back.” Getting up from the seat, you start toward your own office just a few feet away to retrieve a few things and to make a phone call. Dread settles slowly in your bones, but if you wanted answers, you’d have to go through with it. Upon entering, you pick up your phone and go to contacts, scrolling down to the one marked as Mom. 

Only two rings pass, until it picks up, and you feel the phone shaking in your hands, shaky exhale escaping in preparation for an awful confrontation. Her voice comes through first, and it’s clear she’s tired. 

“Sweetheart? Is that you?” She sounds raspy, like during the period in your life where she would chain smoke, and it caught up to her before she knew it. You almost regret calling, but you can’t just let this whole thing go. 

“Hi mom. We need to talk, so I want you to come by the station as soon as possible,” You manage to tremble out, hoping you don’t sound as shaky as you feel. 

“Oh, of- of course sweetheart, yeah. I’ll be there. Give me an hour. See you soon, baby.” 

“See you in a bit, mom.” The call hadn’t felt all that weird, which is what put you off. 

Like she’s pretending everything is fine. 

Quickly grabbing your things, you walk out of the room and toward Gordon’s. 

“Would you rather continue working on this boring report or go raid the kitchen?” Gordon glances up at you, leaning back on the chair and staring up at the ceiling. A few minutes ago, you were tossing a paper ball up and catching it, but it had fallen to some corner when you missed it and hadn’t bothered picking it up since then. So, you got bored and started complaining instead. 

“Okay fine, but we’ll be gone for ten minutes at most,” his stern voice calls out, but you’re already celebrating a small victory. A small knock is heard from the office door, and the woman who works the front desk opens. You think her name is Sally, or maybe it was Susan; you weren’t quite sure. Once, she glanced at you oddly and you decided she was a bitter old woman since then. 

“I have someone waiting for detective L/n.”  

“Okay, thank you, Sharon. She’ll be out in a moment,” Gordon responds, waving a bit dismissively at the old woman who seems to get on everyone's nerves, which makes you feel at least a bit validated.  

“I thought her name was like, Susan or something,” you commented lazily. 

“I don’t actually know, just sorta’ picked a name and hoped for the best,” he says, a sour expression painting his face and you howl out a laugh.  

“You’re hilarious, Gordon. What would I do without you?” Standing up to meet your guest, you clap his shoulder once and turn to leave. 

“You would die, detective!” His call after you makes you shake your head in amusement. You shift your attention to whoever could be waiting for you. It could be your mother, but only around half an hour had gone by since you called her. 

So, when you walk out and look down at the lobby from the top of the stairs, you’re surprised to find your disheveled mother standing in the middle. No longer looking as prestigious as she usually does, her hair sticking up in all sorts of directions, eyebags heavy in her tired gaze. At first, you feel a small tingle of satisfaction knowing that her composure hasn’t lasted after you cut contact, but then the guilt floods in. Shame burns deep in your stomach for letting her get to this stage, because despite everything she was still your mother. And despite her ignoring your request back then, she was still a good mother. Her eyes flit around and you call out to her. As if time pauses, she meets your eyes and gets teary, but you hold a sterner look, maybe to stop your own floodgates. 

Walking towards you, she pauses at the top of the stairs when you turn and start leading her to your office. Since her shuffling against the dirty floor had ceased, you had to turn back and indicate you’re moving somewhere more private. She gets the hint and follows you closely into the small room, where she sits, and you stand against your desk. 

“Hi mom.” 

“Hello, my love. How are you?-” 

“I didn’t bring you here to exchange pleasantries.” You internally punch yourself for sounding rude, and the guilt hits deeper. “Have you seen the news?” 

“If you mean the news dirtying our family name as well as the Wayne’s, then yes,” she stammered out slightly, voice heavy with eyes expressing more emotions than you could figure out. But one was clear. 

Hatred, written all over her face. Similarly to a glaring mistake of acrylic on a beautifully made painting. Or an obvious typing error in a heartfelt poem. Reading your mother had always been a difficult feat, but she couldn’t have been more obvious about how she was feeling at that particular moment. 

“Tell me everything you know.” 

“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit! Why the hell would you get involved with that man!? I thought you were better than this!” Your mother’s angry tone reaches your ears, and you feel scared. 

“What did you expect me to do, huh!? Leave that man to out Martha like that? She’s your friend, for God's sake!” 

“And you’re a goddamn detective! Since when do you go around killing people who can be shut down easier than that?” 

“I didn’t fucking kill him, Falcone did! Thomas has already told me that he plans on confessing to the cops what happened.” You hear heavy shuffling belonging to your father, stepping towards your mother. 

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me! You think Falcone is going to let either of you get away easily? He’s a murderer! A filthy, disgusting animal who killed a man!” 

“Please sweetheart, stop shouting. You’re going to wake our daughter up.” 

Your mom stops shouting, and instead heavy sobs ring through the silent home. You feel confused, scared, and sad. They continue speaking, not shouting though still loudly and you cover your ears, teddy hanging from your dominant hand sat snug against your head. Tears start streaming down your own face. 

Why were they fighting? 

Had dad killed someone? 

Or were they getting d-i-v-o-r-c-e-d? It’s a word a kid from school had taught you, when parents don’t love each other anymore, they leave. 

The thoughts terrified you, but you didn’t interrupt their conversation, simply treading back to your room and getting into the still warm bed and pretending you didn’t hear a single word. In bed, you still hear their fight, though words are now dimmed and incomprehensible. And when your dad enters your room to make sure you’re still asleep, you even out your breathing and stop moving, ensuring he thinks you’re still asleep. You feel him walking towards you and leaning down, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. 

“I love you, my little princess.” 

The next day, you find out that Bruce’s parents had died in a tragic shooting after visiting the movies.  

Three days after that an attempt on your father's life is made. And you are none the wiser to the connection. 

A shiver runs down your whole spine. 

“And how sure are you about this whole thing?” 

“I would bet my whole life on it. I know he did it. Falcone never liked your father, found him to be a real problem and a thorn on his side. So, why not kill him anyway?” Tears spring back into her eyes, and she looks down before wiping carefully against her water line. 

“Why couldn’t you tell me this earlier? You know I work closely with people who have some sort of relation to him, and you not telling me could’ve jeopardized a lot,” you heaved out, hoping that she wasn’t simply going to dismiss your concerns. 

“We thought it was buried, yet after all these years it’s resurfaced. We didn’t... we never thought we would need a reason to tell you.” She looks up at you, and her brows scrunch in the way it used to when you got in trouble back in school, involving yourself in dangerous situations. 

It’s ironic how you now find yourself in a similar situation. 

A moment of peace passes, and you find yourself craving your mother’s loving touch, but don’t make a move, still as the gargoyle statues outside the department. Her shoulders shake, body racked with sobs, and you just stand there, feet shifting their weight from one to the other. Contemplating whether to comfort her or to continue the trivial grudge you have against her, you eventually come to the decision that it pains you to watch her. Setting the pettiness aside, you kneel next to her and gather her trembling form in your arms and hold her tight until the sobs halt. The feeling of wetness creeping down your own face started, you’re not sure when exactly, just that the tears fell silently. Separating yourself from the embrace and catching her sorrowful gaze, she seems to hesitate before speaking. 

“I don’t blame you for what you did. I’d... I would have done the same,” she spoke with regret and her downcast eyes made it clear she was ashamed of her choices, but you just shake your head. 

“I was too hard on you, ‘m sorry-” 

“No, my love, I’m at fault here. And- I've been thinking. I’m removing your father from Arkham. They don’t tell me much but his... his doctor doesn’t seem to be helping. And the nurses there terrify me. Your father isn’t crazy, he’s just scared.” Her voice cracks on the last word. 

“Thank you, mom.” Standing up to make yourself more presentable and to help your mother stand, you think back on what was said.  

Of course, Falcone is the perpetrator and cause of this whole mess. It wasn’t particularly shocking to hear, but some parts of you were yet to grasp the situation. For a second you think of telling your frail mom to come stay with you until the papers for your dad's release are finished and he’s officially out of Arkham, but a knock at the door stops you. 

This time, it’s not Shelly- or was it Sylvia? - no matter, Gordon stands at the door, glancing through the crack in the door. His face is twisted in a I’m-stressed-and-we-need-to-hurry-away-from-here-way, and he nods for you to come out into the hall, likely to spare your mother from the words about to be spoken, so you follow him out. 

“Bat signal is up; we need to get outta here. You’ve been in there a while, everything okay?” He nods back at the room to where your mom is still standing, and you look back for a moment before looking back and nodding. 

“I got some answers to some stuff, that’s it. We ready to head out?” Gordon gives a swift nod before letting you know he’ll be outside and waiting in his car. 

“Mom, I need to go. Something came up, I’ll uhm, text you?” Pulling on your jacket hurriedly, you speak with a hushed tone, chewing slightly at your lips in weariness.  

“Okay, sweetheart. Take care,” she comments, brushing your arm as you pass by. Leaving the office in a scramble, your heeled shoes clicking against the epoxy floors, the squeak from the friction scratching unpleasantly against your ears until you eventually make it out to the wet asphalt outside. You hadn’t noticed how late it had already gotten, nightfall pending over the city where crime does not rest for even a single moment. Gordon doesn’t hesitate in putting the gas to the floor when you enter the vehicle, and then you’re on your way to the signal of the city’s beloved bat. 

Batman speaks first, “I saw the signal, that’s not you two?” 

“No, we thought it was you. Came as soon as we saw it,” Gordon waves between the two of you. A nervous concern places itself in the back of your mind, and you pick up your gun from the holster on your belt before bringing the elevator down and Gordon follows your actions and does the same, the Bat eyeing your guns in slight disdain to which you only roll your eyes.  

When the elevator brings you to your desired floor, you watch how the cat lady from yesterday beats up a man you’re yet to recognize through the grated door. Your gun is pointed further up at them both, voices travelling, but you don’t pay them any attention. 

What does bring your attention is Kenzie, on his knees and bloody from being beat up, his hands tied behind his back and sat a little too close to the edge. Kenzie finally looks up at the prospect of possibility of help, and a vulnerable look passes his face briefly as he sees you and Gordon. 

“L/n, Gordon! Help me out! She’s got my gun!” Kenzie barely manages to bite out the sentence before she’s kicking him again and pointing the gun at his face to which you intervene, your own pointed right at her. 

“Put the gun down, now!” Your brows are furrowed, and she looks surprised at seeing you, like it’s the first time she has noticed your presence. She hesitates for a moment and looks at Bruce before she starts talking about something else and throwing a phone at him where a voice note from a call plays.  

The voice of a woman whimpering out pleas sounds across the platform, with the addition of Kenzie’s and Falcone’s. They sound like they’re interrogating the girl, about Mitchell and something he had told her. Disgust runs through you at the voices through the device and then the girl, Annika, starts confessing about what Mitchell had told her, about some kind of deal he and Falcone made. 

Gordon eyes you for a moment, and out of the corner of your eye you see Bruce looking back at the woman who’s ceased her beating of the man grunting in pain. Then Annika starts spewing information about drops, and about how Mitchell used it to become mayor. That’s when you hear her grunts of pain, and realize Falcone- 

“Jesus, he’s strangling her,” your superior coughed out in shock. Bile rises in your throat, but you swallow down the burn because this is your job. Looking over, you find tears streaming down the woman's face, and you realize they must’ve had a deeper connection for her to mourn this deeply. After the recording ends, one thing becomes clear, and you voice your belief out loud. 

“Falcone’s the rat,” you mumble, gun lowering as Gordon and Batman turn to face you. “Falcons have wings too.” 

Gordon repeats your words back in shock, something akin to skepticism in his tone, eyes squinting and nose wrinkling. Bruce simply blinks at you a few times and sends a curt bob of his head which you ignore. Whilst you stand at the back, Jim steps forward and starts talking to Kenzie. 

“Falcone works for you guys? The mayor, the DA?” 

“No,” Kenzie breaths out heavily, “We work for him, everyone does.” 

“What do you mean by that? How?” You bite out the question, although not quite sure whether or not you want to hear the answer. 

“Through the Renewal fund, it’s everything. After Thomas Wayne died everyone went after it like vultures. The mayor, Falcone, Maroni. Everyone got in on it,” Kenzie looks at you all, breath shaky. The damage on his face clearer to you now as you step forward, scratches across his whole face. 

“It was perfect for making bribes and laundering money. A huge charitable fund with absolutely no oversight, everybody got a piece. But Falcone got greedy, wanted more. So, he orchestrated a play to take Maroni down by ratting out his drops operation. Made careers of everyone who went after him and installed them all as his puppets.”  

A beat passes by where nobody talks; only the sounds of the city are heard through the hushed wind. 

“You think this this goddamn election matters? Falcone’s the mayor; he’s been the mayor for the last 20 years-” 

“Come on, Vengeance,” she interrupts Kenzie, impatience written in the way she shuffles around,” Let’s go kill that son of a bitch. This creep too, let’s finish this.” Pointing the gun at Kenzie, finger on the trigger, you pick up your own, ready to shoot when Batman pushes the weapon out of her hands roughly. They argue for a bit, something you don’t particularly care for, zoned out for a moment and taking in the new information from Kenzie. You’d known Falcone was involved and that the police department was at least dirty; you just hadn’t realized how big it actually was. 

Screams of Kenzie and seeing him fall back brings you back to reality, but before he goes too far down, Bruce manages to grapple and save him. The cause of his fall starts running away, and you chase after her in hopes of stopping foolish plans when she herself jumps off the building. 

“Fuck.” Cursing won’t help; however, you can’t help but let the word slip. From the corner of your eye, you watch as Gordon and Batman help Kenzie up from his terrible predicament. You catch the end of Gordon’s sentence as you return. 

“-she kills Falcone we may never find the Riddler.” 

“I have to stop her,” Batman hurries out, removing the grappling hook abruptly. 

“Don’t you mean ‘we’?” It’s not meant to come out as a snarl, but it does, and you can’t help that. He looks up at you from his kneeling position; eyes glazed over in slight shock at the malice in your tone and expression. 

“I gotta do this my way,” he responds, getting up from his position. 

“Yeah? And then what, a happy ending?” You hope your anger at him comes across clearly. 

“No, we do as Riddler says. ‘Bring the rat into the light’.” Then, without hesitation he throws himself off the ledge, with the hook keeping him suspended against gravity, and disappears into the night. 

“Son of a fucking bitch, I hate that guy.” It’s not meant for Gordon’s ears, but he hears them anyway. “Come on, let’s hurry out of here.” 

“Are we supposed to keep Kenzie here? What if he escapes?” One look at him tells you he’s strong enough to make it out of there and make a flee for it. So, you walk up to him and swing the butt of your gun down on his temple to which he passes out, like a kid on new year's after the fireworks end.  

“Hey! What the hell was that for!?” Gordon looks at you with eyes so wide his whites are showing, and you shrug as you grab his arm and hurry out of there. Any evidence in the bag, including the phone is with the man next to you, and as you descend you send the file to the police department where it will likely reach news sources within minutes. 

Whilst Gordon focuses on driving you both down to the Iceberg Lounge, you start sending pagers for backup, because you have a feeling things are about to get really messy really fast. The drive is there is tense and neither of you speak except for when you must answer the occasional call from cops through the radio. 

By the time you arrive, it seems as if the whole department is standing outside of the Lounge, barricades stopping people from going in or out. Showing your badges to some rookie cop at the entrance, you’re both let through and walk up the steps and into the club where lights are flashing, and the heavy smell of smoke, perfume and other substances stings your nose. That’s when you spot Batman, walking out with Falcone in front of him, hands behind his back but with a large grin covering his whole face. In contrast to him, you wear a scowl on your face when he starts talking to you. 

“Oh-hoho, you with Zorro and Robin Hood over here?” He directs the question at Batman but stares you down. “Don’t you know you guys in blue work for me?” Gordon seems to have had enough of his shit and grabs him from the collar of his neck to lead him out to see where all the cops are standing outside and says: “Guess we don’t all work for you.” 

Gordon reads him his rights whilst Martinez cuffs him, and for a moment something feels off and eerie. Phone buzzing with text notifications, you pull it up and see an unknown number had sent a photo and a text. You open the chat, and your heart drops for the nth time just today. It’s a photo of you where you currently stand, and under it a message. 

Unknown: 

I told you to stop getting involved. 

[Photo Attachment] 

Where a woman lives, from what she once fled, 

There are papers on her desk, and a cat on the bed 

So, tell me one thing, as smoke and fire fill the sky 

Where am I? 

“What is that?” Batman stands behind you, eyes flickering in concern at the seeming death threat you just received. You feel lightheaded and nauseous, breath stuttering out unevenly. Looking up to where you’d assume the photo was taken, you catch the glint of a sniper in the window of an apartment complex just opposite where you stand.  

“Get down! There’s a sniper in the window!” You find yourself shouting out the warning and attempt to aim your own gun and shoot, but the distance is far too great, and you were far too late in noticing, for a loud bang echoes in the night, and the crash of a heavy body comes not long after. Screams in fear are heard from all around you, orders being shouted at officers and when you focus your attention back to the window, you notice the perpetrator no longer in the view from earlier. 

It’s fucking Riddler. 

Your feet are pounding on the ground, trying to catch up to him despite the threat still lingering in the back of your mind. Dozens of officers are following and running toward the building, as well as Batman a few paces behind you; watching as he then shoots a hook through a window and gets inside ahead of anyone else. 

After running up the stairs and taking a few turns, you find yourself in his home, if you could even call it that. Stuff was piled on each other, close to toppling over from the sheer amount, but no Riddler. He had managed to flee right under your noses, again. Batman steps towards you and voices that he’s gone, nowhere to be found. That’s when your radio crackles. 

“-witness saying they saw someone run down a fire escape and into a corner diner. Guy’s sitting alone at the counter right now, we have eyes-” 

“Copy that,” you interrupt him and watch Gordon and Batman follow you out in a hurry, making your way to said diner. Guns drawn, and quietly, about a dozen police officers including Bruce creep in the dark, and you catch the light inside and see said man at, all alone at the counter. You’re first up, and gesture for someone to come up behind you to shove open the door. 

“Police, hands up!” Someone shouts as you edge closer, gun drawn. 

“He said put your goddamn hands up, you son of a bitch!” Gordon’s distinct voice shouts out from behind you, and that’s when Riddler slowly turns to face you with his hands up as ordered. Now about thirty officers both in and out of the diner surround the area. For the first time now, the Riddler speaks, no voice modifications to change what he sounds like. 

“I just ordered a slice of pumpkin pie-” Barely managing to get the words out, someone shoves him down against the counter and they start cuffing him. Your jaw stays gaping, hands cold at seeing him. It strikes you how normal he looks, just a regular man you might as well have seen anywhere. He stared up at you for a moment and seems to recognize your face, for it twists into a terrible smile that deeply disturbs you. Something outside catches his attention, and you follow his line of sight and catch Batman standing idly. Martinez picks up what seems to be his wallet, where multiple IDs are found, each with a completely different name, birth date, everything.  

“Get this fucker out of here!” His still warm cup of coffee emits steam, and when you look down in it, you find one question mark drawn into the otherwise white, foamed milk and goosebumps rise over your arms and neck. 

“Don’t let it bite, you’ll get rabies, Batman..,” you mumble quietly, to which he glances at you, the ghost of a small smile resting on his face, mouth twitching up. He takes it out and closes the cage, and you stand with him. Along with the letter, you find a metal tool, a sort of chisel, bloodied and old. 

“He killed Mitchell with it, the markings will match up with the ones in his study,” Batman comments, focusing his attention on the letter. When he opens the card opens and two words are scribbled across the pages: ‘My confession’. He turns it to Gordon who looks confused. 

“What’s he confessing? We already know he killed Mitchell-” 

“This isn’t over,” Batman interrupts, something unrecognizable in his eyes. Just then your phone starts buzzing with a phone call and startles you to the point where you jump slightly in surprise. Though phone calls are prohibited during work hours, you pick up the phone where the name of the old lady next door flickers on the screen. 

What the fuck. 

Despite your work rules, you answer the phone call, and you don’t manage a single word out before you hear shouting, screaming and sobbing in the background, along with sirens. 

“Y/n! You have to come here immediately; the apartments are burning down! Buttercup is still inside your home!” The feeling pf panic like never before is abrupt, and you take a few steps as the room around you spins. 

How could I forget the messages? 

I was distracted. I shouldn’t have gotten distracted. 

Stepping toward Gordon slowly, you grab his car keys from his jacket pocket and rush out of the crime scene. Shouts of your name echo behind you, but nothing is coming through to you, focused on your objective of getting Buttercup. The car stands somewhere to the side, and you drive like a maniac through the Gotham streets, heart going at a million miles an hour. 

It doesn’t take very long for you to arrive, and you notice the smoke before anything else, engulfing the whole neighborhood with its deadly toxins. Running out of the car, you don’t bother turning it off, or closing the door before running into the smoke-filled lobby. Once again, people are shouting after you, but no one makes a move to stop you. Never in your time living at this apartment had you taken the stairs, now would be your first time. And maybe the last, depending on how this whole thing ends.  

Finally at your floor, you find the door. The smoke had long since begun entering your lungs, and the hacking sounds of coughing the only thing you hear along with the sizzling fire and collapsing building. You try with your key, but the door doesn’t budge, and you start ramming your shoulder into it until it gives. Falling to the floor from lack of oxygen, you start crawling into the place once known as home.  

“Buttercup! Buttercup, please, I’m here now! Come to me!” You manage to cough out the words weakly, looking around to find her sweet fur contrast against your furniture with no sign of the feline. Instead, a trail of blood catches your eye, a trail that makes itself up your wall where- 

Where Buttercup is pinned and mauled. 

A scream of terror tears through your entire being, your vocal cords going numb by the second and already damaged from the continued smoke inhalation. Tears spring into your eyes, and sobs shake your entire form where you lie, cold despite the fire buzzing around you. Body curling in on itself, you don’t feel anything, mind numb with fact that your home is burning down as you sit in it, your cat you raised dead and your belongings burning each second. Your eyes find the horrific sight of your poor cat against the wall, and another scream rattles you, and you feel a migraine starting. 

“Y/n! Where are you!?” A voice calls out for you from behind, but all you can do is scream and cry out in pure, unfiltered, devastating sadness. The presence of someone fills your senses, and they attempt to pick you up, but you thrash against their hold. 

I’ll die. I’d rather die than be left to deal with this.  

You catch Bruce’s eyes through the mask of the vigilante he carries into the nights, and the last thing you see is him mouthing inaudible words and feel his strong arms carrying you, and before you’re none the wiser, everything gets engulfed in darkness. 

As you had predicted before, the bricks holding in a flood finally cracked to reveal an eruption of waves crashing over you. However, it hadn’t started that way. The late-night research was going as it always had, with your head bent at an awkward angle, neck sore from the many hours spent in this position, and notes being scribbled hastily over documents. And although it wasn’t allowed, you had smoked in here, the lighter and pack sitting casually on your desk. To take the edge off, you told yourself. Naturally, darkness surrounded you, apart from the overhead light adjusted lowly, to not weigh down your already tired eyes. So, the light from outside bleeding into the office space was unmistakable, a stark contrast to the ink black sky. The batsignal gleamed, calling you to its location. Although you hadn’t been formally invited to be a part of Gordon’s and Batman’s crime solving team, you thought it better to go investigate than leave it be, lest either of them required assistance. Which is why you did exactly that. 

Driving from the police station to the signal didn’t take long, especially not with the ideas swirling around your mind. Seeing the signal had made you more alert, an obvious difference to just minutes before, where sleep was on the verge of taking over. Snapping out of the stupor wasn’t too difficult, considering your anxiety did that for you. Nevertheless, you arrive in time to see someone else simultaneously pull up, a car you recognize as Gordon’s who walks up to you with a greeting. 

“Hello Y/n, I was about to call you here, but it seems you have me beat. Any idea what this is might be about?” Gordon walks with you to the rusty elevator, pressing a button before the contraption comes to life in a whirring motion. 

“I’ve no clue, jus’ came here as soon as I saw the signal. Thought you or Bats needed help or somethin’, came to check it out.” A yawn squeezes your lungs and pressure releases when it slips past your lips, tears escaping in the process. You rub the dampness from your cheeks as the doors reopen, and you both step out.  

In front of the signal, still and silent, you spot the distinct figure of Batman (am I supposed to think of him as Batman or Bruce?), seemingly reading something in his hold. Gaze trailing up at the noise you made upon entry, he studies you for what feels like an eternity. Brows furrowing, you spot a familiar card in his grasp, and though it is yet to be opened, the sender was quite obvious. 

“Riddler.” The one word slips past his lips, showing off the front of an odd card that spelled out “Congratulations!” in neat cursive. Standing beside Bruce’s persona, you gesture at him to open it and reveal an expected riddle. Once the words uncover behind what seems to be a deliberate front, Gordon starts reading the words out loud for you.  

“’I grew up from a seed, tough as a weed. But in a mansion, in a slum, I’ll never know where I come from. Do you know what I am?’” Gordon looks at you both for a clue, confusion written all over his face. “What does he mean?” 

“An orphan.” Hearing his stiff voice echo those words out, your blood runs cold. The find hits you deeply, managing to knock the breath from your lungs. Managing to resume somewhat, you find your voice, intending to explain it to Gordon as to not arise suspicion with Bruce instead. 

“Riddler, he’s talking about Wayne manor. The one turned into an orphanage. That’s where we need to go, and we need to go right now.” Hesitating wasn’t an option, it never had been, and determination to get to the bottom of all this settled in your mind. Gordon’s face hardens at the notion of Riddler messing around in an abandoned location once meant to help children in great need of it. A look passes between you and Bruce, unidentified emotions swirling in his deep blue irises. 

It doesn’t take particularly long for the three vehicles to swerve into the abandoned driveway.   A chilling feeling ripples through your spine, a feeling beyond recognition arising upon entry of the old manor. Although the flashlight held tightly in your cold hands helped with seeing better in the lurking darkness, it hadn’t eased your worries. Before you do it yourself, Gordon picks up his gun and points it forward, a safety precaution should someone jump towards you. Bruce glares at the weapon behind his mask, an observation Gordon seems to miss. In big, green letters, the word ’WELCOME’ is written boldly, a contrast to the dirty walls. 

“That’s fuckin’ creepy,” you mumble absentmindedly, looking around the space where you used to run around as a kid. Piping peaks out of walls, and the sound of water leaking down through the roof reverberates quietly in the muted corridor. Large arrows, drawn with the same green paint as earlier, lead you to what you can only assume is the destination. In one of the narrow hallways, a shadow moves across the floor, and then someone appears further down the hall. Your heart jumps at the unexpected scare, whilst Gordon immediately springs into action and runs after, followed closely by you. 

Eventually you find yourself in a room filled to the brim with people, looking high out of their minds on what you imagine to be drops, and Gordon vocalizes that thought in a murmur. Not even a second later, and the sounds of singing echoes across the manor. The usually comforting notes of ‘Ave Maria’ reach your ears, sounding awfully creepy in the old manor. You find yourself almost drawn to it, and the thumping of your heart adds to the eerie feeling. All instincts tell you to run away, but you’re the first to step forward, towards the music. 

Continuous chills run down your spine, all of them coming in waves followed by a deep tension that settles deep in your muscles. Finally, light and sound seep through a door stood slightly ajar, once again with words written all over; ‘WHERE IT ALL BEGAN’. When you push it open it reveals a large room, a projector shining onto one of the encasing walls, walls that slowly enclose as you watch what it’s playing. 

It’s an old video, one where you were still a child, from an old mayoral campaign. Thomas Wayne’s voice fills the room, and the hindering shadow of Batman steps in front of your, in comparison, tiny frame. His head turns to look around, and only now do you notice the words written all over. Gordon was now next to you, somehow without you having heard his footsteps, pulse hammering even over your own thoughts. 

“’Sins of the father’.” Head swiveling to see what Gordon was speaking of, you meet those blaring words, and the rest of the sentence remains unspoken between your trio. 

‘Shall be visited upon the son.’ 

The video playing pans to the faces of Martha and an adolescent Bruce, sporting happy and hopeful smiles, unaware of the tragedy about to hit their family. Inconspicuously peering over at the grown-up version of him, you search for a hint of emotion to uncover what he may be thinking, but he only stares at the video intensely. 

“Jesus Christ, Riddler’s next victim is Bruce Wayne.” Gordon turns his head towards you, where you now stood alone, having felt Bruce’s presence leaving earlier. Springing into action, you start speedwalking away and giving orders to your superior. If it had been any other day, you wouldn’t have dared to do so, however right now is an exception. 

“Gordon, you stay here. Get back up, don’t let anyone ruin any evidence. I’m going to Wayne tower!” 

Without a second more wasted, you break into a sprint. Feeling thankful for the many years spent here, accomponied by people you loved dearly. Throwing open the car door and practically hurling yourself into the seat, you leave the old manor for the city center. With your phone in hand, you find Bruce’s contact name and quickly call his number. 

First call. Declined. 

Second call. Also declined. 

It takes 5 calls to reach through to him, and when it well goes through, you don’t give him a chance to utter a single word. 

“Bruce, you need an alibi. They’re going to question everything; where you were tonight, what you were doing-” 

“I already know that-” 

“Let me finish talking! Use me, tell them you were at my house, cat-sitting Buttercup. I’ll have Gordon be the one to interrogate you once he arrives, but right now you need to seem unaware of what’s happening. I’ll see you there.” 

You don’t immediately hang up the phone, in case he has something to say. But the line goes quiet, and so you take initiative and do it for him, speeding to what may be a crime scene. An incoming ring as you enter the city edge startles you, and for a moment you think it may be Bruce, but a glance at the contact tells you otherwise. It’s Martinez, and you internally sigh at the inevitable and likely irrelevant sentences about to be spoken. Despite all that, you pick it up. 

“Hey detective! We need you at a crime scene, we’re kind of uh, short on people tonight! Wayne tower, right now preferably-” 

You cut him off. 

“I’m on my way, so don’t call again. Send backup to Gordon, he’s at a different scene with evidence.” 

This time, you don’t wait for a voice before turning away the phone call. You can just about see the tower standing tall in the nighttime, this time with smoke curling out at the top and your heart sinks to your stomach.  

Bruce isn’t hurt, but someone is. 

Time passes slowly when you’re terrified; now is excellent proof of that. Gotham traffic hadn’t always been this bad, had it? Despite however long you were in the car, you make it there. 

Smoke and people and chaos furls all around you. Cops running around, trying to achieve order among victims and witnesses, firefighters packing up after having extinguished the flames as a reveal from what you find out was a bomb, and staff crying whilst being checked on by ambulance workers. Lastly, your eyes travel and land on a disheveled Bruce. No longer in his vigilante suit, now just a man who looks like he’s lost everything, sitting on a stool like a child. 

Fuck. 

“Bruce.” Mustering up the courage, you call out his name lowly, and yet the mess happening in the background he hears you. His eyes lock with your own, void of anything. Two empty irises stare back at your own, and what had you internally dreaded comes to life. You step to him and kneel down, placing your hands softly on his slumped shoulders. 

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay, I’ll make sure of it. What did they tell you?” 

“Alfred.” 

“Brucie.” Your own voice felt foreign, a lump settling in your throat. 

“Mom and dad.” 

“’m so sorry, Brucie.” 

Body trembling in sadness, he seemed to have bottled up his emotions, perhaps in fear of making their deaths a reality, a reality he wasn’t yet ready to exist in. When was the last time he had received a hug? Was it before they went to watch the movie, happy to go as a family? Or was it after, when they’d had their fun, when there was still time for things to go south? 

The thoughts plagued you. Instinctively, you hug the still sitting boy, in hopes of providing even a semblance of comfort, to show him he had people around him. Bruce hugs back, tightly knit hands wrapping around you. That’s when you feel shoulders shaking against you, wet tears soaking your formerly perfectly pressed outfit. Soon, your own flood starts. Quiter, but still there.  

Goodness knows how long you were in that position, but evenutally the tears halt. Thankfully, you had placed napkins in anticipation in the pockets of your dress, should the watergates open at the funeral. Seperating slighlty from Bruce, you hand him a tissue, to which he looks very grateful.  

“I’m very sorry, Bruce.” 

“T’s not your fault, I dunno why you keep apologizing...” 

“Jus’ don’t blame yourself for it, because I already know you are.” 

“Mhm.” 

Your mother steps towards you, and you know it’s time for you to leave, even if you still aren’t ready for it. An encouraging voice in your heart tells you that everything will be fine, that soon enough Bruce will be himself again.  

The rational sound of your mind tells you that nothing will ever be the same after this. 

A tug of your hand and you’re suddenly out of dreamworld. A whisper into your ear: “We have to go, sweetpea. Say goodbye.” 

Goodbye?  

‘But not for long, right?’ Is what you wanted to ask. 

But somewhere deep in your soul, you knew it would be a while until you’d see him again, possibly never again. 

“Goodbye, Brucie. Don’t forget me.” 

Maybe it was a selfish thing to say, but what would you know? You were just a kid who didn’t know how to deal with grief, much less how to console a kid grieving his own parents. The possibility of that happening to someone hadn’t even occurred to you before Martha and Thomas. A part of you feared you may never see him again. 

But you had hope, and you know what they say about hope. 

It is the only thing stronger than fear. 

Gordon arrives soon after you’ve taken control over the situation, as no one of authority had come to take charge, but you hand it to him the second he enters the building. One thing you make sure of is that he’s the one to question Bruce, as you’ve not allowed anyone else to. Gordon is a heavily empathetic person when it comes to you, and you hope for some of that to come out when he’s with Bruce, so he doesn’t dig deeper into the lie you’ve curated. 

Walking around, you make sure to listen into their conversation, pretending to look busy by looking at things and taking notes on a small clipboard a clueless intern had given you earlier.  

“-at uhm a friend’s house, taking care if her cat-” 

Thank God, he took my advice. 

“Who’s your friend?” 

You don’t hear him say your name, but you feel two pointed stares piercing through you.  

Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back. 

About a minute passes, and only then do you allow yourself a small glance in their direction, where his gaze is already fixated on you, and although you may be delusional, it seems to be a look of gratitude. It doesn’t take long for them to finish up, and you walk up to Bruce when they do. 

“You should go see Alfred, but don’t go alone. Paparazzi are hoarding the gate, if you go in a cop car they won’t follow you. I’ll have someone take you.” 

“You don’t have to do this-” 

“I’m doing it because I want to, Bruce. Is that so hard to believe?” 

He goes silent, and you take it as a sign to call someone over. 

“Martinez! Get over here, you’re going to be escorting Mr. Wayne to the hospital, and wherever else he wishes to go.” 

“Yes ma’am!” 

“Don’t call me ma’am.” You frown at him, and he immediately disappears to go ready up a vehicle. Looking back at the man in front of you, a few last words are uttered before he departs. 

“Call me if something comes up. Don’t forget, I’m uh, here if you need me.” 

“Thank you, Y/n.” He doesn’t make any moves to leave, and you roll your eyes before shoo-ing him away like a pup waiting to be given an order. 

“Okay, go. Alfred is probably already awake and waitin’ for your ass to bother him.” 

Turning away to finish up your notes, you see Bruce stopping and waving at you in farewell. You do as well, hoping that just this time, he doesn’t disappear again. 

“Detective Y/n!” Gordon calls out to you from behind, holding up a fire-resistant envelope for you to see. The front of it is addressed to the Batman, and inside lay a card, the words ‘See you in hell’ written scratchily, hastily on the sheet.  

“This guy is so fuckin’ weird, oh my gosh.”  

“You got that right. By the way, unless you want to review all this with me, you’re free to go. There’s not much more evidence to collect here.” 

“Ain’t much else to do anyway, you goin’ back to the station?” 

“I don’t have much of a choice now. I’ll join you in a moment and we’ll head there in a second.” Gordon turns to find someone to let them know you both will be leaving, and that evidence must be placed at the station the second they finish up whatever business they have left in the tower. 

Feeling enclosed in the room still full of people with all sorts of different occupations, you get an urge to leave. Making your way to the elevator, you find yourself letting out a deep huff, the stress of today taking a small toll on your already tired mind. 

I should go to a spa, God knows I deserve it. But a cigarette shall do for now- 

As you step outside and reach into the pocket of your coat, where you usually kept your dose of tobacco, you find nothing. Like a man digging for gold, your hands go deep, blindly searching for wherever they may have disappeared. But not only is the pack gone, so is the lighter. Obviously, you remember after racking your brain. They lay at your desk back at the office, from before you had even left for the Batsignal.  

Groaning in annoyance and defeat, you decide to enter your car and wait for Gordon instead. Music plays quietly, a less stress-relieving substitute to your much cherished rolls. But what can you do? Things never went your way, anyway. Especially now, with how Gordon was taking his sweet time up there. 

Won’t hurt if I beat him there. 

So, you leave for the station, hoping that he’ll arrive soon after you. Not to mention the fact that you’ll need to clear your headspace if you’re going to work with him on a report, since it had been a while since you co-wrote one with anybody. Since Gordon’s your superior, he could, if he wished, throw all paperwork he didn’t want to do at you, but he doesn’t operate like that. According to him, being able to complete your own work is half of what is to be a detective. So, you got away unless you were present at the scene without him or if you had really wanted to. It’s good for experience, you’d tell yourself.  

Mind drifting around to different spaces, you barely notice that you’ve finished parking at the station before you’re actually entering it and unlocking the door to your personal office. It looks just about as messy as it had when you left it, with one odd detail. It’s chilly here. 

Window is open. Someone’s been here. 

A shiver makes its way down your spine, not just from the cold gusts of wind, and your eyes look around in the darkness for anything else that may be out of place. Carefully turning on the light, a small note makes itself visible on your desk. Picking it up, seeing that it’s meant for you, once more a note left by the creepy stalker (?) and you’re so engrossed in the words of the note that you don’t hear the footsteps coming up behind you until a firm hand is on your shoulder. Instincts take over, and you pick up the gun in your holster, pointing it at the intruder. 

“Hey! Calm down, it’s just me!” Met by the concerned gaze of Gordon, you slowly lower the weapon and sigh relief, but irritation quickly stems from it. 

“Why’d you sneak up on me like that!?” 

“You weren’t answering me! I kept calling your name, but you were distracted. What’s got you looking like that?” 

Mouth pressing into a thin line, you know there’s no use in lying to him if you want the locks on the window to be changed. Reluctantly, you hand him the paper. 

“’I gave you a warning, this is your last. Remember it’, what is this? Jesus, you got someone after you?” 

“I don’t know! I live my life like a freakin’ hobbit, I don’t speak to anyone aside from like, you and the cashier at my local supermarket.” 

“I don’t know what this person is playing at, but I’m telling you to keep a weapon within reach at all times. This is threatening, and not a very peaceful message.” His eyes go tough, with a gaze that tells you he’s not joking around either. You don’t mention the part where the windows of your apartment have been clearly opened forcefully, but you note to call a locksmith first thing tomorrow morning. 

“Enough of this, let’s get started. What exactly transpired at the crime scene?” 

“Alfred Pennyworth, Mr. Wayne’s butler and former caretaker, opens a package meant for Wayne, and with it comes a letter and a box. The letter we’ve already read, it’s the fireproof one, however the box contains a C4-explosive that should’ve killed whoever was holding it.” Gordon reads off a paper in his hand, likely most of the information they were able to gather from Alfred in his state, and your head goes dizzy at the thought of him opening it. 

“How come he didn’t die, then?” 

“No doubt that he realized it was a device meant to murder and threw it away, because he was found lying a good distance away from the casing. It’s not probable that the explosion threw him back, or he wouldn’t have lived, guaranteed.” 

“What state is he in?” 

“Sedated and yet to wake, they’re supposed to update and call when he does for an in-depth interrogation. Mostly second-degree burns, third-degree along his forearms where it’s assumed he shielded himself with.” He pauses for a moment before asking his own question. “Why do you think Riddler’s next target was Wayne?” 

“I mean, he clearly wanted revenge on his father for something; the question is for what. But Riddler has so far only killed corrupt officials, and that’s what’s stumpin' me.” 

“What are the odds of Wayne and his father being corrupt?” 

“Doubt Bruce is, but Thomas Wayne must’ve done something to provoke a reaction this strong.” 

“Who was he friends with?” 

“Thomas? Apart from my parents, ’m not sure. He held a tight inner circle.” 

“Could you ask them-?” 

“Nah, I’m not on speakin’ terms with ‘em.” 

Rubbing the stress from your eyes, you feel thankful that your hands are cold, the difference in temperature alerting you more. Gordon sighs like a tired father next to you, and he carelessly tosses the papers in his hold on your desk before looking at you. 

“Go home, detective. You have a personal relationship with Wayne, so this must be taking a toll on you. Besides, your cat doesn’t have anyone to look after it.” After he says the last part, even he himself looks skeptical at his words, but you don’t let him wonder anymore. 

“Let me know if you need help on the case, chances of me sleeping tonight are slim.” 

“Don’t make me tuck you into bed myself, detective. See what you’ve done? Making me sound like a concerned father.” 

“Yeah, yeah whatever...Thanks Jim, I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He pats your back twice, softly, before ushering you out. This time, you don’t forget to take your pack and lighter along. Thing is, Buttercup managed just fine on her own. Occasionally, you would hand her over to the sweet old lady next door, but the feline didn’t particularly like her. And to be fair, she slept most of her days away, so a cat-sitter wasn’t ever required. You just didn’t want her to be lonely. 

But she’d survive an hour or two without you. Which is why you decide to go somewhere with a nice view to have a smoke with a thought or two. 

For reasons you can’t name, you end up where this whole night started. Maybe it had been at the back of your mind, but until you felt the vehicle stop off to the side, concealed from where you usually park, do you know where you’ve taken yourself. Finally, on your desired floor, you find a few construction boxes and flop down in a casual manner, boxes hiding you from sight. 

The last thing you wanted was to be disturbed. After lighting one and slumping back against the crates, you look over the surprisingly beautiful view. Gotham, despite today’s events, looked peaceful and almost...quiet, which is cynical to think whilst knowing how She’s full of unrest. With the rising sun, the sky held colors other than grey for once, which was a privilege to see when you lived in a city notorious for being monotonous. You almost wanted to take a picture, as a reminder that there’s beauty in a place known as otherwise. On the way to pick up your device, the loud creaking of the elevator takes you by surprise and when it arrives, the person who steps out has you furrowing your brows. 

Batman. 

What the hell is he doing here?  

Is he meeting someone? Gordon, maybe? 

Merging yourself into the shadows as much as possible, you wait it out in hopes to see the reason he’s here at such an unreasonable hour. Indeed, it doesn’t take long at all for someone else to step out. Scanning and trying hard to see through the gaps, you see someone very unexpected. 

The hell is he doing with a criminal? Not to mention one I’m tryna catch... 

As much as catching her at this second would satisfy your ego, your curiosity over the nature of this strange meet-up got the better of you. Their voices are faint, but loud enough for you to hear. They seemed to be arguing, and with her pacing it seemed to stem from her end 

“-Kenzie’s car, and I’m gonna make him pay for it. You with me or what? I mean, you’re vengeance.” 

“Your friend got involved with the wrong people, maybe you should’ve told her that.” 

“The hell do you mean by that?” 

You don’t catch what he says, but you catch sight of her walking up to him slowly, with an expression that could only be described as pissed. For some reason, you get a sense of enjoyment from it. For a bit you stop listening in to their bickering until you hear Falcone’s name being mentioned, and you see Bruce gripping her arm tightly, prohibiting her from escaping. 

“Because, he’s my father!” 

Well, damn. Is she working for him? I gotta remember this shit for later. 

For a while they simply eye each other, and an impatient part of you wished you'd already left. Since they had arrived, you needed to put out the cigarette, in an attempt to disguise your location due to the smoke. You were hiding, after all. The woman, who you had recently seen call herself ‘Catwoman’, as if it wasn’t quite literally obvious, explains that her mother used to work at the club Falcone owns. You want to groan but settle for throwing your head back in annoyance. 

This is one boring conversation to overhear. You hoped for something that could reveal something useful. Nothing she said was news to you, practically everybody knew of Falcone’s promiscuous activities, and him having children with women other than his late wife didn’t astonish you. 

Falcone has many dirty secrets that he’d like to sweep under the rug and forget about. Unfortunately for him, secrets always manage to sneak out of one’s grasp, in some way or another. A part of you sympathizes with her, the daughter of a bad man, likely wronged throughout her life because of him. At least your father is loving, something you’re eternally grateful for at the moment. Distracted by your thoughts, you don’t notice how close she’s stepped to him until the voices go soft. Next thing you know they’re in an embrace, kissing, and you feel your throat tightening, for reasons unbeknownst to you. 

I really shouldn’t be here. 

It doesn’t take that long until Batman pushes her away lightly, and a bitter feeling erupts at his audacity. He refuses to contact you for years, and the only reason you do start talking again is through you meddling in his business and finding out his secret identity. Not once did he try contacting you first. 

Gosh, since when did I become this naive? 

The sounds of heels clicking against the concrete matches the rhythm of your heart thumping in your chest, and you see her entering the elevator and leaving. It makes you ready to attempt leaving, without him noticing. Getting up and out of the odd position you were sitting in, you walk on your heels and roll through the beaten-up shoes you’d chosen that morning. Although it works for a bit, nothing seems to ever get past the Batman, his hurried turn in your direction startling you, that you jump back in horror at being found out. 

“How long have you been here?” 

“Not even greeting me? Wow.” Seeing as you’ve already been caught, you relight the half-smoked roll and reply with an attitude. He regards the action with scrutiny. “Why’s that any of your business anyway, huh?” 

“You’ll kill yourself if you keep smoking-” 

“Soon, I hope.” 

“Don’t say that; your life is worth more than spending it hooked up to machines because of a bad habit like this.” 

“Oh, please. Like you would care about any of that. Since we’re so comfortable talking about each other, why are you running around with a criminal, a child of Falcone’s, no less?” 

He doesn’t have an answer, and you feel irritated, wondering why you’re still standing around, awaiting an answer. 

“...I do care about-” 

“You have a weird way of showin’ it, specifically by not speaking to me for years. You know, I didn’t just lose Martha and Thomas that night. I lost you, too. And fuck, it’s selfish of me to think like that but I can’t help it. Years have passed, and still, I’m the one to initiate anything, even if it was by accident.” 

“I... I’m sorry, it never-” 

“Please, spare me the apologies. I don’t wanna hear it. Goodbye, Bruce.” In the nicest tone possible, eyes pleading with him, Brue stands silently, mouth open as if trying to form words. Not tolerating even a single second longer, you leave him standing there like that.  

Why the fuck am I so emotional over this? He’s just a guy I used to know. 

Buttercup will comfort me. 

And you couldn’t have been more right, for when you arrive in the warmth of your home, she starts cuddling up to you the second you enter. 

That’s how you fall asleep, in your work clothes, on the couch, but most importantly with her by your side. 

The next few days roll by without much trouble. Riddler has yet to strike once more, and the other murder lays unsolved, with no connection to previous killers. It hadn’t come as a surprise to anyone in the department. Most murders, and cases in general were left in the dust, their killers and motives unknown. So, finding words for the report to the yet settled crime wasn’t thrilling, going along the lines of something like this: Two women, blah blah, mid-twenties, stab wounds, yada yada, irregular bruising and the like. 

Looking back at their medical history had also not given any clues, only sparked more suspicion. Both women were going to psychiatrists in Arkham. But any records, any sessions they likely had were... nonexistent. Either they hadn’t attended a single session, or the records were wiped before anyone could review them. Along with that, no connection or name to whoever they were going to. It was a dead end. 

The visuals that different reports usually require had made the easy task of writing nauseating. Haunting images are practically tattooed to the back of your eyelids, having had to stare at them for a clue, even just a crumb of a detail that you might’ve missed. But alas, nothing had popped up. Some less disturbing photos are still pinned to the bulletin board in your office located at the police station. You had spent most days in there, helping Gordon with unrelated things, trying to occupy time and keep your schedule busy. Because most days, there wasn’t anything to do. And you hated that. The waiting, the middle stage, days dragging on for something to happen. Like the calm before the storm. Which is why you jumped up at the first possible offer in what felt like decades.  

“I need you to represent the family in a meeting of Gotham elites, darling.”  

Eughh, I spoke too soon. Maybe this was a mistake. 

Vivian, your oh-so-old grandmother had asked you in what her opinion is a teeny, tiny favor. But this was not just any old ask. This meeting is a tremendously, excruciatingly boring event where the attendees were old, and obnoxious Gothamites. Last time you went to one of these you had snuck off to a bathroom and stayed there until it all ended. It’s an event held every year, meant to discuss future projects, different charity events and the mayoral election.  

Not that there’s much competition for that anymore... unless you can vote for a dead man. 

“If it eases your mind, your aunt Cecilia is going. Either way, I think it an opportunity for you, dear,” Her mellow voice persisted in that convincing way it always had. If your aunt was going, maybe it wasn’t going to be too bad after all. 

“I’ll have to see Nana; my schedule is a bit hectic at the moment.” A lie. “But uhm, I’ll let you know?” You sounded hesitant, something she hadn’t picked up on because her next few words are filled with excitement, nonsense about getting you a dress and sending over the details. 

“I will be notifying Cecilia that you shall join her,” Nana’s accent got more prominent the more she spoke, the old and rich twinge hooking you on every syllable verbalized. You sigh quietly after having said your goodbyes. What was supposed to be a quick call had turned into half an hour of listening to her talk, before she strategically lured you into her trap of encouraging the event on you. 

I hope I don’t regret this.  

Having been picked up by your aunt Cecilia, transportation wasn’t a worry. Although you wouldn’t have minded had she forgot to pick you up. She looked regal, as she always had. Cecilia had this air about her that made her untouchable, a classy woman who didn’t concern herself with things that disinterested her. It baffled you that she even chose to go to this event, willingly. As your mother’s older sister, she was the more rebellious, adventurous one. Luckily, she had taken a liking to you since birth, having no children of her own at the time. In her opinion, child labor was torture, and she’d rather die than ever be with a man. 

She was always there, much more than your mother ever was. 

“How have you been, little Sherlock?” Cecilia’s smile radiates elegance, the smooth roll of her tongue familiar to your ears. You notice the lines around her face, and signs of aging as you study her face whilst thinking of an appropriate answer.  

Little Sherlock. I haven’t heard that one in a while. 

It had been an old nickname she came up with for you, knowing of your ambitions as a young girl. A small warmth extends from your heart at the nostalgic name given, that slowly disappears at the question. Face taking on a sharper angle at your lack of response, she talks before you have time to conjure up a pitiful sentence excusing how you actually feel. “I can tell when you’re troubled, you know. Tell me how it is, you know I don’t judge.” 

“I don’t know, it’s just been a bit hard lately. Maybe work is taking a toll on me-” 

“Don’t lie,” she cuts you off, face softening slightly. You just hope it doesn’t stem from pity. 

“Mom uhm, placed dad at Arkham, permanently. Until he gets ‘better’, or whatever bullshit she spewed,” Making a hand quotation sign at the ‘better’ part, Cecilia catches the underlying but obvious outrage at the situation. “Dad isn’t crazy, Cee. Am I the crazy one for thinking that?” 

“You’re not crazy, I promise you. Did you talk to her about this?” 

“Yes! And she ignored my every word! Told me it was in dad’s “best interest”. How is putting him in Arkham in his best interest? 

“Your mother... she’s always been protective over your father. I’m not excusing her behavior, but it certainly explains her poor actions. Her rational decision making goes out the window when it comes to him. It’s what love does to a person.” 

“Love shouldn’t make you blind to horrible choices. And if it does, I hope it doesn’t catch me,” adding that last part hastily and in a whisper, like a child afraid of getting caught after saying a bad word. Apparently, Cecilia finds that particularly amusing, enough to start expressing it loudly. 

“You’ll regret saying that, little Sherlock. Love will find you when you least anticipate it.” 

“Then why aren’t you married?” Throwing her head back she laughs loudly, an unexpected response.  

“I’m not married because I’m holding a grudge. Besides, I’ve already been married once. And you’ve still got loads of time and energy for that.” 

“You overestimate my endurance, Cee. I seriously doubt your whimsy fantasies.” 

“Just saying, don’t speak too quickly. Also, we have arrived, so while we’re still on the topic, have fun tonight,” she gives a small wink and a teasing smile, tone suggesting something you rather not dig too deep into. As the car comes to a stop, camera lights flash as photographers scramble for a look at the new arrivals. 

I already regret this. 

Blinding lights and shouts of people overwhelm your senses, so climbing the stairs was harder than normal. Barely a foot into the city building, and the dread had already consumed your entire being, partly from the paparazzi. However, you were glad that reporters inside the building was limited. Made things more bearable, even with the snobby rich people. With Cecilia a couple steps behind, hanging off her coat as you did, you wait up before entering the hall, choosing to loop your arm with the older woman. As the door swings open, you hold your breath, bracing for an impact that never arrives. 

Instead, you’re met with the sight of people mingling. A few people here and there look up at you entering, but not everyone does, which reassures you that this might not be too bad. Unless the man walking in your general direction is who you think it is. Eyes hiding behind his staple glasses, guards surrounding him like a king at his throne, which he may as well be judging from his corruption. His expression changes after catching sight of you, even if he tries to hide it immediately after. Now his steps are deliberately making their way to you. Tugging quickly on Cecilia’s arm, who’s still taking in the view, has the opposite effect. Furrowing her brows, she squints at you when his voice chimes in. 

“Hello detective Y/N, miss Cecilia,” his raspy voices scratches at your ears unpleasantly, and you’re already trying to figure out an escape plan. Up close, you can tell how much older he’s gotten the past years, and although he may hold power over the city, a simple bullet would take him out. 

“Carmine Falcone, how nice it is to see you. It has been a while, no?” Cecilia takes the wheel for you, giving you a glance that conveys understanding over your earlier stunt. Whilst they make small talk about nothing in particular, you take a moment to study the people with him. A few lookouts, a young woman clinging to his arm like an anchor, like she’d sink without his arm holding her up. Or rather, Falcone keeping her above the surface, her only means to survive, you think. A little further back stands his son proudly, next to Cobblepot.  

Odd, Carmine has mixed up his company. Since when does he hang out with his son? 

He seems to catch you looking, because next thing you know he’s introducing the people around him. The chick standing next to him eyes you with malice, to which you only give her a long look back until she turns away in defeat. When it comes to presenting his son, Falcone brings him to the front, shoulder to shoulder with his descendant. 

“This is Alberto, my son. One fateful day he’ll be my successor. You know, he’s around your age detective. Maybe you’ll give the guy a chance?” Carmine lets out an almost cackle at the notion, presumably trying to set you both up. But you only fake smile and decline politely, not wanting to upset the beast too much even when disgust pools in your stomach. After all, he was still a man built on crime and corruption. 

He could have anyone killed, by a simple flick of his hand and his voice to command it, he could take a life. 

I know that all too well. 

“Good day, Falcone,” you quipped, leaving the conversation and practically dragging Cecilia with you, only after a stare-down with the mobster. Neither of you look back, but his chilling gaze is settled on your backs like a target, waiting for a moment to strike. Further into a crowd of people, the feeling subsides, yet you’re still aware of his marked presence. 

Unfortunately, the longer you wander in the swarm, the snobbier people get. Families you never took a liking to, spoiled daughters and irksome sons wandering with their parents who all excuse their children's attitudes. At one point, you get stuck next to aunt Cee and one of her old-time friends, from the ‘good old college days’ as they’d put it. Their trivial conversation about nothing notably important starts dragging on, and by then you feel confident enough to wander off alone. 

Soft jazz plays in the background, source coming from a band standing on a small stage. Chatter continues, mellow voices and wealthy laughs heard across the space. At some point, you end up at a bar section, where you settle for now, ordering a non-alcoholic drink to wash down your dry throat. When handed the drink, a man sits in the chair next to you. Dark hair, tall and handsome, features all of which Bruce possess, and for a moment that’s who you think is sitting there. Sneaking peaks, you eventually make a casual swivel of your head in his direction to get a better look. Much to your disappointment, the man in question isn’t the infamous Wayne you had hoped of seeing. For entertainment, you tell yourself. The mystery man seems to sense your less-than happy mood once finding his real identity and seemed to think this a great opportunity to strike a conversation.  

“Are you waiting for someone?”  

“No.” 

“Oh, uhm, are you here alone then?” 

“No.” 

“Not really a talker, huh? What brings you to this event, then?” 

“Listen, I don’t wish to strike a meaningless exchange here. I’d appreciate the silence.” Mood already deflating and temper already starting to gleam, you shut down his lousy attempt at small talk, taking a sip from the much too sugary beverage. Unfortunately, he was rather persistent in his attempt. Some women may pine for that, but you were not the one. 

“You’re very rude, your parents never taught you your manners?”  

“Uh-huh, bye.” Leaving him in the dust and the drink behind, you walk away to find Cecilia once more. She couldn’t have wandered far, not to mention some public officials were about to speak on to promote the mayoral campaign, the betterment of the city and asking for help on funds or charities, the usual boring stuff. You simply hope it goes by quick, wanting no more than a silky, smooth bed and a quiet you couldn’t possibly achieve here. But when have things ever gone your way? 

Eventually you find your aunt standing in the crowd and push through to stand with her, awarding you some nasty looks. Recognizing the people standing with Cecilia as old coworkers of your grandfather, you give a simple nod and polite smile in greeting. With nothing else to do, you listen in on their hushed dialogue.  

“...yes, but living there and not using his money is truly selfish. All that to himself and you would think he’d share, Cecilia.” 

“Sharon, you don’t know why he isn’t using it and frankly, it’s none of our business,” your aunt chimes in with a rigid tone. 

“No, I agree with Sharon here. Wayne has all of that and yet he’s hidin’ away in that tower o’ his.” 

“See! I just know John and I here aren’t the only ones who think this.” 

A feeling of displeasure shifts inside, heart squeezing at their blatant mischaracterization, never even mind their hypocrisy in all this. Not that it’s in your interest to get involved in the first place, but what are you really losing here? There’s still time to waste, as no one is speaking or announcing anything yet. 

“I know you aren’t talking, Sharon. I’ve seen how your husbands company is doing. Tell me, is the 30-something million-dollar mansion to your liking? And you’re one to speak about hiding away, John. What have you done for the city when crime rates increase? You two are far too old for this kind of-” 

A loud bang echos in the room, the sound of a gunshot causing chaos. Instincts tell you to duck, and you bring Cecilia down with you whilst looking for the source of the shot. It doesn’t take long until your eyes find the man from earlier standing on the stage, with a girl in his grasp and a gun pointed at her head.  

“Empty out your pockets and purses, or the girl dies!” 

That’s pretty fuckin’ straightforward, huh?  

She screams bloody murder at his exclamation, and he tells her to shut up, threatening her as people start following his order. Cecilia goes to do the same, but you stop her. Being aware of your surroundings has always treated you well, which is also how you noticed a figure moving behind the curtains where the man stands. 

Batman. 

How long has he been here? 

“Hurry the fuck up! We ain’t got all day, people!” The man starts to get antsy, sweat lining his forehead as he frantically looks out at the people around him, which is when he sees you disobeying his command, shooting another warning signal. “What part of my order wasn’t clear to you, woman!?”  

His next few words never manage to even process in his mind, before he’s being punched into oblivion. Jumping up at the opportunity, you catch Bruce’s gaze behind the mask as you pick up the man’s scattered gun. Picking it up, you point it at his face as the woman scrambles to get away. In seconds people start running out of the doors as cops rush in. You catch sight of Gordon running towards you, own gun raised and ready to shoot. 

Why can’t I catch a break?  

Meet me in the alleyway next to the building- B 

Barely a minute of walking behind a concealed area meant for trash disposal and you’re staring at a car, your car, hidden away. Outside, you see Bruce standing against the vehicle, cap on his head hiding his face from the public, but you catch sight of smudged face paint running down his face. It had started raining in the middle of interrogations, luckily you had brought a coat good enough to keep you warm and dry. He looks up and you both lock eyes, to which he gets in and indicates you should as well. Bruce is the first to blurt out words. 

“You’re being followed. I don’t know by who, but someone is tailing you.” 

“What do you mean?” Suspicions that you’ve had from before start coming back, and your gut feeling from earlier instances only get confirmed when hearing them from someone else. You think back on the moment where your window had been open, a window that you hadn’t opened yourself. 

“I was coming over to leave your car, found someone trying to break in but I couldn’t tail him.” Bruce’s grip on the steering wheel goes tighter, obviously angry with himself for letting the perpetrator getting away. 

“I had a suspicion I was being followed, I felt it.” 

“Why haven’t you told anyone?” 

“Like who, Bruce? The cops? They don’t take ‘gut feelings’ as a plausible cause to start a case. And I’m not a child; I know how to take care of myself.” A moment goes by, and he enters the garage. “Just drop me off here.” 

“I’m coming up with you. We don’t know if there’s a threat inside your home.” 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Coming up to your floor and entering, Bruce ahead and starts searching the apartment, whilst you casually stroll in, and Buttercup takes an interest in Bruce, enough that she follows him around. It takes him a few minutes to determine that you’ll be fine, but he makes sure to close most blinds inside the home.  

“I want you to call me if something comes up,” he exhaled the words quickly, wanting to get his point across. Buttercup sits between your feet, and you pick her up, lightly stroking the feline’s fur. She meows, causing Bruce to look down at her in your arms. 

“Yeah, yeah, I will Bats. Get out of my house now.” Ushering him out of the door, although hoping you’re not coming off as too impolite. The day had taken a small toll on you after all, and you really needed the alone time. He leaves with not much complaint, and you make sure the door is locked about a thousand times, then walking away. Hand swiping across Buttercup’s head, it catches on something attached to her collar. A little roll of paper, similarly to those placed on carrier pigeons. Concern returns, and after struggling with taking it off, you unfold the note that reads: 

Stop meddling in business that isn’t yours to pry in. 

Turning the paper over, it was a photo. One of you, and Bruce, standing next to each other the night when he gave back your shirt. Unease that was once contained now flows freely, and the feeling of being watched returns, prompting you to close all possible windows from seeing inside. You look down at the note once more. 

What the fuck does that even mean?  

Grief was a truly strange thing, found in both body and spirit, appearing suddenly or gradually. Perhaps it follows us through battles and truces, showing up when one thinks it’s already over. But maybe, it never truly leaves, merely obscures itself into the threads of ones soul, knitting fabrics of the mind of which possesses haunting memories, where lies an endless ocean of tears. But you couldn’t let yourself drown in the waves. As easy as it was to simply cry your heart out forever and adding onto that ocean, it wouldn’t take away from the fact that you still had to face reality. Taxes were still very real, and you had a life to manage. 

Since you hadn’t been particularly busy today (apart from the obvious mental breakdown), you’d decided that it would be perfect to clean the apartment and run errands. Maybe there would even be time over to have a run for once, something that helped keep up your stamina and may even help you clear your busy mind. This had all been decided in the car ride home that Alfred had offered you, and that’s exactly what you did when you got home. And because he didn’t have a way home, you let him borrow the car. You did still have that motorcycle sitting around somewhere.  

“You better not give her a scratch, Alfred. Or my insurance company will be speaking to you,” Although you sounded very tired, a joke managed to sneak it’s way to the old man before he left. Possibly your way of silently reassuring him you were mostly fine. He only chuckled and shook his head. “Don’t worry, I’m sure Bruce could handle that for me should it happen.”  

A tired smile makes it’s way to your face, and you wave him off as he leaves, then turn to enter your building. There were a lot of people around. It made you slightly anxious, feeling eyes on you. Neighbors were coming home from work, couples arriving from dates and exhausted children clinging onto their parents. You look away, trying to avoid the thought of parents, hurrying to the elevator instead. During the ride up you also checked the time, shocked to see it’s already late afternoon. Making it to your apartment, the keys dingle in as you insert them into the door, and you hear faint scratching at the door from Buttercup.  

Quickly closing the door behind you after entering, to make sure the feline doesn’t escape, you catch your reflection in the hallway mirror. One could say you look disheveled, an explanation to the odd looks you had received mere minutes earlier. Not to mention the unusual combination of kitten heels, suit pants and what looks to be an ancient band shirt. It results in you groaning loudly at how you’ve basically ruined your perfectly curated image in front of the fellow people in the complex.  

Curse Bruce Wayne and his stupid shirt. But it is also kinda comfy. 

Never mind that, you brush the thought aside and get to work instead. Thankfully, it wasn’t particularly messy around your home, you seemed to only need to do the dishes, vacuum and mop after giving the whole apartment a quick sweep over. Keeping the place clean had been a must for you ever since moving in, and it was clearly paying off in the end. Standing in the kitchen, and connecting your phone to the Bluetooth speakers, you get to work as the background music starts playing.  

Clean dishes are neatly placed into their respective places, the faint sound of dishes clanking faintly as you organize. When the dishwasher is empty, you start loading the dirty stuff into it, a calm washing over you from the usually boring task, perhaps from the familiar routine. A quick observation tells you that the kitchen counters needed to be cleaned, so you bring out a cloth to wet with water, adding a cleaning agent to remove any dirt before wiping down the surfaces. The music is soft to your ears, and you dance unconsciously to the beats of the song. Buttercup comes between your feet and snuggles up to your ankle as you move around, both to clean and dance slightly. You giggle as you wash your hands free from chemicals, her silky fur tickling you. Picking up the cat and hugging her, she purrs loudly as you cuddle. 

“Hello my sweet baby. How have you been doing, huh? Not found the treats closet, I hope,” The baby voice you use with her elicits continuous purring, and you pepper kisses before letting the feline down, feeling her fight your hold. Watching her as she runs off to some corner of the room, you head into the direction of a closet full of cleaning supplies, like the vacuum you’re currently pulling out of the rather dusty space. A problem for another day, you think to yourself before shutting it closed to start cleaning the floor. Vacuuming the whole apartment doesn’t usually take long, what takes long is trying to avoid Buttercup sprinting around when you do. Over the months she’s lived here you’ve learned two things about her. 

She hates loud noises. 

She can’t stand being caged up, so taking her to the vet was miserable. For you and her. 

When you had first rescued her, she was a small kitten, underfed and very sick. Buttercup had been trapped under rubble, screaming all she could, probably for a mother that never showed up. You remember that day clearly. There had been a gang war going on in the area, and with nothing the police could really do, (or so they say) they simply had to let it go on until it died out. How did it finally end? One of the gangs had a member plant bombs in the abandoned building they used. What they hadn’t known, was that the frame of it was already fragile, simply waiting to tumble over, and the final straw had been the explosion that rattled it to pieces and rubble. You and Gordon had been sat a bit away in his car, observing the scene and making sure it didn’t go too far. To this day, you’re convinced this was a joke job for you, maybe so the office could laugh at the stupid task you had been given as a way to make fun of you both. At least something had happened, entertaining you at least a little bit.   

Not to mention you got to rescue the (once) little cat currently hiding underneath the coffee table. To preserve her peace for a little longer, you go into the furthest point from her to start, slowly making your way towards her. In your bedroom, clothes are still strewn here and there, bed still unmade from that morning. Turning it on, the loud humming starts as you walk around, machine picking up dust and crumbs. The next room is your office space, and when you walk in there a small gust of wind sends shivers down your spine along with confusion in your mind. 

I haven’t opened that window in a while. At least, not what I recall. Why is it open? 

Confusion doesn’t leave, but you rule out the possibility of a burglar or a murderer, since you were yet to be killed and nothing in the apartment was out of place. You simply close the window back up and brush it aside as something you must’ve forgotten, even if the unease over it doesn't immediately vanish. As the noise increases when you get closer to the living after finishing the space you still feel weird being in, Buttercup sprints out from a corner and into your bedroom. Finally finishing up and hurrying a little at the end for the poor feline that’s isolated herself somewhere, you get to mopping the floors. Although you hadn't really needed to, you had really gotten into the cleaning spirit, especially with the music still blasting in the background. 

But before you could bring the things out and even think about starting, a phone call rings out, abruptly stopping a song in exchange for your ringtone. The phone had been sitting on the kitchen counter whilst you were vacuuming, so you walk into the kitchen to find Gordon’s name displayed on the screen and you mourn your free time, head thrown back in frustration. One look at the call, and a deep breath later, you answer. 

“Hello, detective. I hope you’re not busy, I need you at the ports on east side,” Gordon’s calm voice is grim, and something horrific had obviously happened. Looking down at the time, you see that it’s about to be 8 pm.  

“What’s happened?” Not feeling particularly thrilled to be called in while cleaning, you make it obvious in your tone of voice. 

“I’m... not sure. I just need you here if you’re available, and soon,” You faintly hear someone calling for him, and he apologizes before hanging up,. Left to your own thoughts, you decide that the cleaning can wait for another day. After all, it was more fun to be investigating, to use your wits and your observant mind for things other than spotting where dust particles existed in your home. 

“By the way, you owe me one for coming here. I was in the middle of cleaning, and tryin’ to run errands until you called,” You feign annoyance, but make sure your tone is light enough for him to get that you’re joking and he chuckles slightly. An inhale of smoke and the cigarette disappears, and you flick it into a trashcan where Gordon stops you for a second. 

“I know I didn’t say much, but the scene is very... intense. I’m warning you now, if you can’t handle it, I’ll help you home,” A fatherly tone overcomes his just now laughing one, an edge of seriousness that you haven’t seen in him before appearing.  

“Okay, thanks for the warning then. What can you tell me about the victim?” You walk towards a gather of forensic investigators who helped you and Gordon put on gloves and shoe covers along with masks, as to not contaminate the scene with anything. Not to mention the foul smell you could already feel behind the mask, of a decaying body. You grimace slightly and wait for Gordon as they help him out. 

“Well for one, it’s two victims. Two Jane Doe’s, early to mid 20’s? Around your age I’d say,” Your stomach churns in horror, the revelation making you feel uneasy. Gordon adjusts his gloves, then turning to you and continuing further down. “They washed up out of the water and a fisher reported the scene about an hour before I called you. I haven’t taken a hard look at them, because I feel a bit sick when I do.” Nearing a circle of cops and forensics, you brace yourself for the inevitably horrific scene you’re about to be met with. When you step into sight, your blood runs cold at the sight, a sick feeling settling deep in your body. 

“What the fuck...What sick person did this,” You can’t help the words that slip out of your mouth, hand coming up to shield your face from the conflicting emotions painting it, exposing your vulnerability. Gordon looks at you for a second, before deciding to pull you away, body feeling heavy but being dragged away like you weighed no more than a feather. When you were finally out of earshot of everybody else, he sets his hands down on your shoulders, a reminder that he’s there. 

“Detective look at me,” His eyes are searching your face, looking to meet your gaze, which you do. “You don’t have to do this, but if you want to, you’ll need to pull yourself together. Now, can you do this?” Taking a few deep breaths to calm your mind, you think for a second. It had already ben a long day, and invoking more trauma wasn’t going to make it better.  

I can handle it. Just need a few moments.  

Having entered a new mindset, you look at Gordon and nod once. You wanted to be involved, and most of all you wanted to help. Getting the bastard who did this behind bars was your top priority as a detective, and technically you had signed up for this yourself. Being empathetic was still an important part of this, but you wouldn’t let it take over completely. Gordon looks at you for a second, before clapping your shoulder once and leading you back, him turning to get new gloves put on him. 

You were once again met with the sight of the two women lying on their backs, sand sticking to their skin and underwear wet from having drifted in the water for goodness only knows how long. Their faces (if you could even call it that at this point) were mutilated beyond recognition, and you finally understand why they’re both Jane Doe. Slashes were seen on them, marks sliced deep into their skin. But what put you off-guard was the precision of which these cuts were made with. They weren’t just random, they were targeting vital organs, possibly hoping to kill the victims? Kneeling down, your hand brushes against the pale skin of the woman in front of you, analyzing the blemishes covering her body. Signs of infection are apparent from the red streaks radiating from the wounds, on both women and you take a few mental notes. 

Infection implies they were alive long enough for their bodies to react, but it’s not a guarantee. There’s also bruising here and there. Irregular, not planned. Likely a method to simply cause pain.  

Turning the head of the brown haired woman you’re inspecting, you check for any head injuries. Feeling her skull, you notice some bumps along the back. When you turn her head, you find a large bruise where the bumps are located, signs of a concussion. Facing another person inspecting the other woman, you ask a question.  

“Hey, can you check if your Jane Doe has bumps as well as a bruise on her head?” With no hesitation they do so, and give you a few nods when they find what you suspected. Both women seem to have suffered the same injuries, and as you’re thinking you feel Gordon come up behind you, kneeling down next to you. 

“What do you think? Riddler?-” 

“No, no...this isn’t Riddler. It’s way too gruesome from what we’ve seen, and we don’t know who these people are. Riddler doesn’t target blindly. He has a motive, a goal. Not to mention, there’s no card left for Batman,” Your tone is calm as you explain, very unlike how you sounded just minutes before. Gordon agrees, and you resume your search for clues. Moving the womans hair aside, you look at her shoulders, inspecting when you find- 

A tattoo. 

A tattoo you knew. 

Your brows furrow and you look back at Gordon with a hurried stare. “Hey, take out my phone, right back pocket- don't look confused just do it!”  

“I just put on new gloves!” 

“Gordon, take out my phone right now,” He reluctantly reaches behind you and takes out the device. “Passcode is my birthdate, okay now go on the little pinkish, orange app- yeah exactly. Search for Adeline Astor, oh- click on that first profile!” 

The profile of a woman you were formerly familiar with pops up, numerous pictures of a stunning girl posted. You ask the still confused man next to you to scroll down until you find the post you were looking for. It’s a photo of her and a few other girls, some years ago, at a tattoo shop. They were all showing off the same exact tattoo of Jane Doe in front of you. And who matched her appearance? Adeline Astor. 

Holy fucking shit. Yeah I feel sick. 

“Is that not you in the background?” Not answering, you hurry over to the other girl, a ginger. Matching the same appearance of another old friend with the same exact tattoo, this time on her bicep, from a life different to the one you’re currently living. 

“Gordon, I know who they are. Someone needs to contact their families right now,” With a shaky voice, you give out their contact information, then leaving to take a moment for yourself and sitting down on the sand. Tearing off the gloves, you rub your hands in a way to instill peace in your mind. Turning your wrist around, you rub over the little ink mark from all those years ago. 

"We should soo go get tattoos right now,” One of your friends slurs out, shit faced and stumbling over her own feet. You don’t even remember who put the idea out there, just that less than half an hour later, 6 college girls were bundled around each other in a tattoo shop, debating what to get in heated and loud conversation.  

“Guys, how about we do matching ones?” Adeline exclaims, you faintly remember her voice of excitement and face full of joy, and eventually you all settle on getting matching tattoos, with different placement on all of you. A small reminder of what you all once were. Of  were you once belonged. Ideas came and went, no one really sure of what you wanted. 

A butterfly? Too cliche. 

Hearts to mark each of you? Too overdone. 

“What about birds?” You hadn’t really thought they would actually consider the concept, mostly that they would brush it off like they did the other thousand things they were currently listing. They had started to speak, before waiting with a look of debate, before they all start agreeing. 

“It’ll be like, like freedom, you know. Isn’t that what birds stand for? Freedom?” 

“Oh hell yeah, this is like us marking our independence, the start of a new life. You know, I like it,” Elenor had been the one to get everyone to walk over the threshold of hesitation, and you all ended up getting the same little bird with a flower nestled between its beak, a forever stamp.  

To remind you of friendships that once were, now you were all merely united by the ink on your bodies 

A bird, representing freedom and peace, a feeling you hadn’t felt in a while. It all felt like one big joke played against you. There was no more left room to cry, the ocean had taken all that you could give it. 

Can I get one day of shit not happening to me? 

As you mourn the people lying only a few meters away, the weird feeling of being stared at replaces the conflicting emotions. Looking around with hesitance, you find the figure of a man in a hoodie staring at you from the other side of the water where you were sitting. After a few moments, you realized who it was- Bruce. Waving a few times, you receive one back, then watching as he slowly retreats from his hiding hole.  

Exhaustion was starting to pull at you once more, and you realized you should probably head home now. Not even bothering to say anything to Gordon, you signify that you’re leaving after having taken back your phone. He looks at you with sympathy, but you’re too tired to even argue. 

When you finally got on top of the bike and started driving into the direction of your home, you felt more at rest than you had that entire month. It was freeing, to do a task that didn’t require your utmost focus, or emotions that you couldn’t currently handle. 

It was a bit cold outside, but thankfully you were wearing safety gear that kept you mostly warm. Gotham was unusually quiet tonight, and that unnerved you more than ever. Something big was coming, and the part that had you nervous was that you didn’t know what it was. And if you didn’t know what it was, you couldn’t predict it and the consequences to it- 

Without noticing, you had already arrived outside the apartment entrance. The shadow of a man comes into view, standing next to a bike you’d seen. It was Bruce again, face hidden with eye black that made it harder to distinguish him. He appeared to be waiting, so when you pull up, he looks at you and making slow steps as you hop off the bike, removing your helmet. 

“Hey, what are you doin’ here?” You sounded tired, and Bruce didn’t miss the murmur in your tone. With a swift swing, he takes off the backpack he had on, opening the zipper to grab something and had it over. 

It was your shirt, the one you had ruined when seeing him that day. 

“I just wanted to see if you were okay. After you ran out the tower, and now too,” His concern squeezes at your chest, and your eyes soften when you grab the shirt back form his cold hands. You had felt them, fingers brushing against his own. “’m fine, thank you for the shirt. I uh, still haven’t washed yours. Sorry.”  

“It’s okay. I’ll, uhm grab it another time?” He looks hesitant on what to say next, avoiding your gaze. You don’t know how long you were standing there for, letting the minutes pass by in a serene stillness, the occasional car whizzing by breaking the silence. 

“Do you... do you wanna come up for a cup of coffee?” He looks a little shocked that you spoke, or maybe that he’s still here. Bruce doesn’t speak for a moment, seeming to think over his words but a ring to his phone interrupts whatever stupor you were both in. 

“Sorry, uhm I gotta go. Maybe another time?” As he reads the name of whoever was calling him, you survey as he hops onto the bike and puts on his helmet. Looking back at you, he watches you for a moment before speaking. 

“I’ll see you soon.” 

“Goodbye, Bruce,” The words feel simple as they leave you, him turning on the motorcycle and swerving away, leaving dust and what you thought was a fever dream or a hallucination of him. Your shirt is still tucked neatly under your arms, and you ponder his last words when you’ve realized what he actually said. 

‘See you soon,’ what does he mean by that? 

A different kind of panic to the one you felt this morning sets into your bones in a chilling shiver. For a moment you’re simply stood there, staring blankly at the only text that mattered in that moment. Fuck, what the hell happened? Dad was doing so well. There hadn’t been a doubt in your mind when you had received the text, that you would go see him. But the feeling of being completely frozen is stopping you, as your mind conjures up the worst possible scenarios. Something, or rather someone moves, caught in the corner of your eye. It snaps you out of your daze, and you realize you’re still with Bruce. 

“I’m sorry, but I have to go. I wish it could wait, I really do, but this can’t wait,” You say it clearly whilst half sprinting to the elevator, determined on seeing your father in case it’s serious. There’s an urgency in your wobbly voice that Bruce doesn’t miss, and he looks like he’s about to protest but the elevator beats him in getting your attention. Quickly getting in, you barely manage to see him before the doors close, and the lift starts moving. The brief glance of him told you he was conflicted about something, but there was no time to think it over. Right now, your father’s health would take priority.  

Once the doors reopen, you’re greeted by Alfred who seems to be reading on the same couch you were on before. He looks up from the noise to smile at your entry, until he catches sight of your anxious face. Hurrying past him to the other elevators, your goal is to reach the hospital within five minutes. Unfortunately, it takes forever for the actual machine to arrive at your current floor, in which time Alfred has managed to come up behind you. 

“What’s wrong? Did Bruce do something?” He’s worried, one of the only things you can note in your current state. The clock is ticking, but you’ve yet to take yourself any further from where you were before. A ding is heard, signaling its arrival as you practically sprint in and hastily push the button for the ground floor. In your state, you hadn’t even felt Alfred coming up behind, and his presence is only noticed when he turns you towards him, as he repeats the questions. 

“No, he’s not done anything. It’s just- an emergency came up, I have to leave,” You feel yourself slowly retreat to the back of your mind, the only thing really keeping you there being Alfred. “Why is this thing so slow!” The universe seems to have something against you, as nothings gone the way you would’ve wanted it to go. Eventually you start going down, the sensation of your stomach dropping synchronized to the lift. Brain rattling and running a thousand miles, you feel short of breath for some reason. 

He was fine after the diagnosis two years ago. What changed? 

Is he stressed again? 

Is he dying? 

Your heartbeat is hammering against your ribcage, a sort of dizziness overcoming you as a heavy weight sits heavily on your soul. In the background, you think you hear Alfred calling out to you, but his words don’t reach your ears. Sweat starts forming on your brow, and your whole self suddenly feels heavy, body sliding down to the floor, tears burning in your eyes. 

Fuck, I’m having a panic attack. 

You try to remember the breathing exercises you’d practiced years back with your therapist. Tried remembering how to come back from those thoughts. Really tried to stay strong and focus on your goal of reaching the hospital before your personal timer went off.  

A memory flashes briefly. 

“We’ve run some tests, and we think we’re dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder. That paired with the hallucinations he’s been having add up to a deeper level of trauma we hadn’t anticipated,” The doctor looked up from his chart and frowned slightly. It must have been only a few weeks after your father had been attacked, hospitalized for the entire time since then. You were sat next to your mother, outside the hospital room. They hadn’t yet allowed for you to see dad, stating that his mental wellness was not yet strong enough for visitors. He was only allowed visits once a week for an hour, an hour that the police chose to take away from you. 

You thought it was utter bullshit. 

“What will we have to do going forward, Doctor?” Your mother looked tired, her voice straining from the nights where she sobbed into her pillow. She did not hide it well, for the noise could be heard all throughout the family home. On closer inspection, her eyes had miscolored bags sinking into her skin, a yellow hue coloring her face. Frankly, she looked sick. 

“We’re prescribing him antipsychotics, and when he gets out, I strongly recommend you put him in therapy. We already have him talking with someone daily, but he’ll need it afterwards. If you’d like, I can put in a contact for the therapist's office,” The man you’ve gotten used to speaking for the past few nods as he speaks. You think back on his name, it started with an E. Maybe it was Ethan, or no- Evan. Or was it Edward? Your memory hadn’t been quite right lately. The feeling of eyes piercing you creeps up, as you catch sight of Eugene (?) staring at you with a concerned look. He beckons forward your mother, and you think they’re to talk about grown-up stuff. 

“Is your daughter...She looks like...It would be good to diagnose...Similar symptoms...” His words fade in and out of your ears since you weren’t particularly listening, choosing to stare down at the unusually clean hospital floors. Not that long ago, they had been stained with crimson, your father lying down on a stretcher, dying from the severe blood loss. You felt empty, hadn’t cried once since it happened, just feeling tired, hopeless. 

It had been your fault. He was in the hospital because of you. 

All because you wanted to watch a dumb movie. 

Minutes pass slowly, your mother standing off to the side with nurses, doctors and whoever else came by to speak with her about your father. You’re feeling tired, on the brink of falling apart, wanting nothing more than to leave this place that reeks of death and depression. Eventually she comes back, crouches in front of you and speaks slowly, perhaps to keep her act together in front of you. After all, what mother cries in front of her child? 

“Hey baby, they’re saying we can visit him in two days. Would you like to come with?” Her soft eyes meet your own, her hands rubbing comforting circles into your arms and warmth spreads into you from the small act. You only manage to nod before she takes your hand in her own, starting to leave the building. She stands tall and confidently, not at all like how she’s feeling. As you’re walking away, you look back at his door, hoping for even a moment that he’d run out completely fine. 

Those two days of waiting feel endless. You hadn’t moved from your bed in days, only leaving for lunch, dinner and the bathroom. Your mother was worse off, barely even joining you to eat. Sometimes it had gotten so bad you needed to feed her yourself, bringing the food into her room.  

When the time finally came, your best clothes were brought out, wanting to look good for your father (and to pretend you weren’t losing yourself in all this). The hospital was still as dull as before, same boring routines being followed, same imaginary stain on the floor. You were led into the room you’d never once entered, closely followed by your mom. Whilst the door creaks open carefully, you catch a glance of a hospital bed opposite to the entrance.  

With deliberate movement, it finally fully opens to reveal your father sat up on his hospital bed, dressed in those cheap gowns they offer for easy access. He was staring out the one window the room offered, pale and tired looking. Walking up to his bed, you settle cautiously next to him. One of, if not the first thing you notice, is that his leg is missing.  

His leg. Is missing. Because of you. 

He doesn’t hear you enter or at least doesn’t acknowledge either of you when you do. In the background, your mother chokes up. Machines are all around him, things are beeping, and he’s got multiple tubes coming in and out of him. An uncomfortable feeling passes, and you squirm slightly where you stand. Guilt weighs heavy on your heart, more than a soul should bear. Throat dry, you attempt to break the quiet. 

“Dad?” The word is forced out, leaving you breathless. For a second nothing happens, then he carefully turns to your face. A conflicting look of emotion paints his face, twisting into frowns and confused stares. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t make a single sound. Then he breaks. From evidently nowhere, he starts shouting in terror and when he realizes no one is immediately there, he grabs a hold of you. 

Aggressively hauling you towards him, hands going around your head in a purposeful act. Someone is screaming in the background, your mother probably. But you don’t note if it’s her or not. His fingers tighten around your throat, and you try to shove against him, fingers attempting to pry open his own. However, it’s no use. You were just a kid who didn’t stand a chance against him. Even if he had been hospitalized for long, he was still military at one point after all. Through it all, you manage a few words as tears brim your eyes from the pain. 

“Daddy, please. I’m sorry.” 

His tight hold loosens a bit, and staff start rushing into the room, yanking him off as he screamed his lungs out. You were taken away by a nurse who needed to check up on you, your mother running after. Apparently, she had run off to find someone when your father started choking you. Now she was stood to the side as the woman checked if you were fine. You weren’t. Sobs pulled from your deepest depths were heard all throughout the hall you had been taken into, as two words consistently left your mouth. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I'm sorry...” Over and over, the words repeated as your body convulsed from being withheld oxygen for so long. A panic of doctors ran past, some of them stopping where you were located. Chaos had erupted in a matter of minutes, and they couldn’t work on you in your current state, the only remaining option to sedate you. As the world fades away, the words don’t stop even once. 

Alfred is stood over you, trying to find a solution, a way to help out. He hadn’t dealt with something like this in years, and your anxiety wouldn’t calm. The thoughts kept streaming in a steady flow, the guilt and anger and sadness overwhelming you beyond comprehension.  

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s all my fault, I’m sorry...” Mumbling out the words unconsciously, you rock your body back and forth in hopes of settling down, to get away from the destructive plaguing memories. A subtle weakness overcomes your body, that even the swaying gets hard. 

It’s my fault. 

Steadily, you feel someone embrace you. The loving embrace of the old man you formerly knew well, bringing you back to earth. Everything starts going into focus, blurry vision disappearing slowly and you hear him speak to you in a low voice. Focusing on his breathing pattern, matching your own to his as a way of regaining composure. Peaceful quiet passes, and it’s only then you notice your body shaking excessively, as if you were cold. Along with that, the elevator had stopped moving. Looking up, you see that Alfred has pressed the emergency stop, perhaps to give you a moment to collect yourself before leaving. He’s in front of you, bent down to see your face as concern lines his features. 

“You alright now, darling?” His face holds a fatherly look, hands wiping away hair that had gotten in your face. You nod once and try to stand up, which didn’t go particularly well so he assisted you up. A mirror in the lift reflects your disheveled state back at you, face pale with tear streaks running down them. Alfred hands you a small handkerchief that you gratefully take, swiping tenderly to remove any residue from your panic. 

“You’re not to drive like this. I’ll come with you,” He held a stern look, like there was no point arguing with him. You shake your head and press down on a button for the ride down to resume. 

“But I’m fine now, I can-” The sentence barely leaves your mouth before he cuts you off. 

“I’m taking you there, no buts. Not to mention, you don’t have the keys anymore,” He holds up your car keys with a cheeky smile, and you fumble around in your pockets when he reveals them to you. 

“How did you-?” 

“It’s a secret.” 

The hospital halls feel familiar as you speedwalk through them. As a child, it had been a labyrinth, but now? They felt normal, but in a cold, detached way. Not at all close in a way that you’d like. After all, who enjoyed being in a hospital, where death and illness is promised? Let alone a kid, how'd wanted better things in life than spend it behind fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptic. In your blind thinking, you had unknowingly made it near his door. Your mom was standing there with a doctor, a scene you’d seen a thousand times over. Gathering yourself, you stride towards them, hoping to emit a level of confidence beyond what you actually felt. 

“Hi mom, I came as soon as I could. How is he?” A sudden urge to bite your nails protrudes and forcing it away wasn’t easy. You push down the urge, looking at your mom for an answer but her gaze flits around, avoiding your own. Fright immerges once more, as you await an answer from her. The doctor looks between you two, clearing his throat to catch your attention. 

“Earlier today, your father had an episode. Based on previous hospital visits, this isn’t the first occasion. However, we are concerned where it came from, since the last one happened a while ago. We’re still investigating his case, and hopefully we’ll have solutions on how to move forward. Find me if you have questions,” He spoke with levelheadedness, before giving a curt nod and leaving. Casting one last look at him, you turn to your mother who’s still refusing to meet your gaze which arises suspicion in you. 

“What did you do?” The question sounds venomous, even if you hadn’t intended it to be. She looks shocked you asked her that and finally looks at you. 

“What?” 

You furrow your brows, annoyed that she’s pretending she didn’t understand you. “I asked you, what did you do? You can’t truly think me this clueless. You’ve done something, is that why you can’t look me in the eyes?” 

She looks down in what you distinguish as shame and maybe even a twinge of regret. You know she’s hiding stuff from you, and that’s not something you’d accept. Especially when it concerns your father. Her mouth opens, ready to speak, and when she does, your blood runs cold. 

“Before today... your father and I spoke. Well, he uhm, he told me that should something like this happen again, that we...that I register him to Arkham,” Fury boils inside you as she mumbles out the words, slowly backing away in anticipation to you blowing up at her. 

“Had we not been in a hospital, I’d be screaming my lungs out. Dad is not crazy and putting him there will not help him! I actually can’t believe you’ve done this,” You spit out the words in disgust, in a low enough tone that you don’t catch the attention of anyone passing by. “Take him out of it right now, or I’m gone.” 

“You know I can’t to that-” You want to scream, and your energy is running low. Without looking back or letting her finish the sentence, you go to leave. She calls your name out, but you ignore her, just the way she ignored your unease regarding her stupid decision. Tears spring back into your eyes, and the world felt like it was ending. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe and rushed out to get oxygen. 

In due time, you make it out quick enough to catch your breath, rushing to get away from this place of unresolved trauma. Knees weak and gaze blurry, you make your way to the car. Alfred wasn’t there, and a look around shows you he’s stood off to the side, perhaps waiting for you to come out. However, he hadn’t yet seen you. 

Getting into the car, you shut it harshly. A loud scream bellows from deep within your tired soul, and you hope the car is muting most of it, lest an alarmed person ties to investigate. The fury, the anxiety and the sadness combined feels suffocating, and any hope you felt before this drains promptly. Slumping into the seat as salty drops run down your face, you catch sight of Alfred coming back to the car, and as he gets in, he doesn’t say anything. You simply hope he didn’t hear you, but by the look on his face, he had. 

“Where shall I take you?” 

“Take me home," You’re exhausted, and a nap may just fix all your problems. As brief scenes of the city flash by, you wonder if it’s going to get better. For now, you let the reality of the situation hit you, silent tears streaming down your face. 

Although you had woken up early, you hadn’t actually left the bed until Buttercup came to remind you of her food needs. The bed had just been so snug, satin pillows so smooth against your face and- now you’re just deflecting. In actuality, you didn’t want to leave the bed to face the reality that is the note, still neatly placed on top of the clothes you’ve not yet moved. Also, who says you have to go? You don’t take orders from anyone but Gordon, because he actually has your best interest in mind (not to mention he’s also sorta your boss..). But the feeling of embarrassment has not subsided, and for all you know it might never leave. I think I’d rather sleep here ‘til I die. But alas, all things must come to an end. Yours is when Buttercup starts pawing your face, so that you’ll give her breakfast. You can’t manage anything but a faint groan, swinging your legs over the bed and reluctantly getting up.  

The door to your small office space is open, the board on Batman almost mocking you, the reminder of him on your wall stinging. With a quick detour, you rip down the small investigation and placing them all carefully into the paper shredder, one by one. The whirring noise of the machine has you zoning out. When the final paper is done being shredded, you come back to reality and continue treading softly into the kitchen, closely followed by the feline who gives you an expectant look. When the food is being poured into her bowl, she politely sits and starts eating, the tiny sounds of her chewing faint in the background. Thirst hits you suddenly, so as you’re waiting for the water from the tap to cool down, you turn on the TV to see if anything new has happened.  

Nothing groundbreaking appears, up until a news channel covers the appearance of Bruce at the funeral, but not about anything particularly interesting. You fill the cup up and take a few sips as you’re watching, when a press photo that was sneakily taken of you and him in a rather compromising position comes on screen. Any water you may have had in your mouth is now spilt all over your shirt and counter from the sheer surprise at the title, suggesting at something completely inappropriate. Coughing sounds fill the room as you’ve accidentally inhaled liquid down the wrong pipe.  

“Childhood best friends reunite and seem to be rather cozy at Don Mitchell Jr.’s funeral!? What kind of caption is that!? Buttercup, are you seeing this?” The horror in your voice doesn’t faze the little cat who just looks up at you and meows softly. You tilt your head back, and silently scream as to not scare her, sitting just a few feet away. This day just keeps getting worse. Wet and mortified, you clean up the mess and leave the kitchen, but not before shutting off the damn television... 

Hoping to relax for a bit, you plop back into the unmade bed to scroll through social media. Although you’d rather stay off the internet, it is a guilty pleasure every now and then. Unfortunately, that was a foolish mistake to make, for every other picture was the one you had seen just minutes earlier. And though you don’t take notice in the number of likes or comments on posts, the amount on this particular one has you mortified enough that you gasp, expression full of dread. Everyone has seen this now, quite literally all of Gotham and any surrounding area. You shut down your phone and throw it away on the bed somewhere, not even bothering to open the comments that are likely full of untrue gossip and people with too much time on their hands. Maybe you’ll just have to sit here in silence until the day is over. Maybe you’ll turn on the radio though, silence wasn’t that nice. Yeah, that sounds like a good plan. Leaning back against the headboard, you look up and study your ceiling. 

Around 25 minutes pass by, you’re not quite sure since all you’ve been doing for the past- maybe it was 20 minutes actually? - is glare on your relatively uninteresting ceiling. The conclusions you’ve come to during that time, is that the paint in the right corner of the room is chipping, and that you should vacuum soon, since cat hair was covering every possible surface in your room. Other than that? Your mind was mostly trying to avoid the inevitable thought of Bruce. Ever since the funeral, he’s been like a parasite, invading every crevice of your mind and you hated it. You groan into the pillow next to you, wanting to scream your head off. 

Should I stay, or should I go? 

The same sentence runs through your brain so much that the words don’t feel real anymore. As if the universe couldn’t taunt you any more than it already has, the song ‘Should I stay or should I go’ by The Clash starts playing. You couldn’t be more annoyed, walking up to the radio and smashing the button to turn it off before sighing deeply. A slow turn towards the bed where the note sits, and you know that if you don’t go, you’ll likely never get an answer. And maybe the egotistical side of your brain wants to know if you actually figured it out or not. But the selfish part of you wanted to see Bruce again, even if for a moment.  

“Hello, my dear! It has been an awful while since I’ve seen you, you’re all grown up now. What brings you here?” Her voice is joyous, and you sheepishly rub your neck as she speaks, whilst explaining. 

“Hi Dory, I was meant to see Bruce today. Thought I’d come by and check if he’s available?” You make it sound as if you were just in the area and dropping by. It’s not as if you were practically having a meltdown about him just an hour ago, you wouldn’t do that... 

She starts typing on a computer obscured from your view, but as you read her slow typing from the keyboard you make out the words as ‘Visitor for Bruce Wayne’. Standing awkwardly as she reads something from the screen, you strongly consider backing up. Dory looks back up at you and says that Alfred Pennyworth will be there soon to escort you away, presumably into Bruce’s actual place of residency. It doesn’t take long before you see him walking in your direction, giving him a curt nod as he smiles at you. 

“It’s good to see you, Y/n. It has been a while, hasn’t it?” It feels weird hearing Alfred’s warm voice again after so long. Not since Thomas and Martha died. The bitter thought protrudes your mind, but you don’t voice it. What you feel right now shouldn’t affect the conversation for the worse, so you only agree quietly as he leads you away to an elevator. Unlike the one where the Batsignal is, this elevator has a smooth ride up to the penthouse, which needs a special card to even enter.  

“So, what have you been doing these days?” A curious glint shines in his eyes, like he was genuinely curious to know. It pinches your heart slightly. 

“Oh, uhm, not much. I’m on the Riddler case, that’s about it,” Your answer doesn’t give away much, hoping to kill the conversation and have it end there. But Alfred did love small talk, much to your distress, since you were scared of saying the wrong thing. 

“Right! Master Wayne has mentioned that. I’m also sure I’ve seen your pictures in the news-” 

“Listen Alfred, you don’t have to talk to me and make this anymore awkward than it already is,” The sentence leaves your mouth before you can stop it. Your eyes burn slightly, tears threating to spill over. “I don’t even know why I came here; it was a mistake-” Alfred places his hand on your shoulder, so you turn to look at him. He’s got a comforting but rather serious look on his face. 

“I know why you’re here, and I also know you don’t owe Bruce anything. But please hear him out when he explains things,” You rub at your wet eyes, and he pulls you in for a hug that you reciprocate with no hesitation. “Now, chin up. And don’t apologize too easily, lest he try something like this again,” Alfred winks at that last part, and for the first time in a few days you feel happy enough to laugh. A ding is heard, signaling your arrival as the metal doors slowly open to reveal what can only be described as a great hall. The gothic interior is a stark difference to the modern looking lobby. Your gaze roams as it once did over the same walls you surely have forgotten memories of. He leads you to what looks like a living room.  

“Tea or coffee, darling?” You choose the latter, of course and he disappears into what you can only presume is a kitchen. Though you would love to walk around and explore, you’d rather stay in case he returned, and you were suddenly gone. You settled on observing the room instead. The interior was truly something, a fascinating blend of victorian and gothic architecture, with beautiful details adorning the walls, paintings and even the chandelier hanging over your head. It was truly one of the most charismatic styles you’ve seen in a while, since your home was just a boring apartment with not much attention to miniscule things like here. You hear his footsteps before you see him, and Alfred returns with your steaming cup, peering at you with a look you can’t quite place. He hands it over, which you gratefully take it and start sipping on the delicious beverage. 

Alfred lets you know that he’ll be gone for a bit, and that Bruce should be down in a bit. He also lets you know that if you need something, to just call for him. When he turns around to walk away, you realize you’re still standing and go to sit down. The reality of the situation hits you for a second time and leaving feels very tempting as the silence stretches on. A text message rings through, and when you pick up your phone to respond, the feeling of being watched suddenly appears as your head swivels behind you. Bruce is standing there, and you let out an unexpected gasp, jumping up at his sudden appearance. Unfortunately, the scolding coffee you were holding spills all over your front and the burn of the drink reaches your skin. In a panic, you drop your phone whilst trying to separate your white shirt from clinging onto your skin, swearing under your breath. What you don’t notice is that Bruce is suddenly right in front of you, helping dry off your shirt with napkins he’s clutching tightly in his fists, previously sat in a holder on the coffee table. 

The lines of your bra are visible, thanks to the liquid and your poor choice in clothing. You avoid his gaze, humiliation seeping into every pore of your skin, and you’re once again close to tears. It’s one thing to feel like this in private, but in front of him? It was so much worse. Not to mention for something absolutely horrifying to happen in front of him. Frankly you wanted to cry, maybe even hide for the rest of your life. He notices, because of course he does, and cups one hand on your shoulder whilst the other continues wiping. 

“Hey, it’s okay, you just stumbled. We’ll get you a new shirt and then we can talk,” He sounds frantic, trying to reassure you without causing more stress. One embarrassing shirt change later, you’re now sat in the same spot as earlier, now wearing a too large, printed tee. At closer inspection, it was a Nirvana shirt, which doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. He always seemed like the type to be into the grungy, punky music. Speaking of Bruce, he was also sat on the couch, just at the opposite end of you. You had been sitting here for around five, the minutes just stretching on and on. It was like pure torture. Every now and then he’d give you a look, like he was thinking of what to say. But eventually you have enough of his long-lasting silence. Frowning in annoyance, you gather up the courage to speak. 

“Are you just gonna sit there or are you going to tell me why I’m here?” His eyes dart to your face, scanning your features and the abundantly clear displeased look you give him. His eyes do that thing where they widen in shock, his fingers rubbing over the same spot on hands in anxiety, because when he tries to speak, the only thing he manages is stuttering. Your jaw clenches, until you realize this isn’t going anywhere unless you start asking the questions. 

“Be honest with me Bruce, are you actually the Batman?” Your tone softens quite a bit, yet still spoken in a hushed manner, like two children exchanging secrets under a moonlit sky as you once did. His face flushes a bit, reaching his ears as he nods slightly. The reality of this hits you suddenly, all sorts of emotions rushing through you. He opens his mouth to speak, and for the first time in almost 18 years you hear Bruce’s voice, not the curated one he has for Batman. 

“Yes, I’m...the Batman,” He speaks faintly, words mostly mumbled, and you let out a breath you had unknowingly been holding. Holy shit, man. He exhales shakily, loud enough for you to catch the small disruption in his normal breathing pattern. I was freakin’ right. 

“Who else knows?” He looks back at you, not expecting this next question. 

“You and uhm, Alfred. That’s it,” A crack in the words sounds as he answers. And once more, the silence comes back. But not for long, as his searching gaze soon finds yours, in preparation of one of his own questions. He braces himself before he does, something that’s obvious in his body language. 

“Are you...are you going to reveal it? I mean, you would be right to,” The last part was rushed into the sentence, and you almost jerk back in shock. In his mind, he likely thought you had the black mail you wanted, and that the long-winded opportunity for revenge is finally here, for the confusion in his features do not suggest at him joking. 

“Why would I ever do that? It would put you in so much danger, do you truly think me that shallow, Bruce?” His questions feels almost insulting, prickling your heart in a way that it shouldn’t. Because you didn’t care, you didn’t. Or at least you had to try yourself from feeling that way, lest it shatter your soul in the end. For a moment he looks frightened at the notion he may he have hurt you, and quickly comes to his own defend, hands held up as if to reveal his innocence. 

“No! No, I swear I... I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed,” He's frantic, as if he’d just been caught offending someone’s old grandmother, with tense shoulders and sweat forming on his forehead. Bruce looked almost sickly. It made your heart clench. He clears his throat, readying himself for another sentence as he looks back down.  

“I wanna, uhm show you something. If you want to, of course,” He stutters on the last words, and you simply nod to show your suddenly piqued interest, though not too eagerly. You’re supposed to be mad at him, at least a little bit. 

Bruce leads you away to a bookshelf, where seemingly nothing was out of the ordinary. Obviously, you’d figured out that it wasn’t just an ordinary bookshelf, not just by the one book that oddly stood out against the others, but also with the fact that he wouldn’t just have brought you here to showcase books. Excitement rushes in you as Bruce slides out a book that has a hidden code pad, where he types in some numbers and the shelf doors magically slide open, just like in the movies, to reveal an elevator. A rather small one at that. 

“It’s uh, only made to fit one person. I think we can squeeze in though,” He scratches his jaw awkwardly, a hint of the red from earlier coming back to tint his cheeks. And boy, did he not lie when he said it was a snuggled fit. It doesn’t help that Bruce is tall, broad shouldered and a hunk of muscle- wait hunk? I’ll pretend I didn’t think that. Since he’d walked in first, his chest was pressing against your front. It was a horrible two-minute ride to say the least, the second either of you shifted you both felt everything. So, when the doors finally open down at the bottom, you practically sprint out to make space.  

You don’t really think of where you’re running, just that you need distance, and when you finally stop and look around? You feel fascinated by the large space, so much so that a twinkle could be seen in your eyes. For you, this is like a childhood dream come true, literally. 

It must have been the week before Bruce’s parents died, you and he were sat on a swing set in a park somewhere, discussing important, confidential information. 

“What do you wanna be when you grow up, Brucie?” You asked the question excitedly, swinging back and forth on the swing whilst he pondered, less speed in his movement than yours. It didn't take him long before he answered. 

“An astronaut! I really, really wanna visit space. Like... like seeing the moon! And the stars! Oooh and the planets, like Mercery, and Venus, and Earth and....” He continued like that until he finished naming all the planets. 

“Well, what about Pluto?” You wondered to him, knowing Bruce is the biggest geek when it comes to the universe. 

“That’s not a planet, silly!” The sentence ends with you both in a heap on the sandy ground, a fit of giggles erupting, and eventually you both calmed down. Bruce looked at you curiously for a second before directing your own question back to you. 

“I wanna be a detective, like my daddy. I wanna have a big room where I solve mysteries! And ooh, I wanna have a big closet full of the same clothes, like in the cartoon we’re watching!” Bruce nodded eagerly as you spoke, smiles adorning both your faces and a great idea smacked you suddenly. You gasped loudly and grabbed his arm as you sat up. 

“I wanna have a secret, evil lair with all my gadgets! It’s gonna be deep underground, where I can work in silence. We can put our desks there next to each other, so you work on astronaut stuff, and I work with detective things. Oh! And when I need you to spy on someone, you’ll go to the sky for me!”  

“Pinky promise me we’ll have one, one day,” You smiled cheekily as you held up your tiny pinky and Bruce, at the prospect of an exciting adventure with his best friend, agreed immediately, tangling his with finger with your own. The conversation quickly dispersed, for you were being served ice cream by the adults. And though the idea was moved on from, it hadn’t been forgotten, long lingering on the boy's mind. 

You had forgotten this memory even existed, but being with Bruce seemed to just bring them all out of the deepest part of your brain, no matter how far they may be stashed. The underground is chilly and all of it seemed to have been carved out right underneath the tower. Bats are heard shrieking at the ceiling, wings flapping around as they navigate themselves in the cave. You were stood at the entrance of the elevator that opened up to the actual space. Boxes were strewn around on the floor with lights illuminating the dimmed space, and you catch sight of a large monitor on a desk as you first enter.  

“Bruce, this is just...woah. You workin’ on all this alone?” Your hand comes to sweep over what looks like a car engine sat on a box, waiting to be worked on. Gadgets are strewn around the room, what seems to be both newly worked on projects as well as blueprints for future ones. Your gaze trails around the spacious area, observing and absorbing the charm that is the Batcave. Eventually you look back and find him viewing you, until his eyes dart away as he pretends to busy himself with something. You walk towards the monitor to sit down in the desk chair, and you feel Bruce’s presence coming up behind you with his own, so you turn towards him. It grows quiet again, save for the bat noises along with the news playing on the TV in the background, a screen you’ve only just now noticed. He’s sat with his hands intertwined, head hanging low causing his hair to fall gently over his face. 

“I... I want to apologize, even if I’m, you know, bad at it,” His voice carries with a tremor, nervousness lining his features. Clammy hands, cold sweat on his forehead and his fidgeting were all signs of that. 

“You don’t have to say anything Bruce, you were just a child-” As you’re speaking, he gives an almost pleading look to stop, so you do. You promised Alfred you’d hear him out, and gesture for Bruce to continue. 

“I know I was just a child; everyone keeps telling me that. But so were you. And I was grieving, but so were you. All of it doesn’t excuse that I stopped responding, that I stopped trying. For you,” Bruce is trembling and for a moment you consider holding his hand but opt out of it. It’s all too soon and too much, overwhelming by the second. His eyes look dazed, and he has not once dared look up at you. Then he hesitates but ultimately decided to speak anyways. 

“I uhm also wanna apologize about the uh, scandal. It’s being taken care of, I’m sorry I jumped on you like that,” Bruce buries his face in his palms, so his last words came out in a mumbled mess. You still understood him. For a moment everything gets awkward, since you don’t know how to respond, so coughing to clear the quiet seemed a good idea. Bruce looks up at you when you do, and you turn your seat to the monitor. 

“May I?” It was a simple and direct question, hand pointing at the monitors. He nods, standing to move his chair once more to sit next to you, maintaining a distance. You boot it up and find loads of files pinned to the screen. They’re all named and your eyes scan over the different cases he’s worked on. There’s the current one, correctly labeled as ‘Riddler’, then there’s files on stray murders. The one that really catches your eye though? A file labeled with your name. Smirking, you sneakily press down on the mouse to open it up. Bruce doesn’t seem to suspect anything, looking to be checking around the cave.  

“What do we have here then?” The question rolls of your tongue teasingly, as pictures of you from different sources pop up. It seems to be videos from the news, interviews you’d done in the past along with published studies from your college years. Woah, some of these are old. You take it all in, before you feel him rapidly shift and close down the file. He looks absolutely mortified, the prospect of you finding this an obvious fear of his.  

“Hey, it was just getting fun!” You pout but don’t argue against him, you’ll find your way into the information he has on you someday. A screen different from the ones near the desk lights up as what seems to be a red camera view pops up. Brows furrowing in confusion, you realize you recognize the place, not to mention the people being recorded. It was at the mayor’s crime scene, and confusion settles in you as you walk up to it. 

“How did you get this footage? Cameras weren’t allowed in there,” It was something you genuinely wondered, since sneaking in a camera on him would be hard. Your curiosity expanded by the second and Bruce looks up at you from where he’s standing to observes the screen behind you. After a few seconds he beckons you forward, back to the desk whilst he takes out what looks like a fancy contact lens. 

“You put it over your eye, like any other contacts. It’s a little uncomfortable, but they record everything. I watch it all back, to see if I’ve missed details at crimes scenes,” He shows them where they sit, and your mouth hangs open in shock, eyes widened with pure fascination of his invention. “Want to, uhm, try them on?”  

Before you can nod in excitement, the phone in your pocket buzzes numerous times, indicating a flurry of texts being sent to you in a hurry. Frowning, you pick it up to see what the fuss is about. They’re from different family members; some you hadn’t texted in years. However, the one text that stood out most to you was the one from your mother. 

Your father is in the hospital. His condition is worse, and we don’t know what’s happening. 

It would be good for you to be here for him. 

Love, Mom.