#shadowed secrets

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?