#batman!michael

“you’ll ruin your eyes, keeping this up.” bill’s voice fills the room suddenly, a gentle interrupter of michael’s thoughts. “three, two…”

“you can turn the lights on, bill,” michael mumbles, lowering his gaze to his lap as bill flicks the switch. the glow from all the screens is merciful, now, shining so softly against the lights of the room that he can’t even pick up the blue anymore. slowly, he turns his chair to face the other man. in a world full of plastic, bill is fully organic, natural, and real. one of the few men left alive without hate in his heart, and michael’s fortunate enough to have him as his private butler and public bodyguard.

bill steps closer, glancing at the screens with a familiar, knowing smile. “i remember you saying something about looking for a woman.”

“i was. gotham’s more important than that, though. i’ll pick one, eventually,” michael replies, as though he was talking about which watch to wear, which shoes to slip onto his feet. the thought alone makes him frown. “i don’t think i need a wife.”

“mmm. i don’t think you need a wife,” bill agrees, nodding, “but you do need somebody. somebody other than me. no man is meant to live in loneliness.”

michael’s head tilts, silence flooding the space as he considers how to answer to that. there’s no deceiving bill, not after all these years. “i’ll think about it,” he finally decides, turning back to his monitors, “in the meantime…”

“crime-fighting. of course,” bill chuckles, finally approaching the wall of screens. his brows furrow as he notices something along the outskirts of gotham. with his index, he points to a screen, “speaking of.”

the live-feed shows a distant streak of purple against the sky, the line of color forming a bruise against the oranges, yellows, and pinks of sunset. bill’s finger traces the streak as it flows off that screen and onto another and then another, from the outskirts of gotham closer in.

“some sort of air attack?” bill offers in explanation, “it’s approaching fast.”

“i’ve got it. keep tabs on it here, please,” michael says, standing from his chair, “send alerts if it reaches residential areas; it doesn’t look like anything familiar, not from here.” he adjusts his suit, no longer the black and white business suit from work earlier today, but the dark and brooding suit of gotham’s infamous caped crusader.

“michael?”

the man pauses in his tracks, half-way to the door. “yes, bill?”

“stay safe. and good luck.” with that, bill sinks into the chair that michael once occupied, already changing the monitors to focus on the areas where that deep, dark purple has appeared.

“thank you, bill,” michael murmurs. then, he’s out the door, down to the garage. by the time he’s in the batmobile, bill’s already sent him coordinates for a likely landing site. it’s a deserted spot but it’s still gotham; still in his territory, then. the door of the garage slides up smoothly and silently, allowing michael to take off through the city, tearing down the streets like a rocket determined to reach its target.

       the craft had already landed by the time he arrived. thick and pungent smoke plumes surrounded a glossy, silver structure, making it difficult to get near it. difficult, but not impossible. not for michael, at least.

he pulls up as close as he can, parking the car. as bill warns him through intercoms to be careful of the smoke, michael reaches underneath his passenger seat, pulling out a gas mask and carefully putting it on his head. then, he leaves the car, carefully approaching the unidentified object.

“it looks like metal, but those weird ridges in the material… they’re not like anything found on earth,” bill says in his ear, “i’ve already sent out warnings concerning possible air pollution to the local authorities. hey, watch your step.”

michael’s foot pauses mid-air, narrowly avoiding stepping right onto some shrapnel from the ship’s dive into the dirt. “it’s opening.” the exit hatch, previously blended in, now outlined itself as something budged against it. thump. thump. thump.

“it’s what?”

“it’s opening,” the suited man repeats, crouching down against a patch of less-scorched earth. “whatever’s inside wants out.”

bill shakes his head from inside the batcave. “aw, hell no. i’m sending your location to the police chief, michael.”

thump. “don’t.”

thump. “michael—” bill starts emphatically.

“bill, don’t. wait,” michael demands, staring ahead at the hatch.

all it took was one more shove of your shoulder against the door, a loud, final clunk, and you were free.

free to destroy, free to conquer like your queen had demanded— your body leans against the ship for support, weakened beyond belief. your eyes squint around you, ignoring the smoke and instead focusing on the setting sun. a hiss leaves your lips, agitation causing your humanoid facial features to scrunch up. the impact had done a number on you, leaving you suddenly wishing you’d paid more attention to learning how to properly land. conquering would have to wait. first…

“it’s a woman,” michael notes, “no, it’s an alien. pointed ears, confused expression. it’s an alien woman. she’s… she’s hurt, she’s crumpling down to the ground. she’s not combative, bill.”

“don’t approach it.”

michael stands, “i’m gonna approach her, bill.”

cautiously, he makes his way through bits and pieces of foreign metal, burnt ground, and smoke, advancing closer and closer until finally, he’s only a few feet away from you. you, who’d sank to the ground, your back rubbing against the ship as you gave into your body’s demands for rest. “miss?” michael takes another step forward, frowning when you don’t respond. slowly, he kneels, reaching out to nudge your shoulder. still, you remain unresponsive. breathing, judging by your chest moving up and down, but unresponsive.

“she’s passed out,” he reports to bill, “we need to move her.”

“you don’t know who or what she is, michael. you need to hand her over to someone who might. call superman.”

“she’s in gotham, now. she’s mine,” michael replies stubbornly, carefully lifting your body into his arms, “we’ll be back soon. have a guest room prepared. keep it comfortable… but turn on the safety measures. the kryptonite, the nullifiers… just in case.”

over the line, bill just sighs in response, standing to go turn on the security measures for the guest rooms. it’s a quick drive back, faster than the drive over, and though michael knows he’s in for an earful from bill (”recklessly approaching an alien, not to mention your driving, man!”), he finds himself not minding. the faster he gets home, the faster he can satisfy his curiosity and figure you out.

       it takes five days for you to regain consciousness; torture, for a man like michael. every hour not spent working or patrolling was spent by your bedside, reading and watching old movies to pass the time. it gives him the opportunity to take a closer look at you, however, something he supposes he ought to be grateful for. you’re humanoid from head to toe, dressed half for battle and half for fashion week. along your chest is a sterling silver breastplate, one that extends down in layers to your waist, effectively encasing all your vital organs aside from your brain. on your feet were originally a pair of foreign boots colored a deep, rich purple that bordered on black. they were so damaged, though, that michael thought it wiser to remove them before they disintegrated against your skin. speaking of skin…

it must be normal on your planet, that orange-ish hue. you could pass as human on first glance, but your stark orange undertones gave away your alienness. it contrasts vividly against the purple accents of your outfit. everything not silver was purple; the skin-tight material that clung to your waist and down your legs, the gems that adorned your neck and the silver vambraces along your forearms, and even your hair, all purple.

it’s while he’s busy admiring your hair, one day, that you finally wake up. he’d just gotten off work, sat in a plush chair pulled up to your bedside while still wearing his crisp, brown business suit. softly, he hums one of his songs. when he notices your eyes opening, he immediately pauses, pulling back.

“good morning.” his voice is soft but gruff, a discordant mixture of his public and private personas. your eyes are quick to narrow, your face contorting as your hands ball into fists. “don’t bother,” he says, standing. michael smooths out the front of his brown blazer before pointing to the ceiling. along it are several tanning bed-like panels, all angled towards your body. “you’re tamaranean, aren’t you? you need these lights to help heal you,” he pauses, his expression unreadable, “one wrong move, and i turn the ultraviolets off. understand?”

sitting up, you tilt your head, feigning misunderstanding. your lashes bat, your lips forming a confused pout— the sight of you playing innocent only causes michael to smirk.

“you learn language through touch. i’ve already carried you. i know you understand me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “so nod yes.”

well, shit. you roll your eyes, letting your true emotions reappear: disgust, frustration, and exhaustion. “i’ll have your head on a stick,” you threaten, your eyes closing briefly before opening again, “you’ll be the first i terrorize before conquering this miserable planet.”

“you’re too weak to do anything other than speak. the impact threw you around inside your ship like a doll. you’d best watch your tongue. it’s getting more and more tempting to turn off the ultraviolets,” he replies, crossing his arms, “i’m not a patient man.”

“how do you know so much?” you question, your voice sharp.

“i have my ways. you were out for five days. it gave me plenty of time.” time to call on his allies, time to research, time to pinpoint your exact identity.

planetary purger.

the pride of south tamaran.

he’d even found, at one point, an intergalactic text referring to you as a god-slayer. it wasn’t that you killed gods, though. it was that you killed many people’s belief in them. the benevolent ones, anyways. you were a fearsome warrior, loyal to your queen but even more than that, loyal to the money she paid you. a bounty hunter more than a knight in silver armor. after finishing his research, michael had come to the conclusion that your goal on earth was to conquer, likely due to being offered a large sum of money for it. it seems money makes more than one planet go ‘round.

“listen to me and listen well,” michael starts, letting his gaze drift over you from head to toe before he makes direct eye contact, “earth isn’t to be conquered. if you lift a finger against this planet, i will make you regret it. understand?”

“i will not harm this planet,” you vow under your breath. not during this trip, at least.

“you work for money, correct?” he asks, smiling slightly when you perk up at the mention. “you’re a money-hungry killer. you take whatever money you can get, regardless of currency.”

you scoff before correcting him, “i’m a survivalist.”

“i have money,” michael says bluntly, “loads of money. billions. i have a job for you, when you’re well. you’ll be paid handsomely for it. it shouldn’t be a long job. it won’t be hard, either. you won’t have to kill anyone or conquer anything. it’s… a unique job.” his eyes trail to your lips for a second, just a second. then, he sucks in a breath, looking at the blankets of the bed. “i’ll let you think about it. you’ll get more details after you accept. and, for reference…” he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a notepad and writing down one billion numerically, “that’s nine zeroes. a billion. which, in tamaran’s currency… should be about this much.” michael jots down a new number, even larger than the first. “do add that into your considerations.”

with a soft scrrripp-sound, he tears the paper out the notepad, pressing it gently into the palm of your hand. “i’ll be back.” then, he leaves the room, letting the door click shut behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts and that scrap of notepad paper. for several minutes, you stare at the door, gears turning in your head at a slower rate than usual (damn that crash. you really weren’t the best ship pilot, were you?). when you finally lift the paper to your face, the numbers, foreign and yet understood, seem to taunt you.

a new job… an easy job… an earth job.

the final tamaranean sum would be enough to pull you and your family out of the southern slums permanently. it might even be enough to get you off the planet entirely. you could settle somewhere else, somewhere nicer… live the quiet life you’d always dreamed of. the image of michael’s face interrupts your thoughts, his eyes stern and knowing, his lips curled into a small smirk. the american english language doesn’t have the words to describe how infuriating that face is. the tamaranean language does, however, and you delight in thinking in your head all about how agitating that smirk is.

regardless of his face, as you finally close your eyes once more, sinking back down against the softness of the bed, you have an eerie gut feeling that you’d be saying yes to the job. and michael, down in the cave, looking further into your history and tamaranean culture in general, has a gut feeling that he’s just found his new “wife”.

looking for more?

author’s note )        really i think i just loaded this with so many of my fav tropes it might not even make sense, ugh. fake dating (prob for like a short period and then michael’s like “get through this, the money’s yours”), alien falling in love with earth + human teaching alien earth stuff (as you play wife for michael), warrior badass (reader) x some guy (bc michael is some guy to you), etc etc, i like the aesthetics of batman and i figured tamaran wld fit out of all the dc alien planets. in my mind, blackfire is the queen that pays reader bc umm why not. maybe starfire makes an appearance i have no fucking clue im just using dc so u guys get the vibes. god i hope this piece is not just bullshit i just needed to set up the premise. please suspend ur belief </3