#if i missed some really great batjokes stuff please @ me!!!!!

[fordarkisthesuede]

The Tolls of Justice - Chapter 6

YOUR LONG WAIT IS FINALLY OVER!!!

BEHOLD, THE FRUITS OF MY LABOR AND YOUR LOVELY PATIENCE!!!

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[Chapter 6:  The Tips of Our Swords]

Soft orange light from the streetlamps passed through the windows every so often, casting shadows over John’s face. 

Bruce couldn’t help but look over at him when he got the chance. His expression was soft and conflicted; John was clearly thinking carefully about what he was going to say, tapping his thumbs together and staring at them or the dashboard before darting his gaze elsewhere. He’d been quiet for ten minutes.

Bruce didn’t want to push, but John was a natural conversationalist around Bruce, never seeming to run out of things to talk about on an eclectic variety of subjects. The last time he’d been this quiet was when they had been on their way to Dr. Crane’s house to investigate.

He’d been like this since they left the halfway house. Even before that he was less talkative than usual, actually leading him back to his friends and letting them tell Bruce some of the details about what happened, seeming content to watch all their reactions. It wasn’t like John. John should be gushing over how excited he was to be returning to the cave. He should be joking how Bruce’s lawyers and swooped in to clinch the save. He should just try to hold Bruce’s hand the second they were alone. He should…

Should just be John.

Bruce knew he could just reach over and touch him, but he’d never seemed so far away.

He debated asking him if he was okay, or why he was quiet, or if he should just delve into asking what else had happened that he obviously couldn’t say in front of his friends. It was hard to tell which of them would fare better. He wasn’t as on edge as Bruce had expected, but there was still something about the nervous taps of fingers that told him he wasn’t really okay. “John? How are you feeling?” he asked instead.

It certainly brought John out of his thoughts. The familiar cackle of laughter echoed in the car. “Now that’s a loaded question!” He trailed off to a little titter of eh heh heh hee as they came to a stop light. Bruce could see his shoulders shaking. “I - hm-hm… I don’t really know.” He looked back at his lap. “It’s a lot, that’s for sure… I’m not sure if I should-”

Acid green eyes looked right at him for a moment, glassy and vulnerable, somehow seeming to loosen the grip that had seized Bruce’s stomach since Tiffany had called him with the news over an hour ago. 

But John looked away as if he’d been zapped by an electric probe, and curled his fingers into the fabric of his purple slacks as he pursed his lips. “It’s a lot. A lot, a lot...”

Bruce hadn’t seen him like this before. John was so often watching him or flirting either directly or in his odd, roundabout manner that this new shyness was… Not quite refreshing, like it might have been with someone else. More like intriguing.

Bruce never could resist a mystery. “Why don’t you just start from the top?”

“Intrigue,” John answered after a beat, still not looking at him. The traffic light changed color, and Bruce returned to focusing his eyes on the road, continuing the journey home as John gave a little titter of disbelief. “I mean, I’m still a little upset at almost getting a sudden violent lobotomy, but… I’m still just thinking about it all. All those unanswered questions I have brewing in my skull...”

Bruce listened on. He’d been there more times than he’d like to admit.

“At least I’m not angry,” John shrugged, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms. Bruce caught a glimpse of John’s fingers tapping in succession against his arm. He still had his sleeves rolled up to his elbow, the bold orange and green stripes making him look all the more pale white. Bruce refocused on the road. “I’ve had more than my share of almost-blinding rage today. Not that’s been a bad day -” he said with an easier-going sort of shrug -“it was going great up until the shooting started.”

Bruce felt his jaw clench. He didn’t like discussing gunfire at the best of times, but John said it so casually. Like it was just something that happened. Like it hadn’t endangered his life and made Bruce abandon his hunt for Roman Sionis and drive to St. Dymphna like a literal bat out of hell.

Like if John had gotten seriously injured or worse, it would have just been another thing that happened.

He knew he was clutching the wheel too hard. John didn’t seem to notice. 

“I’m...surprised I wasn’t scared, actually.” John was slack and still. “Maybe a little at first, but... Not exactly. Once I realized I could pull the wool over the guy’s eyes and get my friends out, it was…” John was slowly grinning in his peripheral vision, sharp and all the more dangerous from the look in his eyes. “Thrilling.”

Bruce had seen that look before. It wasn’t manic, but the honest excitement there was unsettling. It reminded Bruce too much that John liked danger and violence in several degrees, and it was what had seemingly attracted him to Bruce in Arkham. It made Bruce doubt his recovery, and in turn doubt him, and he hated himself a little more for the very idea of it. 

“You almost died!” Bruce turned too sharply; he heard the bump of the tire as it rode the curb. He almost felt like he could break the steering wheel as he jerked it back towards the road.

John was studying him carefully. Bruce focused solely on the road ahead, with all the little strips and gas stations and countless little businesses lining the path off the freeway as he pushed the anger down and reminded himself that John was still adjusting. “I clearly had a handle on things,” John rebuffed.

No you didn’t, Bruce wanted to say, but it was childish. He wasn’t there; he wouldn’t know whether or not John was entirely right. The facts were that John saved himself and two others while sustaining minimal injuries, and he reached out for help the moment he could. But it didn’t change how worried Bruce had been, or how fast he’d turned around from his drive to the last club on Roman’s list when Tiffany told him what was happening. Or how he’d had a hundred what-ifs pound through his head in a relentless march until Dr. Song’s assistant called him too many minutes later to say John was okay. “You should’ve called me.”

“I knew Tiffany would be closer,” John shrugged, not looking at him anymore. Bruce glanced over, seeing guilt line his pale face in another flash of orange light. “I didn’t want to tear you away from your mission.”

They sped past intersections growing greener by the minute. Bruce only saw blurs of color, navigating home by sheer habit.

The phrase you’re more important sat on the tip of his tongue, but he would never say it. He wouldn’t even think it. He just felt it there, a betrayal of years of training and the morals he’d built up into the hill he’d die on. “I didn’t want to hear what happened from Tiffany -” Bruce couldn’t just stay silent or give some stupid lie, it didn’t matter how angry he was - “or anyone else. I needed to hear it from you, John. Someone tried to kill you.” 

Just saying it out loud made him grit his teeth. If - when - he found the person responsible, he was going to shatter the bones in their dominant hand and punch their brachial plexus until it was almost impossible for them to just raise their arm. He’d break their other arm for good measure as well as their nose with the toe of his boot. Bruce could be stopped by the pieces of paper that made up the law, but it couldn’t stop the Bat.

“And I’m not going to let them get another chance.”

Bruce practically felt John’s eyes rolling over him. Seeming to trace over his hands, his neck, his jaw… “And what if they do?” John asked in a voice a little too husky to be considered curious, “Are you going to rescue me, Bruce?”

Bruce. Not Bats or Batsy or Batman. Bruce.

He wasn’t blind. John had been mesmerized when Bruce arrived to pick him up. Bruce had seen that sort of serene awe only once before - and John was certainly no Tibetan monk. He’d gripped Bruce tight and buried his face a little more in Bruce’s shoulder at the attempts at reassurance. Looking back, it might not just have been about seizing the opportunity to hug him longer than conventionally appropriate...

John pressed the auto-drive button on the dashboard, forcing the car to slow down to a more appropriate speed and turn with the upcoming curve of the road. Bruce turned to frown at him, not liking the sudden loss of the one thing he had actual control over just then, and found himself a little less angry than he should be.

Bruce was always surprised by how John could say so much without words. His expression was expectant and affectionate, yet the smirk on his lips was all mischief, only growing wider with Bruce’s half-hearted glare. His question wasn’t just teasing or hinting - he wanted an answer. 

“You know I will,” Bruce replied, not in the mood to say anything more or less. He kept his hands loosely on the wheel, not sure where else to put them.

John gave a chuckle and admired Bruce with several degrees of desire. “That’s the Bruce I fell for,” he purred in a low tone that sent the heat in Bruce’s stomach south, “Confident, strong, assertive...yet caring,” he added with a little lovesick sigh. 

Bruce would give anything to hear that on any other day. It was a small comfort, rather intensifying the protective urge that hadn’t stopped coursing through him since the first phone call of the night. 

“You’re always there for me,” John continued, sliding his far-too-warm left hand over Bruce’s wrist, “You know I’m here for you, too.” He could undoubtedly feel the way his pulse spiked at the contact. It was why he was starting to give him one of those infernal grins. Why he chuckled at him. “Geez, you’re tenser than I was on inspection day,” he said, gently pulling Bruce’s hand away from the steering wheel and bringing it to his lips. “You shouldn’t be.”

The playboy could never recall an instant when someone softly kissed his knuckles like that. His fingers were used to being taken inside sultry mouths as a warm-up to something bigger - never kissed the way he did when saying a flirty hello or goodbye.

“Let me make it better,” John soothed, brushing the knuckles against his pale cheek. “Let it all out.”

Bruce never felt so conflicted. He almost wanted to give in to the almost entrancing atmosphere being crafted, but he didn’t understand why John was making it in the first place. It was frustrating and confusing, but he couldn’t find the energy to lash out at John when he was so warm and inviting, sitting there next to him in the Batmobile like he’d never left it. “You could have died,” he said, feeling like the wall was being pulled apart as heat sunk into the tense muscle beneath his fingers. John’s skin was soft and as real as he was. “And I wouldn’t have been there to save you.”

John leaned into the touch he was guiding along, his eyes practically glowing as he held Bruce’s hand to him as he ran his other set of fingers down Bruce’s forearm, trailing warm lines that would’ve made another man shudder. “Mm-hmm...”

He watched the hand for a moment. John never had complete control of his feelings, but he usually understood intimacy had a time and place. Bruce stopped the hand trailing up and over, careful about not applying any real force on the wrist. “John.”

“Bruce,” John grinned back at him a little too sharply, “you know we’re alone in a car that drives itself…” He kissed Bruce’s fingertips with a delicate reverence, his dark green lashes fluttering closed for a moment, and re-opened them the same time as his mouth, meeting Bruce’s gaze as he brought three digits inside it and wrapped his lips around them.

It wasn’t the time, but Bruce had been left to himself for seven months with far too little physical contact. Everything grew warm and cloudy, and he found himself succumbing to the act of worship with all his focus shifting to the sensations. John’s tongue was hot and wet as it slowly slid over and in-between Bruce’s fingers; he was gentle in applying pressure with his far-too-perfect teeth; his lips were soft and the utter desire on display in his blown pupils and bright green irises was too much for one man, let alone Bruce. It was too easy to imagine John’s mouth elsewhere, looking up at him with the same gaze.

“John,” Bruce muttered, hearing his voice lower too much to hide the need stirring in his chest, “if you don’t stop, we won’t make it out of the car.”

John grinned, letting Bruce’s fingers sit between his teeth as if he was showing how he could snap them off in a second, and pulled them out and away with another flutter of lashes. “So? You wouldn’t hear me complaining...”

Bruce knew that. He also knew this was becoming a game, and one Bruce would rather see John lose, for both his own pride and his need to see John thrown into ecstasy before he came unwound. 

He grasped John’s long, sculpted chin with the saliva-coated fingers and pulled him closer, not having to try to hard - John followed with the gentlest touch. “You’ve been very patient, John,” he said with a deliberately light rumble to his voice, “but be good and wait a little longer.” He ghosted his thumb over John’s bottom lip, feeling a little tremble at the action. Bruce was glad he didn’t have to drive; he could see all the flecks of dark yellow and mossy green in John’s irises. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Bruce let go, trailing the tips of his fingers down John’s neck to tease him further, unable to help glancing down at the pale mouth that had opened in return. John was practically melting before his eyes, tilting his chin up to expose his throat a little more. His habit of keeping the top few buttons of his shirt undone drew Bruce’s eyes down a little further, but he wouldn’t touch there.

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t get sucked into that bone-melting stare. Wouldn’t think about how warm the hand tugging his shoulder closer was. Wouldn’t let himself get pulled in and curl his fingers around the back of John’s neck, brushing the little hairs at the base of his skull… Wouldn’t lean in a little further and watch those toxic green eyes almost disappear behind their lids as their breath mingled together…

Blue light flashed over them once, causing both to pause an inch away from each other, John looking as momentarily confused as Bruce felt.

Another flash, brighter this time, and Bruce turned to look behind them.

A police cruiser was behind them, gaining speed as the red-plated Batmobile sped past an entrance for an upscale suburban neighborhood at least twenty-five miles over the thirty-five limit.

Bruce turned to look at John, taking only a second to look at the wide-eyed, wordless question of what they were going to do about this new problem, and Bruce turned back to the road ahead. “Hang on.”

He punched the auto-pilot button and slammed the gearshift into third, taking off on the simple two-lane road with a roar of the engine and an excited giggle from John. The cruiser’s siren began to wail as the trees lining the road grew denser, further and further into the city limits.

Perfect.

Bruce flicked the lights off, shrouding everything but the dashboard in black.

“Woah, don’t you need to see?” John asked, clutching the door’s handle-bar.

Bruce hit a different switch on the left side, hidden under the wheel, and the wind-shield display changed, showing everything on the road in front of them in shades of green. “We have night vision.”

“And here I thought bats operated on sonar!” John joked, clapping and giggling to himself as he took the display in with what Bruce knew to be the same wonder from the first time he’d sat in the Batmobile’s passenger seat. “Just when I thought this thing couldn’t hold any more surprises, you pull another one out from your cowl!” 

Bruce didn’t fight the tiny smile pulling at his lips. 

The siren blared behind them, and Bruce could see the blue light flashing in the rearview mirror. 

If John thought that was impressive, he was going to get a kick out of what else the car had up its sleeve. “John, press the yellow button.”

“Uh, this one? SB?”

“Yeah.”

John pressed it gingerly, and there was an audible clink before the result fired up - there was a burst of gray smoke sitting in the road, completely concealing the blue light from view. John turned around in his seat to look and let out a cackle of delight.

They passed the guard rails up on the curve, and Bruce counted the points up to ten before slowing down just enough to make a sharp turn at the broken right-of-way marker, clipping it with the edge of his tire and forcing himself to keep straight in his seat as the car tried to lean; John was gripping the door, still laughing to himself and slapping his thigh.

“Ah ha ha! Oh, Bruce!” John wiped the corner of his eye as they drove straight down the hidden path to the cave. “I knew you were fun!”

“What, you doubted me before now?” Bruce asked, feeling unusually playful, “I’m hurt, John.”

“Not exactly. That’s why I said I knew.” The last of his euphoric laughs died down; Bruce switched back to normal headlights, knowing they were getting close. “You are the straight man to my joker, after all,” he teased proudly. “Well… Mostly straight, anyway,” he added with a slight titter.

“That’s a terrible joke,” Bruce answered, not actually meaning it, “You should have run that bi me.”

John laughed anew, shoving his shoulder as he half-hid his face from view. “You…! Ah ha ha ha ha! – Bruce, you…” John gave another ha ha, biting his lip and looking at Bruce with watery, delighted eyes. “You actually told a joke!”

He supposed so. Was it really that surprising? “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me,” he shrugged slightly, not sure what else he could say.

Deep giggles echoed in the car. “I would,” John managed, still grinning ear-to-ear, “but you told me to be good and wait. You’re making it hard...”

Bruce couldn’t help but feel rather satisfied about that. It wasn’t that he needed to impress John, but the fact that he had gave a much needed burst to his mood. It was a welcome change from an hour ago.

The hologram covering the cave entrance in front of them disappeared. The lights lining the cave turned on ahead of them, illuminating the parking bay.

“Bruce?”

Bruce pulled the car to a safer-than-usual stop, not wanting to force John forward in his seat. “Yeah?”

“I…” John was staring at him with half his usual grin, clearly debating with himself over something, tapping his fingers together in succession. “I know I’m all over the place right now and you probably think I’m off my meds or something, but…” He cast his eyes down at his hands as he pressed his fingers together. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” he said slowly, meaning every word. “I mean it. You…” He clasped his hands together and met Bruce’s gaze with a tender determination. It stirred the fire still burning low in his core, and for a moment all Bruce felt was the urge to hold him. “You saved me.” 

But Bruce hadn’t been there… He hadn’t shown up until it was too late. He couldn’t have saved him.

John put the tips of his fingers to Bruce’s lips just as he opened his mouth to ask. “Don’t,” he pressed gently, “I just wanted to thank you.”

Bruce wanted to ask why he wouldn’t explain himself - he didn’t quite understand why it seemed like that was what John had been nervous about asking - but John had been through enough already for one day. He deserved to be in a good mood.

Speaking of which… Bruce took John’s hand and kissed it softly in return, not tearing his gaze away. “Any time,” he answered, meaning it more than he might have meant anything.

John hummed into a giggle, seeming more star-struck than ever. “You know, I think now would be a good time to kiss me,” he said with a little bat of his lashes. 

“Not in here.”

He frowned, and without asking, Bruce knew what he was going to say - why not? John might have been temptation personified, but Bruce didn’t want to ruin his seats with seven months’ worth of pent-up lust when there was a perfectly good bed up a few flights of stairs. “If I start now, I won’t be able to stop.”

“I hope that means ‘I want you comfortable for what I’m about to do to you’ rather than ‘Don’t ruin my custom leather seats’,” John said in what must have been an imitation of Bruce’s voice as he pulled away, opening the door but still maintaining eye-contact. “You’re lucky you’re such a hunk,” he teased with a flirty wink as he slunk out the door, “or I’d be…”

Bruce could fill in the blank easily, but he wasn’t sure why John had paused just outside the car. He opened the driver side door, wondering just what John had been focusing on, when he heard the explanation loud and clear:

“IMAN!” John shouted excitedly, causing a few of the straggling bats from the colony to scatter and squeak as his voice echoed. “What a surprise!”

Bruce felt his teeth clench, and immediately felt guilt pile on with it. He shouldn’t be upset at having company when said person was a serious help. But it didn’t mean he wanted to see her now, with John in arm’s reach and the mountain of stress on his shoulders that clearly wasn’t going to leave any time soon.

“You didn’t tell me she was going to be here,” John said to Bruce, leaning to look back in the car with no trace of malice. Bruce hadn’t expected him to be genuinely excited to see her.

Then again, what did he expect? John was always somewhat unpredictable, even now in his final phases of his recovery. “I didn’t think she’d stay this late,” Bruce muttered truthfully, flexing his hands in preparation for casework and shifting his mindset to Batman and away from ideas of what else his hands could be busy doing. 

John practically bounced up the stairs with his hands in his pockets, not waiting for Bruce to follow. “I haven’t seen you since Easter!” He called out, “How’s my favorite rogue agent?”

She’d visited him on Easter? When he was still at Arkham[B1] ?

That was news to him. Neither had mentioned it. Bruce shoved down the reflexive bite of jealousy; he didn’t need another headache. He could ask them later. Separately. So they couldn’t collaborate on anything, if there was something at all. 

“John, I haven’t been in the Agency for over a year, now,” Iman answered with a patient smile. She had scrubbed her face and changed her work clothes to comfortable sweats since Bruce had left for the night. There was an empty china plate next to her elbow with traces of herb gravy and bits of potato, meaning Alfred had quite kindly made up a dinner plate for her after she’d arrived to cover for Tiffany’s absence.

“That’s why you’re my favorite! Yeesh - looks like those bags have been cycling the carousel for a couple of days, huh?” John pointed to her eyes, which did have some dark circles underneath.

“I’ve been trying to piece together what I can on all these new cases,” she explained, her low ponytail swishing slightly as she turned back in the chair to look at the screens. The monitors were littered with information on the past weeks’ worth of cases and notes scrawled in a shorthand that was certainly not Bruce’s, as well as one full screen showing six different cameras in select Bludhaven and Gotham parking lots. “That, and since Bruce had to turn around and pick you up, I figured it would be easier to keep an eye on points Roman was liable to be seen in and wait to hear the details from you while everything is still fresh.” Iman’s bright brown eyes honed in on the white bandages on John’s arm. “I didn’t know you got hurt.”

“This? Oh, that was just glass,” John said with a poke to the wound. His eyes flashed at the touch and he grinned slightly wider. “Nothing to worry about.”

Iman seemed to finally notice Bruce. Or, rather, she was finally acknowledging he was there. He hoped it was just because she was clearly tired. “You came back fast. I’m guessing the lawyers sorted everything out?”

“Temporary release into my care until the investigation makes an arrest. Any sign of Roman?”

She gave a weary sigh, crossing her arms and leaning back to stare at the camera feeds like they would suddenly show Roman sneaking across the screen. “Not so far. He’s keeping a surprisingly low profile.” She narrowed her eyes at the screen. “I underestimated him. I’m getting rusty.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, Iman,” John soothed, leaning against the workbench with a drone in the midst of being put back together. Bruce squinted at it – it was the one from the docks, with several obvious new parts. Tiny highly-illegal lasers had been crafted on; the sort that could cause serious inconvenience. “The guy’s a mixed bag - he’s too smart to be caught, but I’d bet a donut he’s someplace too dumb for anyone else to stay.”

“Dollars to donuts,” Bruce pointed out. John cast him a confused look. “The phrase. It’s ‘you’d bet dollars to donuts’.”

John blinked. “So… I’d just buy donuts with the amount of dollars I’d be willing to bet?”

“Pretty much.”

“Still a donut, then, with my pitiful wages,” John shrugged off with a joking smile. “I’m guessing the first place you guys looked was his house.”

“Twice,” Iman pointed out, “Bruce was on his way there for another physical sweep before Tiffany called in on your situation.”

John’s shoulders sank slightly; Bruce crossed his arms, not wanting Iman to twist the knife any deeper than it was already.

Iman seemed to have noticed how defensive he’d gotten, because she quickly changed tracks:  “I know you’ve been through a lot, John, but I need to know - did you see who tried to shoot you?”

“See? Oh, yeah,” John dug his phone out of his pocket and tapped the screen, “I got a video.”

“What?!” Bruce’s voice echoed in his ears, sounding an awful lot like Iman’s. “You didn’t tell me that!”

“Well, I didn’t really have time, Bruce,” John explained with a raise of his brow, “Every wall has ears. I didn’t show Mickey or Devi, either.” He turned the phone screen towards them to show the brief video play – taken from the window, with the zoom lens set to max. Bruce could see the shadow of someone with a long range rifle of some sort in their hand.

“Computer, enable remote connection,” Bruce said, watching the shooter whirl around to hit the drone with the barrel of their gun. He couldn’t see the face, but maybe with a bigger screen and some enhancements…

“SAY OR INPUT DEVICE NAME TO CONNECT.”

John darted his eyes to the screen like it was a person. “JokerPhone.”

The computer gave a little beep, the light by the keyboard flashing red briefly. “SCAN COMPLETE. DEVICE CONNECTED.” A duplicate window the exact shape of John’s phone screen popped up, covering the window with the crime scene report from the Chandis. 

“Thank you!” John beamed, looking more delighted as the computer gave the standard ‘you’re welcome’ in return.

The video was short, playing on a constant loop like one of those “Root” videos Bruce caught Tiffany sneaking peeks at when she thought he wasn’t looking. The shooter whirled around to hit the drone flying behind their head. Both arms were visible, but they were cast in absolute shadow, and the brief flash of a profile showed something impossibly flat, with a slight curved protrusion too smooth to be a real nose.

A mask. 

Bruce watched as the shooter hit the drone again for good measure. Their arms were visible, and he could see them run away as another figure flew down to land on the roof a moment later. 

There was a flap of material fanning outward. Not quite like Batman’s cape, which moved over the shoulders. There was something odd about the almost round shape. It didn’t fan completely behind them, like it closed in front of the waist like a coat, but it billowed behind them in a way that made him feel...nostalgic.

“Pause it,” Bruce ordered, and the video stilled without another second.

Rounded, not pointed like his wings at all. Too clingy to be like his cape, too loose to be like John’s old Joker coat...

Instead, he could see his mother running after his scarf on the lawn in the late November snow, seeming like a picture out of a high-fantasy story - the crimson cape she’d thrown over her black winter coat was billowing behind her in a funny shape, her arms stuck through the gaps in the side, moving with her as she ran…

It was a cape… Just not like his.

A cape and a mask.

It didn’t sit well with Bruce. Someone was going to great deals to hide their identity and he couldn’t help but wonder…

“Hey, Bruce, you never did tell me - how did you know Roman Sionis was Black Mask?”

“...are you trying to imply that Black Mask might have been the shooter?”

“It could be,” John shrugged, crossing his arms casually and regarding Bruce with a curious stare, “I mean, that name can’t be for nothing, right? And this guy is clearly wearing something. So, how’d you find out?”

Bruce couldn’t tell him the whole story - not with Iman sitting there. He had to trim out the specific bit regarding John, but he filed away John’s suspicion of Roman for later. “He came to my office on Tuesday to offer to sell me Janus Industries. When I refused, he threatened to go to the tabloids; that was where Wednesday’s article came from.”

“So that was him, huh…” There was something dangerous in that new spark in his eyes and the little lift of the corner of his lip. Like a simple punch to the face wouldn’t satisfy John’s vengeance.

Bruce didn’t want to think on that further. He continued: “I thought it was strange that he’d want to sell me the company unprompted, so I started to look into Janus Industries as a whole.”

Iman was already pulling up the projects. “Thirteenth Street has three of the operations affiliated with the projects,” Iman explained, pulling up a map of Gotham, “The rest are scattered around the Docks and creep into the Cauldron. The shipping detail we’d picked up on is also listed here, disguised as a warehouse for the products’ storage.”

John seemed to be reading through the list. “I see,” he nodded along, a proud smile curling on his lips, “So it was my lead that broke the case, huh? Well, you’re welcome,” he said with a knowing look thrown Bruce’s way. 

“It’s not exactly hard evidence,” Iman pointed out, instantly deflating John’s mood, “It’d be nice if we knew where he was hiding so we could confront him directly.”

“Oh, Tiffy will have something to that end,” John answered, looking up at the short stalactites protruding from the cave’s ceiling. 

Bruce narrowed his eyes. John knew something he wasn’t telling him. “Why Tiffany?”

“Weeell… Remember when I said I’d have some information for you?” John hoisted himself on the empty spot on the workbench and started to swing his legs a little. “I found a name for Stitched Up’s drug-runner. Tiffany looked up the last known address - since she was so close to my neck of the woods, she went to go check it out.”

Was it just Bruce’s overly-suspicious mind that made the idea of Tiffany and John willingly working together sound off, or was it just the general stress of the day creeping in and making him angry and paranoid? He’d thought it was strange when Tiffany had said she willingly talked to John the other day… The fact that Tiffany had taken initiative to follow a lead he’d suggested was even more peculiar. 

Was John trying to use her for his own gain? Was it the other way around?

The red light by the console keyboard flashed slowly, drawing Iman’s attention. “Speaking of - looks like Tiffany’s finally back.”

The roar of a motorcycle echoed in the cave, and Bruce turned to see Tiffany slow down and park safely outside the revolving landing pad now hiding the Batmobile. 

He hadn’t seen her for two days. The fact that she’d come back to the cave for this rather was encouraging - though he wasn’t sure if she was going to talk to him.

“Wait, Tiff’ has a bike?” John asked, hopping off the table as he watched the bike’s plated casing shift from a dark blue to a light gray, “I thought she drove a car.”

“She got an upgrade last December,” Iman answered, “Compliments of Wayne Enterprises secret accounts.”

“So did you get a swanky new ride, too? Or can you not because of the whole...?” He gestured to his ears in a vague attempt to convey her deafness.

“I can. I just don’t have the excuse of field work to bill Bruce yet,” Iman teased coolly.

Bruce resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “You know you can just ask.”

Tiffany hung her helmet off one of the bike’s handles - it was a sleek dark blue with a yellow visor, somewhat matching the newly-colored lightweight armor she’d made for herself. Bruce could understand wanting navy blue to better blend into the dark, but the section of dark orange in her chest plate puzzled him. She’d argued that she wanted it that way and that she wasn’t going to change it, and Bruce had dropped the subject if only to sneakily bring it around later on when he would bring her into the field more regularly.

Tiffany had strapped a duffle bag to the back of the bike. She had undoubtedly brought the drone home with her.

“Tiffy!” John beamed wider than ever, holding out his arms like he was expecting a hug - he dropped them a second later, as if realizing both that she wouldn’t want one from him and that she was too far away. “The lady of the hour!”

She froze for a second, nothing short of surprised, and met John’s glowing smile with a puzzled sort of relief. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Ha! That’s what I said! Today’s just full of surprises.” He leaned against the railings, looking like he was actually enjoying himself. “Speaking of - blue and orange! That’s a look and a half for you; really compliments the hair.”

“...thanks.” She seemed unsure if that was a genuine attempt at flattery or not. She picked the duffle bag up carefully with both arms and made her way up the stairs.

Bruce didn’t like standing by doing nothing when there were questions to be answered. “Tiffany, did you find anything on the rooftop?”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” Tiffany answered with an annoyed look thrown his way as she ascended the stairs, “And no, I didn’t.”

“What, they weren’t nice enough to leave their business card?” John joked, deepening the annoyance in Tiffany’s expression.

“They didn’t leave anything. I couldn’t even get a good look at the guy.” She frowned to herself. “He smashed my drone and ran.”

“Uggh. Why couldn’t someone narcissistic and careless try to kill me? It’d make things so much easier.”

Bruce frowned at the dark humor, but Tiffany actually seemed to relax more. Her shoulders sank slightly and she wasn’t carrying as much tension in her face. She almost looked like she was going to smile.

“You’re telling me, that’s two drones I’ve lost this week and no known faces I can punch for it,” she remarked as she plopped the duffle bag on the short workbench, “I followed this guy into the alleyways behind the building, but I turned the corner and they were gone.”

The second person who seemed to vanish into thin air after fleeing a scene… Bruce mentally shook the thought away; despite her excellent running times, Tiffany was still a novice in trailing people actively. “And you searched the roof?”

“Oh, no, I thought I’d leave evidence lying around for a couple of days to let it ripen,” Tiffany said dryly; John snickered quietly into his hand. “I haven’t been following you around learning how to do this for almost a year for nothing, you know. If I’d found something, I would have said so.”

Bruce only wanted to be thorough. He hadn’t meant it to sound like he was doubting her skillset, but he couldn’t bring himself to apologize for asking - not when she was still his protégé. He thought about bringing up the question of any vehicles in the area, but she undoubtedly checked for that, too. “Did you find anything at Ian Coggs’ place?” He asked instead, watching her eyebrows raise minutely.

“How did…?”

“I mentioned your brilliant detective work,” John piped up, folding his arms and leaning back against the railing, “You know, how you found the last known address and that clinic he was supposed to go to.” 

Tiffany looked...peculiar. The recognition in her eyes didn’t feel as recollective as it should. “Oh.” There was an odd feeling, like something else was being said wordlessly after it. “So, Ian was supposed to go to Haven’s Helping Hand, but he never showed; his last apartment was on South Blade Street. He wasn’t there, but…” She squinted, a habit of when she was contemplating something she didn’t quite understand, “It was like he hadn’t been there in a while. Everything was in place, but… It felt stale.”

“How does a place feel stale?” John asked with a little tilt of his head.

Iman answered patiently. “There’s mildew, dust in usual places, stagnant air - like when a room is closed without any fresh air for too long.”

Tiffany folded her arms. “And I expected more half-open bottles and empty pizza boxes, but I didn’t even see a loose chopstick. It was weird... Especially since his last rent payment bounced - I ‘asked’ the landlord,” she added with air-quotes in Bruce’s direction, “Ian’s two days away from eviction.”

John hummed, tapping his toes against the metal floor. “That is weird. He doesn’t seem to be the type to clean up after himself...”

Bruce crossed off any kind of maid service being responsible. South Blade Street - or even its northern counterpart - wasn’t the type to have apartment-controlled mandatory cleaning. Either he or someone else cleaned up enough to stop other people from inspecting any potential infestations for a while, which meant Ian didn’t want himself to be found. But even if he had stayed in Gotham all this time, why keep his apartment? “Did he still have clothes there?”

“There were a few empty hangers, but his closet looked pretty full. I mean, I get why he abandoned it if he escaped en route to the clinic, but to leave that much stuff behind… Even if it’s Roman Sionis bankrolling him, I don’t know anyone who would be that willing to leave everything they had behind.”

“What, even his toilet stash?” John asked.

“I checked - if he kept anything there, it was long gone. Same with the air vents.”

Bruce slowly let the air out of his nostrils. Whether or not he’d abandoned the place, it was odd to leave it clean when he had so much left behind. Tiffany was right to be concerned. It sounded like he’d have to cross Ian Coggs off his list of potential leads to Roman’s hideout.  “I’m guessing the landlord hadn’t seen him in a while.”

“No, but a guy at the Lucky Hotel did.”

Bruce was taken aback a second time that night. His gut instinct was to tell her she shouldn’t have gone alone. That she should have said something before just following whatever trail led her there.

But before he could begin to argue, Iman chimed in. “What lead you there?”

“I figured it was worth a try. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was hiding out there under an alias, given his addiction, and the hotel being a host for Roman’s projects in proximity of some others. He wasn’t there, but a guy from the front desk was nice enough to tell me he’d seen him,” she said with a sly smirk that spoke of more than just a simple conversation occurring. “It took some convincing, but I’ll even get a head’s up if he sees him again.”

She’d put serious forethought into her actions and got results. He could still feel the flickers of anger at her for leaving on her own, and more for using what was likely force without proper guidance, but Bruce was honestly impressed. Finding Roman might just be pushed aside for a later time than he’d like. 

He decided not to let his stress get the best of him. She was looking at him expectantly, waiting for some kind of reaction, and there was only one he felt she deserved at the moment: “Good work, Tiffany.”

Tiffany smiled, the light in her eyes shining confidently.

“But I’d appreciate it better if you told me when and where you were investigating beforehand next time.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Tiffany answered with less enthusiasm. “Everything’s uploaded to the BatComputer if you want to look for yourself. I’m really only here to fix my drones.”

Bruce didn’t buy it for a minute. She’d come back to help; she just didn’t want to admit it outright. “You’re room’s still here if you want to stay afterwards. I know Alfred would like to see you.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said, carrying the newly-broken drone to the farther workbench, out of sight from the computer console. Bruce caught a glimpse of clothes stuffed in the bottom of her bag - she’d planned to stay from the beginning.

Iman gave a yawn.

“Speaking of rooms, you should probably get some rest in yours,” Bruce pointed out, “I’ll take over surveillance for a while and go over some of the case details John’s missed out on.”

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all night,” Iman sighed and stood, rolling her shoulders back and forth, her joints audibly popping with the movement. “I’m not used to running these twenty-hour days again… And at least with Alfred here I know I already have clean sheets.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. (Did everyone have to criticize his homemaking skills?)

“Ooh, if you’re giving me the low-down on everything, Bruce, I’ll have to get a seat to sit on the edge of,” John joked, ducking around the corner to grab the other rolling office chair from the workbench.

Iman was giving Bruce a knowing look. “You have to let Tiffany grow on her own,” she advised quietly, “She’s come a long way since Waller wanted to recruit her.”

Bruce knew that. He’d been training her himself - far better training than what she would’ve gotten with the Agency. But how on Earth could he not worry about her on her own? Didn’t Iman see the danger all of them were in? “I told Lucius I’d take care of her. I can’t break that promise.”

“No one’s suggesting you do, Bruce. But if you don’t let her work without your input, she’ll put herself in worse scenarios than just looking at an abandoned apartment or roughing up a wayward hotel employee.”

Bruce didn’t like the idea of leaving her on her own. There were too many things she hadn’t perfected yet, too many scenarios she didn’t have backup plans for… But Iman was the best psycho-analyst he knew. She was, in all likelihood, right - especially since both women talked outside of work enough.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she added, giving Bruce a pointed smirk as John rode his chair back over to them backwards, giving Tiffany a thumbs up until he was out of her line of sight and stopping dead an inch away from the edge of the computer. “Goodnight, John.”

“Night, Iman!” John called back with a cheerful grin and a little wave as Bruce took back his seat. It was hard not to miss the yawn he gave not a moment later. Bruce was surprised he wasn’t tired out earlier, after all he’d been through.

“What, a life-threatening shoot-out and thinly-veiled police interrogation isn’t enough to keep you awake anymore?” Bruce teased.

John laughed, echoing out into the cave and in Bruce’s ear as he whirled the chair around to sit properly; it wasn’t uproarious or over-dramatic, but it still sounded loud to Bruce. “You know it does! But I can’t help it, Bruce, those voice-away pills I take have their side-effects. Last time I just had the benefit of some vigorous activity to jolt me awake,” he answered, sliding his thin fingers over Bruce’s thigh. Bruce found himself letting it linger there, drawn in by its comforting heat. “It’ll take more than the sandman to keep me away from all this.”

Up close, Bruce could see the signs of exhaustion creeping in on John. His eyes didn’t have that lively spark they usually did when giving him that come-hither look, and the tender skin underneath them was a few shades darker than usual. “I don’t mind if you actually want some rest. You shouldn’t force yourself to stay awake.”

“Look who’s talking,” John shot back, already sliding the little remote keyboard over to his side to pull up the coroner reports. Bruce felt his leg cooling too rapidly and pushed away the thought of putting John’s hand back.

“I’m serious. It’ll be here tomorrow.”

“You’re always serious. I don’t want rest,” John protested in a childish grumble, “I want to help you.”

“You know if you fall asleep like that, you’ll fall over in the chair.”

“You’ll catch me.”

“You don’t know that.”

John waited a beat, and Bruce hoped for a second he convinced John to think it through.

The thin man gently plopped his head against Bruce’s shoulder. “There. Can’t fall over if you’ve already caught me.”

The soft strands of seaweed-green hair almost brushing his chin, the weight nestling on his shoulder, the faint scent of limes - it brought back memories of similar little moments of intimacy in places far more comfortable than the Batcave.

Bruce opened his mouth, ready to gently argue that John should fall asleep somewhere he wouldn’t potentially crack his skull against, but John shifted, looking up at him from the odd angle, and the argument crumbled before he could even say a syllable.

“Don’t make me leave you, okay?” John mumbled, the screens’ light making his irises look pale and more pleading than Bruce thought was possible. “I don’t want to be alone.”

It was probably wrong to find him so mesmerizingly beautiful when he looked so vulnerable. He looked like the soft, anxious man Bruce had glimpsed a year ago at that cafe, the one who needed answers to questions well out of the vigilante’s level of expertise. He might not switch emotions as fast or have the same concerning lack of self-control, but he was just as peculiarly sweet and mysterious with an edge like a knife underneath. The urge to kiss him manifested itself again, just as dangerous as the last time they were this close, but in an occupied Batcave there were no noisy tiled hallways and corners that made it easy to know when someone else was approaching. Bruce let the feeling sit in his lips, keeping him on edge.

“I won’t.”

John smiled gently, looking as sweet as he would undoubtedly taste on Bruce’s tongue, and began to read the screen he’d claimed for himself at an angle. “I hoped you’d say that.”

 Bruce wanted to drape his arm around his shoulder to keep him there. He wanted to touch him, comfort him, soothe everything away for the both of them… Instead, he forced himself to go back into his self-proclaimed investigation-mode and resume what he’d sat down to do - look over Tiffany’s findings on Ian Coggs. It might not go anywhere, but it was worth a look, and it was a distraction from the urge to just collapse against John in return.

Ian Coggs had been checked into St. Dymphna New Life Home on April 15th for drug use, following a court order for rehabilitation at a clinic his insurance company and the state would comply with. He’d filled out a form two days later to transfer over to a Bludhaven address matching a district clinic, Haven’s Helping Hand, on April 22nd, citing a sister living near there that Tiffany’s note said didn’t exist according to hospital records. The clinic reported him never arriving and a police report was filed for his disappearance in Bludhaven by Dr. Brandi September, and another in Gotham by Dr. Hana Song…

“He has tattoos...”

John hummed. “Several.”

“Did you see any of them?” Bruce pulled up the pictures Tiffany had scrounged up. Some were FriendBook photos, but the main one seemed to be his mugshot. “Like this one? The star?”

John shifted to look. “Plain as day.” He seemed to narrow in one taken at someone’s apartment. Ian was shirtless in front of a mirror, posing with his stomach sucked in to emphasize his abdominal muscles and his free arm in a classic body-builder pose. Not that he had much to show off - Bruce figured a good punch to the kidney would take the wind out of him. “Zoom in on his phone.”

Bruce did as he was told, wondering why John bothered to point at it, too, like he couldn’t follow a basic direction.

“Hey, Tiiiff’?” John called, shifting away to roll the chair backwards enough to see the workbench. Bruce instantly missed the warmth, feeling the cold draft of the cave hit his shoulder. “How long ago was Ian’s terrible selfie taken?”

“How am I supposed to know?” She called back.

“What, you didn’t look at the upload date? That’s shoddy work, Tiff’,” John admonished in a gruff transatlantic accent, like he was a stereotypical lone detective in an old film. “You’ll be busted down to patrol if you keep that up.”

“I’ll bust your ass across the room if you keep talking like that,” she warned. Her mild annoyance only fueled John’s inevitable laugh.

“I like your moxie, kid,” he joked, continuing with his little self-made play, “I might put you up for promotion with the Chief, if you give me a guess!”

Tiffany huffed. Bruce could easily picture her expression - bothered more at how she was finding it hard to feel any real distaste than John’s actual teasing. “April, maybe? I just grabbed them from FriendBook.”

Bruce ran a quick search by name and location; the same picture was used as his profile photo, so he was easy to find. “Looks like April thirteenth.”

“Ooh, the plot thickens,” John commented normally, drifting the chair back over to Bruce’s side and pulling up a picture on his phone, “He’s missing his chest tattoo, see? The weird sock and buskin masks.” He nuzzled into Bruce, clearly enjoying the opportunity to cuddle. The photo he’d taken was clear, and Bruce could just see the mask tattoo peeking out above Ian Cogg’s shirt. It looked like a single face split in two, with the malevolently-happy half rising above the tragically-angry one.

“Mesopaline-Thalia. One of Roman’s projects.” Bruce pulled up the report. “For water-proof theater makeup.”

“Ha, a rose by any other name...”

Speaking of names, something had been bothering Bruce for a while. He hadn’t gotten any opportunities to really ask until now. “John, how did you find Ian’s name?”

“I poked around the Parole’s room.”

It set a bad taste in Bruce’s mouth. The thought that John had risked getting caught in the worst place he could be seen breaking into - John might have been kicked out, or arrested, or any number of actions that would set his recovery further back. “You what.”

“Don’t get your undies in a twist,” John said quietly, “It went just fine.”

Bruce was sure he was smiling about it. He had never been so annoyed at him for seeing a funny side to something so incredibly unamusing. “You could’ve-”

“I knew the risks,” John interrupted with a sharp hiss, pulling away to glare at him almost nose-to-nose, “Don’t think I didn’t,” he emphasized with a light jab to Bruce’s chest, angry sparks flashing in his poisonous eyes. “I went over the same paranoid what-ifs that constantly stream in your head long before I did the deed, mister. And I got over them.” He plopped his head back on Bruce’s shoulder. “Like I said - it went. Just. Fine.”

“Why did you do it?”

“...why do I do anything?” John answered obtusely, not moving his head from Bruce’s shoulder. “I was tired of the soup du jour. I wanted to stretch my brain. I wanted to help you. Take your pick - they’re all true.”

Bruce felt his petty anger soften. He knew it was likely all true, but in different degrees - and he wasn’t modest enough to think that John didn’t put Bruce at the top of his list. John knew it could damage his chances outside and he did it anyway, just for a chance that it could help Bruce find Roman Sionis. 

But it also put a light on Bruce’s other suspicions. “Is it also why you got Tiffany to go look at his apartment?” He continued in a voice low enough so Tiffany wouldn’t hear.

John tilted his head to look at him, eyeing him carefully. Waiting.

“I know the recap you gave was your own work. You would’ve found his last address on the arrest record in the Parole office. You would’ve seen his transfer form, too. You knew where both places were and told her. It’s how she knew to go there.”

John grinned at him, his too-wide smile sending an uncomfortable little burst of adrenaline in Bruce’s brain; he wasn’t sure if it was like the feel of an incoming fight or the promise of intimacy. “We both know you can’t prove that,” he muttered, hot breath ghosting over the flesh of Bruce’s neck, “But it’s nice you think so highly of me.” 

Of course he didn’t admit it. He just gave a proud, satisfied glance at Bruce and went back to reading the coroner reports as if Bruce had openly praised him. 

Bruce cast a look over his shoulder at the workbench around the corner. He should feel guilty about the prospect of John manipulating her into helping, but he didn’t. He was honestly grateful for it. It saved him time and proved Tiffany could be trusted to investigate somewhat on her own. Whether or not John intended to give Tiffany a confidence boost from it was still up in the air - and Bruce knew John wasn’t going to answer that.

He let the air out of his nostrils, knowing he wasn’t going to stay mad at John for long, and returned to examining the information on Ian Coggs. If he didn’t have the theater-mask tattoo before his arrest, Ian likely had joined the gang after leaving for Bludhaven… But how did he get slip out from under the clinic’s radar?

Bruce pulled up the related paperwork. Planned transport was by the court-appointed-lawyer, followed by a patrol car. He could have easily slipped the patrol, bribed the lawyer… Could have even bribed the patrol, too. No one would be the wiser.

He looked at Iman’s map of the Black Mask gang. Roman did have a luxury apartment in Bludhaven, and it was clear that a good chunk of his gang could be traced back to the city. It was highly likely that Ian Coggs had joined the gang shortly after his escape. He had a drug addiction and was suspected of selling; he would be an asset to Black Mask that they could keep under their thumb. 

“John, what did you see Ian doing when you saw him?”

The other man didn’t shift - just continued to scroll through the death reports like it was the morning paper. “Picking up a vest.”

“What kind?”

“Padded,” he added, “You could see the drug packets when he squished it around.”

Roman had no steady girlfriend and what little consistent company he kept were either ignorant of his violent life or so loyal they pretended to be. Bruce had paid all the ones he knew a visit, but even under pressure, none of them said they saw him. He had a list of crossed-off names, and it seemed like the elusive drug mule Ian Coggs might be his only chance left…

“So our getaway-van-provider shot himself, huh?”

The picture of Ryan Hubbard Jr. that he and Tiffany had taken was just as disturbing as it ever was. There had been no detectable drugs in his system aside from a few shots of whiskey. Bruce had run himself ragged analyzing the samples he’d procured for anything that might show inhibited senses, but there was only one thing about the scene that really stood out and proved - in Bruce’s mind - that it wasn’t suicide. Even now, he could zero in on it. “It was meant to look that way, but the index finger isn’t positioned right. They forgot to bend it into the trigger.” He felt disturbed just saying it. And worse when he knew he wouldn’t make that same kind of mistake.

“That helps proves my ‘warehouse shoot-‘em-up was an inside job’ theory,” John said with a yawn, scrolling down to the next body found. “And Muddy was really frozen?”

John had pulled Muddy Nye’s crime scene and profile photos pulled up on the middle screen. “Partially. We checked surrounding industrial freezers, restaurants, ice storage units… I couldn’t find anything conclusive.”

“...why?”

“Because there wasn’t any trace evidence.”

“Ha ha, no, no,” John protested weakly, sounding more drained than before, “Why was he frozen? Shot in the head, dumped with the fish… And now put on ice. Even I think it’s over-the-top.”

“It disguises the time of death,” Bruce explained, not quite understanding where John’s train of thought was going, “The summer heat makes the body decompose faster than normal. Freezing would prevent the decay.”

“It still doesn’t make sense…” John barely stifled a yawn, settling a little further into Bruce. The green hairs ticked Bruce’s neck, and it took a moment for the billionaire-playboy to recompose himself. “Muddy was the mole. Why kill him so early?”

The mole…? “You think the Chandis murders were coordinated by Muddy Nye?”

“Maybe. The warehouse, definitely,” he emphasized with a little point at Bruce, “He planted the bomb, ran out of the warehouse last, got ‘kidnapped’, and wound up executed anyway. His dumping ground says ‘mobster’ like they’re trying to point the finger at someone else.”

It suddenly clicked why Muddy’s final resting place was so odd to him. He’d been dumped close to the scene not just for convenience, and not just to make sure he was found, but to send a message. “He was ‘sleeping with the fishes’...”

John giggled a little, turning to him with a proud little grin and a light pat on Bruce’s knee. “See, I knew you’d get it,” he said, his eyes sparkling like emeralds for the brief moment they held Bruce’s gaze, “They want to shove B.M. off his pedestal and take over, so they do it themselves and shuffle the blame elsewhere. But why kill your information guy afterwards...?” he sighed slightly, his weight sinking further into Bruce, “That’s what I don’t understand...”

Muddy’s loyalty certainly wasn’t a factor - if he had helped plan out the murders with whoever the killer was, he wouldn’t suddenly switch sides. He might have wanted some bigger cut of whatever money was promised in their future in exchange for his silence. If he was one of the members with more clout, he would be too useful to get rid of, but… “He was a liability. They couldn’t let him be seen alive if he was with the rest of the gang at the warehouse - he’d be suspected of treachery.”

John was silent, which Bruce took to mean he hadn’t thought of it and was mulling it over before responding.

Bruce glanced at the middle screen, still seeing the video John had taken of the shooter in the corner. It was a very different modus operandi, but something about the figure reminded Bruce of the person from Selina’s art gallery. The screenshot he’d taken of the security footage had a similar build and the same sort of cape, but the shooter didn’t have the slight protrusions on their head.

Bruce suppressed a shudder. They had to be goggles, or a trick of the light, or something other than his cowl’s short ears. He couldn’t rule it out until he had proof, but every fiber of his being denied it being some sort of copycat.

The gallery assault was far too familiar to the Chandis killings to be tossed aside, but if it was the same person, why would they suddenly switch from throwing knives to using a long rifle? For that matter, why not use the rifle to try and kill Selina in the first place? “What kind of message do you think it sends to throw knives?”

Silence.      

“John?”

John was breathing slowly, not moving from the spot on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce slowly waved his hand in front of John’s eyes to verify what he already suspected - John had fallen asleep.

Not that Bruce blamed him, but they couldn’t stay like this all night. All it would take would be one little shift, and John might slip off his shoulder and onto a very hard surface; he had to be moved to a proper bed.

The only question was:  the guest bedroom, or the master?

His first instinct was the master bedroom. He wanted to wake up and see the seaweed green head of hair on the pillow next to his. He wanted to just lie next to him and let the man’s chemically-lime scent sink into his sheets. He wanted to gently kiss him awake and pick up where they left off in the car, taking things slow and leaving John breathless and starry-eyed.

But Tiffany and Iman were staying the night in their own guest rooms, and Alfred wasn’t too far from the master bedroom - any one of them finding a man who had been overly obsessed with Bruce lying next to him would raise too many questions. Even more so if Bruce once again found his arm draped over him like his body’s internal magnetism was set to the polar opposite of John’s.

Bruce knew his decision. He let out a small sigh as he gently scooped John up in his arms, ignoring the warmth settling against his chest and the guilt already burning in the back of his head. “Come on,” he muttered, half to himself.

There was no way he couldn’t pass Tiffany. He forced his face to be neutral. He couldn’t dwell on unfulfilled desires of any kind.

“Well that didn’t take-” Tiffany smirked for half a second, until her eyes drifted to John’s unconscious form in his arms. Then her face flushed as she tried very hard not to laugh out loud.

Bruce really didn’t see what was so funny. “His antipsychotics make him drowsy. I’m carrying him to the extra guest room.”

“I figured that much. It’s just-” Tiffany snickered, “You’re carrying him like that,” she gestured to his arms, holding John up bridal-style. “It’s like a bad drama scene or something.”

Bruce was glad John wasn’t awake enough to hear that. He wasn’t sure if he’d be mad about it or just further dramatize himself for fun. “Are you going to bed soon?”

“Not yet. You should, though - you look like you’ve been awake for a week.”

“That feels about right,” Bruce commented, making his way to the elevator. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“Right back at you,” Tiffany teased, returning to solder some newly-replaced wires in her broken drone.

The manor’s hallway lights were lit - a courtesy of Alfred, no doubt - but John didn’t stir the whole walk up to the guest room nearest the master suite. Bruce had no trouble carrying him, but he did notice how firm the arm pressed against his stomach felt. John had always had lean muscle, but somehow he was strong enough to lift Batman off the ground with a grappling gun. How on Earth could such a delicate-looking man could be so strong was one of those mysteries about John that kept Bruce on his toes; he knew he’d never get the proper answer, but it made him want to study him and test him and experiment anyway.

The room Bruce chose was the one John had attempted to sleep in the first time he was at the manor. Only now the king-size four-poster bed had proper curtains on it to shield the room’s vast size from John’s view. Bruce knew John would inevitably sleep over when he got out of St. Dymphna, and Bruce had long entertained the idea of sneaking in and out of John’s room during those stays when the others were sleeping over, so when he finally broke the news they were a couple it wouldn’t come as much of a surprise.

He laid John down carefully, only removing the man’s shoes and both his personal and clinic-regulated phones so he could cover him with the lightweight sheet and thin-knit summer blanket. The curtains surrounding him were thin enough to let the air-conditioning in, but thick enough to block light from the windows.

He looked incredibly peaceful. Bruce brushed the perpetually-stray lock of hair away from his forehead, shoving away the urge to lay next to him anyway, and told himself that this was the best thing to do for now.

“Goodnight, John,” he muttered, drawing the last bed-curtain closed before making his way to his own bed in a house that, for once, felt full.

*~*~*~*~*

Bruce’s brain was wired a certain way - when something hit him by surprise, rather than turn to discover what it was, he would grab anything in reach and use the defensive techniques he spent years training in to get the culprit under his control.

In one moment, he felt something hit the back of his head with enough force to wake him up, and in the next few, he’d used his left hand to grab the assailant’s arm still attached to the object, twisted it and his left leg to hoist them up and fling them to the large empty space on the king-size bed next to him, and rolled with the action to pin them down.

Of course, in all the chaos, he didn’t think about things like who or what or why, so the flashes of purple, green, and white in his peripheral vision didn’t register fully until he was looking at the culprit face-to-face.

John was staring up at him, the too-bright greens looking as surprised and star-struck as if Bruce had suddenly kissed him out of nowhere. He grinned devilishly slowly, shifting to test the restraints that were Bruce’s hands and legs, and Bruce suddenly felt very exposed as he realized he had habitually slept in his underwear. “Ooh-hoo, now I know I’m not dreaming,” John said with a throaty little chuckle, “Only the real Bruce grips this tight.”

Bruce felt his face warm at the bizarre insinuation, but he wasn’t going to let such a small thing like embarrassment get the better of him. He saw the pillow clearly used to hit him was crushed under his elbow. “You shouldn’t wake me up like that.”

“Well if you hadn’t left me alone you would’ve gotten something nicer,” John shot back, his grin shrinking as his tone shifted to something more serious. “My mind’s messed up enough without the sudden panic of not knowing where I am.”

Bruce suddenly remembered John had mentioned having violent nightmares - specifically how he thought his brain was punishing him by ‘twisting’ his worst memories. Guilt hit him like a fist to the face at the realization that he’d left John to wake from a nightmare alone in a bed he wasn’t used to seeing. He loosened his grip on John’s wrists and shifted his weight, feeling worse about pinning him down so suddenly, and wondered if he should apologize.

“Wait.”

Bruce paused, knowing that if John had his hands free he would’ve grabbed his shoulder to plead with him, the same glimmer of regret shining in the acid pools of his irises. Instead, John slid his leg up against Bruce’s outer-thigh in an attempt to tantalize him into staying; even through sheets, the action sent a little shiver over his skin. 

“I got my petty revenge; I’m sated,” he added, nodding his head to one side as he grinned anew, “But don’t stop now.” He hooked his leg up and over Bruce’s hip, looking exactly as he had hours ago in the Batmobile with Bruce’s fingers between his teeth. “You’re already halfway into making it up to me.”

Bruce never salivated over anyone. As he’d never felt it, he never understood how a person could trigger such a primal display of hunger and call it any degree of romantic. He’d lusted and loved and yearned, but never drooled.

But it was the only thing he could feel described the sudden pang of desire that flooded his mouth and caused his hands to suddenly want to clutch like a needy animal. All because of an infernal grin and a leg around his waist.

He pushed raw instinct aside, filing it away the urge for later exploration. His first logical instinct was to apologize for leaving John on his own without thinking of the consequences. His second was to question how John could be horny at a time like this, especially if he was actually angry just a minute ago.

John was slowly pushing away the sheets that Bruce had accidentally dragged with him, and Bruce decided that for once, he really shouldn’t think about what to do next.

The man beneath him gave a little hee hee as Bruce sank down to press them together. “Is this what you had in mind?” Bruce teased, puffing air over John’s mouth to tease him.

“You’re definitely getting warmer.”

He kissed his cheek.

“Mm, warmer.”

His ear next.

“Cooler - come on, Bruce!”

“Are you sure about that?” Bruce muttered, taking a moment to suck his earlobe.

“I… Stop making this hard.”

“I thought that was the whole point,” Bruce shot back, kissing his jaw.

John laughed, and Bruce let the sound reverberate in his ears, thinking of nothing as he just took the sight of John in, of his green hair messed into the pillow, of the utter delight in his eyes... 

He let go of John’s wrists and took a slow breath as they kissed properly for the first time in too long. 

It was as if all the aches practically living in Bruce’s shoulders were melting away with the soothing heat. He kissed him slowly, drinking in the feel of soft lips moving with his, of the warmth against his chest, of the fingers now wandering over his back. He traced over one of the longer scars, moaning when Bruce sucked on his lower lip. 

He dipped the tip of his tongue between John’s lips and pulled away to tease him a little more, but John didn’t have the patience - he pulled Bruce back in and all but jammed his tongue between Bruce’s teeth with a frustrated grunt.

Their last kiss had been pure passion, born of too little contact allowed between them and a pair of tight purple jeans that made Bruce’s libido go off the rails. That kiss had electrified him and set his whole body on fire, and once he had started he had found it difficult to stop until a door opening had knocked sense back into him. 

This time the ache for more was burning slowly, steadily climbing higher as their tongues ran up and over one another, igniting moans and short gasps between them. They didn’t have to worry about wayward strangers finding them pressed against the wall - he could take his time enjoying all the sounds John made without worrying they would attract attention. He didn’t have to stop the hands scratching shallow lines down his back or his own hums of pleasure from leaving the back of his throat.

John pulled away, his eyes glazed over. “Is there a Batarang in the sheets, or are we just happy to see each other?”

Bruce smirked, drawing up to kneel over him. “Let’s find out.”

No sooner did Bruce finish his sentence than a knock came at his bedroom door.

“Master Bruce, breakfast is waiting downstairs.”

He hadn’t heard that sentence in months. It almost negated the annoyance at being interrupted with John for the second time in less than six hours. Almost. 

He grit his teeth, willing himself not to be mad at his father figure for interrupting something he didn’t know was happening. He breathed in slowly, pushing down the urge to tell him to go away in any matter of words. Even if they were inconvenienced, it didn’t change the fact that John was underneath him, warm and real and loving… But he found it difficult to keep the bite out of his voice when he wanted to set all conventional niceties aside and satisfy every urge John brought forth in him. “I’ll be down in a bit, Alfred.”

“Only a bit?” John muttered, trailing his fingers down Bruce’s tailbone with a wide smirk. “I can work with that…” Bruce shuddered, wanting far more than what an implied quickie would give.

“You haven’t seen Master John, I presume?” Alfred asked, “The guest rooms are all empty.”

Bruce grasped for an excuse. Telling him John was with him wasn’t even an option at this point - to say it would raise Alfred’s eyebrows was an understatement. “He’s probably exploring the manor,” he suggested, watching the door for any sign of movement.

John slid his fingers under Bruce’s boxer-briefs and squeezed his behind, sending a jolt to Bruce’s chest as he gasped.

“I suppose I simply could’ve missed him earlier,” Alfred mused.

Bruce’s blood was pumping in his ears as he became hyper-aware of the presence behind the door. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Exploring the manor,” John murmured back, grinning as he smoothed his hands over the sensitive skin.

“If I may ask, sir,” Alfred continued, “What are you going to do about tonight?”

Bruce felt like he could barely hear him, though he heard every word perfectly. He shuddered as John pushed his briefs down with his thumbs and palmed his rear end. The sensible part of him that wanted John to stop was clashing with the possessive ache to touch him in return, canceling out into a tense arousal flaring under his skin.  

“You’ve got a nice basement,” John teased in a hushed voice, giving a light squeeze.

“Sir?”

“W-what about tonight?” Bruce managed, shutting his eyes to not look at either of them. It wasn’t the best idea - it seemed to amplify the sensation John’s hands were creating.

“Well, I am impressed with how much you arranged with my absence,” Alfred continued - Bruce was barely holding himself together as John’s fingers scraped gently over the curves - “but it really okay for John to be here? Surely a man of his condition would be better...away from such a crowd.”

John’s hands stopped, slacking and pulling away and leaving Bruce to simmer uncomfortably in the air.

It looked like he was seeing something farther away than Bruce, with a heart-wrenching expression of understanding. It hurt Bruce more than if he’d stabbed him.

Bruce decided to focus on the main point rather than ask what exactly Alfred was driving at. He could hardly kneel there that let John be chastised for nothing, regardless of what John was to him. “John will be fine; he’s improved drastically from last year. He’s handled more than you think.” He looked down at John, who barely looked any better. “Besides, the house feels more livable when he’s in it,” he offered, shuffling his position to stroke John’s hairline.

John flashed him a bit of a smile, but it didn’t have his usual spark of life. He looked up at Bruce almost mournfully, as if Bruce had sugar-coated some terrible news.

Alfred gave a small sigh. Bruce had the feeling Alfred was rubbing the bridge of his nose; a habit Bruce had picked up from him years ago. “We’ll discuss it more later. Your pancakes will get cold at this rate, Master Bruce. I’ll tell Missus’ Tiffany and Iman to expect you shortly and bring Master John down if I see him.”

He heard a few soft footsteps under John’s weary sigh.

“He brought me down, all right,” John huffed, “Talk about a mood killer.”

“John, you know he… He just needs time to adjust.”

“What? To the whole ‘almost killed you’ thing? He’ll never forget that,” John spat dejectedly. “Not that I blame him… It’s not like I can forget.”

Bruce hated how right that was. Alfred was not liable to forget operating on Bruce at any time, let alone when he repaired the hole in Bruce’s left side. He knew all too well that it was John’s fault it was there in the first place. It wasn’t a stretch to think that Alfred may never truly forgive John for hurting Bruce that badly, though Bruce wished desperately that he did. 

He couldn’t fruitlessly tell John not to worry about it when it clearly bothered both of them, but he couldn’t stand to see him like this. He felt like he’d never wanted to comfort someone more. “He’ll come around,” Bruce said, cradling John’s cheek so he would look at him, “Just be yourself.”

John snorted into a short laugh, his smirk at Bruce far too harsh to be relieving. “Where have I heard that before?”

“Hey, it got me to like you.”

“Yeah, but I only need one guy to like me the way you do,” John joked, seeming a bit more like his usual self. 

He shot a small smile back for a moment. “John... I mean it,” Bruce emphasized, running his thumb over his cheekbone, “He’ll like you. I know he will. He just needs some time.”

“...you know, the more you say something, the more you’ll believe it - but it doesn’t make it true,” John said, “Still, it’s nice to know you believe in me so much,” he added, following with a slap Bruce’s right butt-cheek and a light smirk that didn’t completely seem genuine. “Now put your pants back on, stud. I’m getting pancakes.”

Bruce wasn’t sure what startled him more - the light sting of the hit, the sudden flirty term of endearment, or the way only John could lay out harsh truths so simply and openly.

Either way, Bruce hitched his boxer-briefs back up and let John leave ahead of him, unable to stop himself from watching him. The green-and-black checkered pants would start to slide past his hips if Bruce undid the belt and fumbled with the zipper, but he’d have to undo all the buttons of the short-sleeved shirt to get his hands underneath; it was unnatural how he managed to make the pink paint-like streaks in the purple fabric stand out, and even more how he made it look so good. He wanted to pull John back to bed and leave everything on a heap on his floor so he could show John how much he wanted him there.

“John?” He called out instead - John looked back from the doorway, not knowing Bruce had been watching him. “I meant every word. It doesn’t matter what anyone says - I want you here.”

John stared, looking too serious, but Bruce couldn’t guess what he was thinking about. “Yeah, I know,” he answered with a slight shrug, staring at the floor for a moment before darting his line of sight straight to Bruce’s groin, “I can tell,” he added with a hint of a cheeky smile.

He shut the door behind him, holding Bruce’s gaze until he was completely out of sight - leaving Bruce to torture himself by collapsing where John had been beneath him, as warm and wanting as Bruce had imagined in countless fantasies in varying degrees of sordidness. He breathed in the faint scent of laboratory-simulated limes still clinging to the pillow, forcing himself to put on the mask of the gracious host of the manor and push away the needy longing that had been burning in his heart for months.

*~*~*~*~*

Once Bruce had thrown clothes on, he had, by habit, headed towards the kitchen, thinking nothing of the smell of browned butter that filtered into the hallway. But the kitchen was almost empty - Alfred was the only one there, frying a pancake over the stove, clad in his summer white linen dress shirt and forest green plaid pants.

“I’d thought we’d have breakfast in the dining room for a change, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, spotting him as he turned to fuss with a pot of tea, “I don’t believe you’ve had any overnight guests eat there since your last college girlfriend.” He dunked the strainer of tea a couple of times in the pot, as if it would let loose any further flavors stuck inside. “Whatever happened to Miss Beaumont?”

“She broke up with me,” Bruce answered flatly, “Over breakfast.”

“That was right before you left to train in Japan, wasn’t it? After you’d gotten your Master’s... I almost thought you were going to announce an engagement at the time, since she’d stayed the week...”

Bruce had long gotten over the heartbreak, but he still remembered grappling with going on that trip at all, finding himself almost wanting to abandon the mission he’d worked towards for years in exchange for what he thought was a real chance at a relationship - instead she’d chosen to leave Gotham behind for good. “It wouldn’t have worked out anyway,” he said, not wanting to think about the small possibility that that wasn’t true. “I’m honestly grateful she dumped me when she did - it drove me to focus on what was important.” He could tell by the look in Alfred’s eyes that he disagreed, so he quickly switched tracks, choosing to ask something close enough to the subject to dissuade the eventual argument that would ensue. “I’m surprised you’re bringing her up. I haven’t seen her in six years.”

“Just the droll of this old butler reminiscing,” he said simply, turning to plate the last pancake with his usual precision timing. “It’s nice to have more people staying in the Manor for more than a few hours at a time again.” Bruce took the plate pushed into his hands as Alfred practically spun on his heel to pick up the large silver tea-tray that was normally reserved for special dinners. “I did miss the hustle and bustle they provide. Even if it’s only temporary.”

Bruce was glad Alfred didn’t see him wince behind his back. How was he supposed to tell him that John’s stay eventually wouldn’t be temporary when Alfred clearly didn’t consider it a possibility?

He followed him out, breathing slowly and telling himself that he would tell him when the time was right - preferably when John was a free man and he’d had a chance to grow a bit more on Alfred.

As they neared the dining room, Bruce could hear John’s voice filter into the hallway.

“-gotten up to that part of the autopsies; just going off of paper...I’d say they felt like executions.”

“Then we’re on the same page,” Iman said. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that they were displayed like that. It felt too personal. They planned this down to the letter.”

“...I don’t know how you guys can talk about murder while you’re eating,” Tiffany grumbled as Alfred entered, acting like he’d never stopped being a butler at all.

“It’s something you get used to, in this house,” Alfred said, using the corner of the table by Iman’s chair to pour a cup out for her.

“You can’t control your special interests, Tiff’,” John said with a wag of his fork, “And mine stops my brain from going into those nasty dark spirals.”

Seeing everyone sitting at one table made for a strange picture. Iman and Tiffany were sitting next to each other, Tiffany still in her sushi-patterned pajamas and Iman already dressed in a beige summer suit. John sat opposite Iman near the head of the table, where a clear space was made for Bruce. Alfred seemed to have planned to sit by John, though the chair was slightly farther apart than the rest.

Bruce didn’t want to sit at the top. He got enough experience looking down a table at people at Wayne Enterprises.

“Hey, buddy! You took your time getting down here,” John greeted with a wave like it was any other day; Alfred seemed to be watching for stray flecks of syrup on the family linen. 

Bruce put his plate next to John’s seat, much to his obvious delight and Alfred’s slight surprise.

“Deciding to sit among us commoners, huh?” He teased. 

“It’s easier to talk this way,” Bruce shrugged, putting his mug in it’s rightful spot, “Besides, I never liked the head chairs’ uncomfortable armrests.” 

Alfred had seemed to make the full spread - bacon and eggs sat under the set of silver cloches that Bruce hadn’t seen in...two years? Or was it three? It had been long enough that he’d nearly forgotten about them. He could see the thin lines of stubborn tarnish around the handle’s bases; the rest of the pieces were shining from a recent polish. Bruce piled the protein high on his plate, wondering at how he didn’t smell the bacon fat from the kitchen. “You didn’t have to go to so much trouble, Alfred.”

“I’d hardly call feeding yourself and three guests trouble, Master Bruce. It’s a welcome change of pace.” He took a sip from his teacup, looking like he hadn’t had a decent cup in a while. He looked right at home at the top of the table; with no plate of his own, Bruce guessed Alfred must have eaten while he was cooking. It wouldn’t have been the first time. “Especially considering I don’t have much to do for the Gala.”

Gala…?

Bruce suddenly lost his appetite as the old familiar pressure of stress hit his head. He clutched his forehead and massaged his temples to push it away and hoped Alfred had mixed up his Saturdays, but he knew it was pointless - Alfred always had an impeccable sense of time. 

“Bruce, don’t tell me you actually forgot something for once,” Tiffany ribbed, looking almost pleasantly surprised.

Bruce breathed out slowly, trying to hold in the urge to smack himself, and feeling it ebb away as John gently rubbed his back.

“It’s okay, Brucie,” he soothed, “I’ve forgotten worse things. Besides, you arranged all the fancy white-glove teams last month, remember? You’d stressed about arranging it since February.”

He did remember. He had a rental team of servers and caterers and a second maid service to finish cleaning the ballroom after their initial sweep and polish almost a week ago. But it was the social grace he’d have to put on instead of the suit he wanted - needed - to wear that really made him hate the idea of throwing the Wayne Charity Gala now. “I knew getting up this early wasn’t normal,” he grumbled.

Alfred took another sip of tea with his usual refined grace. “Bats might be nocturnal, Master Bruce, but the services you hired are not. They’re also non-refundable, if their websites were anything to go by.”

Bruce took his hands away from his head and crunched on the nearest piece of bacon, feeling John retract his calming ministration a moment later. “Someone please distract me with some good news.”

“Well, let’s see - these pancakes are really good,” John offered, spearing another bite, “You still look handsomely rugged with stubble… Ooh! And I know why Muddy was frozen.”

Tiffany poked her plate with an odd expression. “I didn’t know that was a mystery.”

“Of course it is! Shot in the head, frozen, then dumped to rot with fish carcasses? He’s just missing concrete shoes and a thumb cut off,” John said with a wink, “I mean, why freeze him and wait a day? Why not just put him in a trash bag or a suitcase if you had to wait all that time?”

Bruce found himself watching John. The way his hands moved as he gestured, then tucking into excited fists to rest on the table and lean forward, the gleam of true, unbridled excitement sparkling in his eyes and sitting in the corners of his cheshire grin.

“So, I started thinking of what you said last night, Bruce,” he emphasized with a look, the little curl at the corners of his lips lifting a fraction more, “about disguising the time of death. And those annoying little thoughts in my head! Why bother killing him hours after picking him up? Why not just kill him outside the warehouse? And then it hits me!” He emphasized with a shrug. “You guys only thought you saw him in the warehouse Tuesday morning; he was already dead.”

Already…? Bruce’s mind whipped around corners, thinking back to Monday night and the eventual Tuesday morning.

He’d seen Muddy in the warehouse. Tiffany watched him on the camera feed until the van exploded and she followed outside with her drone. They’d both recognized him from police footage; there was no mugshot and Bruce had never bothered to look into his personal life. “I saw his autopsy photo,” Bruce said, “and the crime scene. That was Muddy Nye.”

“Well of course it was! That’s my point. The real Muddy is dead. The fake one is still running around Gotham - sans makeup, of course.”

It was an intriguing idea. It explained why his death was so elaborate, why he wasn’t left dead on the pavement with the others… Makeup in the short term would make sense in this case; Muddy was still fairly new, so whoever it was had to know him well enough to sound like him and pick up any noticeable tics.

Tiffany didn’t look convinced. “John, I saw him on the drone camera. That was definitely the guy from the dumpster.”

“But you can’t prove it,” John said slyly, “Neither of you can. You’re going by what you think you saw, not what you actually did.”

“Are you saying I’m lying?”

“No, I’m saying that unless you show me the footage you took of the warehouse, I’m not trusting your memory of a minor character in a big scheme over a very reasonable answer.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it reasonable,” Iman said coolly, “but it’s certainly possible. I’ve honestly been so focused on the Wednesday Nighters and Black Mask that I haven’t thought about Muddy Nye enough.”

“Oh?” John rested his chin on his hand, looking as excited as a schoolboy going on a field trip. “I’ve missed a lot of details on those! Do tell.”

Iman had somehow quietly cleared half her plate already. “The only lead we have with the Nighters’ murders is the payment method and the woman on the camera footage; I’ve run checks on the card owner and all his female relatives. I couldn’t find anything suspicious - first marriage, two young children, no late-night texts, no calls, no burner phones, and no suspicious deaths in his background. His mother and sister live in Florida and his wife was with him all evening. His in-laws were having dinner out on the other side of town, but they seem unlikely; his mother-in-law is sixty and the woman at The Lot was at least half her age. It’s not much to go on. There wasn’t any DNA on the eighth glass found in the bathroom.”

Iman swiped around on the tablet between her and Tiffany’s elbows. “But I did find Roman on last night’s footage,” Iman said proudly, turning the screen towards them - a close circuit camera showed a little fleet of small yachts sitting in the harbor. They were the kind that the upper-middle class social climbers bought to join the local clubs and rub elbows while they bragged to their friends about how they owned a yacht. Bruce knew from experience the yacht would be smelling of wood polish and old rat poison. “He was staying on a yacht - it belongs to Circe, the latest model for Janus Cosmetics.”

John barked out a laugh. “Her name is actually Circe?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s just a stage name,” Tiffany chimed in, “She’s from that black and white ad with the weird eyeshadow-stripe of red that’s all over the city.” The young woman smiled to herself, and Bruce knew she was going to tease him before she even opened her mouth. “Maybe she’s working with Roman because Bruce turned her down at last year’s Christmas party.”

Bruce struggled to remember her. She was either the forward bottle-blonde who couldn’t keep her hands to herself, or the coy natural-blonde who’d swept him onto the patio and asked for a private tour. Both women had similar faces and builds, and all he really remembered was putting on the Batsuit after the party was over and glimpsing John through his Arkham cell’s window. “I honestly can’t even picture her face.”

Alfred scoffed. “Of course not. Who else would remember the only woman bold enough to wear chartreuse yellow in winter?” 

John snickered, and Iman had to politely cough behind her hand to cover her smile.

Bruce’s embarrassment at not remembering such an obvious person was overshadowed by how obviously Alfred was enjoying himself - despite worrying over Bruce’s life choices, he never did miss an opportunity to give one of his dry remarks. Bruce attributed it to a lifetime of answering to others.

Tiffany smirked at him across the table. “Not only that, but she spilled wine on my dress and blamed me for standing there on her way out. She was pretty pissed.” She stabbed a piece of scrambled egg with her fork. “So was I; that stain never came out.”

“I clearly dodged a bullet, then,” Bruce shot back, feeling slightly guilty about forgetting - at least until he caught John’s eye. He seemed rather satisfied with Bruce forgetting all about it.

“Bruce’s romantic life aside,” Iman interjected, “I couldn’t trace his car the whole trip to wherever he was heading, but I did triangulate the area it should be in. It hasn’t been seen again since five, but it’s something.”

“Mm!” Tiffany almost slammed her fork down on her plate and swallowed thickly. “Speaking of cars! I found Selina’s this morning - or at least the one she used to meet you in the parking garage.”

Bruce didn’t need to have peripheral vision to know John was looking very pointedly at him.

“You saw Cat Lady?” He asked in a clearly disgruntled tone, “First I’ve heard of it.”

“You fell asleep before I could tell you,” Bruce explained, noting John’s sharp look and how grip on his fork was harder than it needed to be, “She handed me security footage of her gallery in Bludhaven - she got attacked last weekend. We think it’s the same attacker from the Chandis.”

His sharpness didn’t soften, but Bruce could tell John was fascinated by the relaxation in his expression and the new light of realization in his eyes. “The same…?”

Iman passed him the tablet. “See for yourself - the knife points in the walls are the same blade-width as the victims from the ship.”

Bruce cast a look at Tiffany. “Why were you looking for her car?”

“Because she knows way more than she lets on,” she answered around a bite of scrambled egg, “and Iman and I agree that everything with the murders at the docks and Selina’s attack seem to go back to Bludhaven.”

Bruce’s mind surged in the new direction of the mystery at hand. He did think Selina knew more about her killer, but she wouldn’t work with him to tell him… But Bludhaven did seem to be at the center of everything. Half of Black Mask’s gang seemed to originate there or visit Bludhaven at some point. The shipment was moved from there. Roman Sionis had extended stays there. Selina Kyle had opened her art gallery there. Black Mask’s gang was a target, and if John’s theory was right in that someone in the gang was committing mutiny in secret… “Do you think Selina might have been working with Black Mask?”

“I’ve thought about it.”

Iman hummed. “I think she met Roman before, at the very least.”

Alfred was pouring himself another cup of tea already. “You say she’s running an art gallery?”

“Yes, the Estella Art Gallery in Bludhaven.”

“Roman Sionis always came off as the sort to accumulate things based on monetary value, rather than their actual worth,” he said with the air of someone who had most certainly remembered Roman well, “I believe that Roman bought something from Miss Kyle’s gallery. Likely the most expensive thing in the place - seems rather up his alley.”

It was highly likely. Which meant Bruce likely had to talk to Selina again...but he wouldn’t have time. He had to finish preparations for the Charity Gala and keep his eyes peeled for any sign of movement from Roman Sionis, and look over anything he might lead him to Roman or the Wednesday Nighters’ killer. 

He could already feel a headache forming as a phone went off with an unpleasantly shrill ring. 

John scowled as he fished his second cell phone out of his pocket. “It’s always at the worst time!” he grumbled aloud before sighing at the name. “Of course. Don’t wait up, honey,” he said in what might pass as a joking tone, clapping Bruce on the shoulder as he passed. “Hello, Officer Kane,” he greeted in falsely-pleasant tone. “Yes; I’m fine-with-a-capital-f. And I would know - ha! - I pass a mirror every couple of minutes here!” he laughed, shutting the door behind him as he walked to who-knew-where.

“Well that settles it,” Tiffany said, taking her tablet back from where John had laid it in the middle of the table, “I’ll go pay Selina a visit.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes across the table. “You are?”

Tiffany was clearly gearing up for a fight; he knew the determined look on her face when she was confronted. “Yes, I am,” she said sternly, “You told me to tell you where I was going next time - she’s staying at the Motel 11 on Augury Road.”

“You should wait until I can come with you.”

“I never said you were invited along,” Tiffany huffed, crossing her arms. “If I wait for you to come around it’ll be too late.”

“I just don’t want you going alone,” he emphasized, feeling the flares of powerless anger stir, “Selina’s not someone to be taken lightly. And if her attacker is still out there-”

“I’d be in just as much danger as I would be last night. I can handle myself, Bruce!”

Of course she would think so; she didn’t have the field experience he did to know what could go wrong. “I just don’t want you getting hurt,” Bruce said as carefully as possible, trying to keep the edge out of his voice, “John got lucky yesterday. I don’t want to find out you’d been hurt, too.”

Tiffany seemed to be chewing the inside of her cheek. He could practically hear the ‘then you won’t find out’ she was sorely tempted to say.

But Iman - who had been pointedly ignoring the awkward conversation by pretending to read something on her phone - had said he should let her work on her own, lest she fall into her own rebellious, solitary vigilantism. And he knew how well that went last time…

Bruce sighed, feeling angry at himself for it all over again. “Just...take one of the grappling guns with you. John won’t be using his.”

Tiffany relaxed, but still pouted. “His is weird.”

“It still works fine. Look at this way - if it breaks, you won’t have to repair it,” he offered.

“As long as he doesn’t bite my head off about it,” she grumbled, “I’ll get dressed and finish fixing the drone from last night; I should be out in a couple of hours, as long as her car doesn’t move. Thanks for breakfast, Alfred,” she finished with a glowing smile.

“Any time.”

Bruce wanted to stop her from going. Or follow her to make sure. Or tell her to keep her drone behind her for surveillance. Something, anything, to make sure she would be fine.

But he didn’t want to risk losing another partner’s trust in him. “Just be careful, Tiffany.”

“I always am,” Tiffany answered with a slight shrug and a slight smile.

Iman stretched her arms as Tiffany made her way out, leaving the door cracked open behind her; Bruce couldn’t hear anything in the hall, which meant John had moved to a different room for his talk with the parole officer. “I still have some Enterprise work from last night to finish,” she said wearily, sounding like she never wanted to even think about it. “I’m going to borrow your office for a while, if that’s okay. I’ll keep my eye out for any movement from Roman and use the drone closest to there to see where exactly he is. Do you want me to text you what I find?”

Bruce felt odd about letting someone else in there, but he supposed it didn’t hurt. “Sure, I’d appreciate it.” But there was something nagging at him from yesterday he wanted to clear up. “I’ve been meaning to ask - why did you visit John over Easter? He hadn’t mentioned it until yesterday.”

She was definitely thinking about how to answer. He could read it in her eyes. “I’d been thinking about why Waller wanted him for her...disposable squad,” she answered, “It never sat right with me. I wanted to know if he could remember anything before Arkham. And I figured he could use the extra company; he can’t always be isolated to one friend on the outside.”

So that was it. She was investigating his background. Not that Bruce hadn’t done the same, trying to find any scrap of information or picture that even resembled John - it was just odd for them to hide it. “He’s always said he never remembered anything before he woke up there.”

Iman gave him a pitying sort of smile. “I don’t think he tells you everything, Bruce. He wants to impress you too much.” She stood to leave. “If he does remember something, he didn’t tell me, either.”

Bruce wasn’t sure he believed that. John liked Iman for her obvious rebellion against the person who had tried to kill him and was half of the cause of his breakdown. He was liable to trust her over Tiffany, and since Iman was certainly not Bruce, he might have felt comfortable enough to reveal something that he feared might chase Bruce away or hint at a backwards step in his recovery.

“I’ll let you know if I find anything,” she continued in the tone she used when she wanted to leave a conversation.

Iman was hiding something, but she wasn’t the type to get information abruptly bullied out of her. Tiffany would let something slip when she was riled up enough - Iman was far too cool-headed to loosen her tongue at mere words, and Bruce didn’t have the heart to treat her like an enemy when she was doing so much for both sides of his life. “Thank you,” Bruce said as sincerely as he could manage.

“Let me know if you need anything, Miss Avesta,” Alfred chimed, “I believe Bruce will have his hands full until this evening.”

“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.” Iman flashed them a brief smile before heading away, closing the door after herself.

“At least there’s someone here with a good head on their shoulders,” Alfred quipped. “I understand she’s been a great help to you as of late.”

Of course she had, but so had John and Tiffany. Normally, Bruce would’ve brushed the comment off as something very normal, but with Alfred’s random mention of his last long-term girlfriend, he couldn’t help but wonder if Alfred was trying to push an unnecessary romance onto him. “They all have. I don’t know where I would be without all three of them. And you, Al’.”

Alfred swirled his tea gently in his cup. “I imagine you’d be quite lonely.”

Bruce looked at the three mostly-empty plates on the table, traces of maple syrup and bits of salt and pepper scattered on them. The sight was foreign, and it brought about an odd feeling:  he was comforted to know that people were there for him, for his mission in life, for Batman’s pursuit of justice - but at the same time all he wanted to do was be alone to collect his thoughts. “I imagine you’d be right,” he said, “but I could really use a break from the constant socializing.”

Alfred gave a chortle as he set his teacup down in the saucer, rattling it slightly. “You don’t have the luxury for that, I’m afraid. I don’t mind pitching in, but you’ll have to be the one to direct the hired services around again. How did that fair last year?”

Bruce felt his nose scrunch reflexively at the memory. “At least I know where everything is supposed to be placed this time.”

“Hm… Speaking of placements -” Alfred set his teacup down with a light rattle - “far be it from me to tell you who you admit as a guest in this house, but I hope you’re not letting John take advantage of your generosity.”

Bruce didn’t know how to answer. There was no possibility that Alfred thought John was taking advantage of him physically. Was Alfred thinking that John should have been thrown back in Arkham? Was he thinking that Bruce was being too generous by invoking the law and taking charge of a man who had no one else? “I don’t know what you mean,” he said carefully.

“You know exactly what I mean. I won’t say I understand the entire recovery process, but I don’t believe having full access to the home of the subject of his obsession is entirely healthy,” Alfred explained with a disapproving frown, “Especially since you’ll have several hundred guests tonight.”

Bruce could feel the embers of last night’s anger glare up. It didn’t matter if John was still ‘obsessed’ with him or not - John was better. “You think he’s dangerous to others.”

“I think that a man who stalked you and believed so much in your crusade that it broke him is inherently dangerous. He was obsessed with you as a celebrity and as a vigilante - and the events with Dr. Crane last year don’t exactly put my mind at ease.” Alfred was looking at him scrupulously. “The police and the general public may believe that Dr. Crane crawled his way into that train car...”

He knew where that was going. No one knew the truth besides John, Dr. Crane, and himself - and he wasn’t about to let Alfred accuse John of anything. “What happened there was Crane’s own fault,” he growled, “No one else’s.”

Alfred was staring him down with all the paternity of his blood-born father. “Can you swear that to me?”

He felt like he was back to being fourteen, staring down Alfred with all the burning righteous fury of his adolescence. He’d reassured Alfred multiple times that the fight he’d been in had been on someone else’s behalf and not a test of his budding fighting skills. Alfred had thought he’d only wanted to prove himself. And of course he had, but Bruce had always been clever enough to wait for the appropriate opportunity to get justifiable vengeance and self-worth in one package.

And now he was staring him down, fighting for someone else again. “Yes.”

Alfred’s dark eyes flickered between his slightly, looking for any sign of a lie. “You can be quite good at lying,” he said, his shoulders sinking slightly, “but I know you’re being honest.”

Bruce hadn’t been holding his breath - even if Alfred thought he was lying, it wouldn’t matter. John would be staying. 

“I just don’t know if you’re being honest with yourself. He seems quite...protective of you, considering what Tiffany and Iman have told me.”

Bruce wanted to say everything on his mind. That Alfred didn’t know anything. That none of them knew the full story. That he was just as protective of John. But he knew it would only make things worse.

“I just…” Alfred breathed out worried sigh. “I’m not worried for you, Bruce. It’s other people I’m worried about. He seemed like he was holding back quite a temper when I saw him this morning.”

Bruce wasn’t even thinking about telling him John had overheard Alfred’s doubts about him. He supposed the best thing was to be honest; at least as much as he felt he could be, when it came to John’s privacy. “I’m not surprised, given what he went through last night.” Bruce could read the doubt in his father figure’s eyes. “Trust me, Al’ - he just needs a little time to adjust here.”

“He doesn’t have time,” the old butler said with a slight shake of his head. “You can’t believe he’s ready to be around a large crowd so soon after what happened to him. Especially not with you as the center of attention.” Alfred stood to start clearing the plates. “I know you believe in him, Master Bruce - but a snake can’t change its pattern, even if it sheds its skin.”

Bruce frowned and forced himself to breath slowly. He thought of John, sitting in the medical ward of St. Dymphna New Life Home with the new friends he’d kept safe, watching Bruce as they told the exciting story, his expression curious and observant and admiring - but most of all, sane.

But as wrong as he thought (knew) Alfred was about John, he did have a point - John shouldn’t be at the Gala. It was always a stressful event, and Bruce had never seen John socialize with a crowd that size, let alone with people who would undoubtedly scurry away or turn up their noses at someone who was once deemed criminally insane. He wasn’t sure what John would do or say, but even on his best behavior it was always clear when someone had said or done something to aggravate him, and he tended to point out rudeness to people’s faces. Bruce didn’t want John to stress himself into a meltdown because of someone who wasn’t worth ten of him saying something rude.

“He’s not coming to the Gala, Alfred.”

Almost as if on queue, John came back in, his smile quirking into place at the sight of Bruce. “Uh, sorry about that. Can’t really turn down a convo with the warden,” he said with an awkward chortle, scratching the back of his neck. “So, who’s not coming to the Gala?”

Bruce swallowed slightly, hoping John didn’t notice. He couldn’t lie to him. He just hoped John would understand why he couldn’t go. “You,” he started, “St. Dymphna and the G.C.P.D. hid your move here, but we can’t entirely trust them - especially after last night.”

“What, you can’t say ‘attempted murder’?” John grinned wider, “It’s okay, Bruce, I know it wouldn’t be very sneaky of me to parade around your manor with Gotham’s who’s-who prowling around. And I might think it’s Roman who tried to shoot me, but...it could be anyone,” he said with a shrug. “This is the one time ‘better safe than sorry’ actually sounds do-able,” he added with an arched brow and thoughtful look into the corner ceiling.

Bruce couldn’t help but smile back at him partway, feeling the embers of his own temper dampen and cool. He didn’t care if Alfred noticed or not.

“Say, um, Alfred - let me help with those.” John didn’t wait for a response, he simply started to gather the dirty tableware on the opposing side.

Alfred blinked, pausing for a moment over a plate to look at John like he was checking to see if he was serious. “There’s really no need, Master John.”

“We’re technically both guests - it’d be rude not to help.”

“Very well.” Alfred held out the plates, which John stacked under his half-eaten one. “Carry these and follow me, please.” The butler carried the full tea tray and the emptiest cloche-covered dish as he made his way back towards the kitchen.

Bruce found himself half-wanting to escape to solitude and half-wanting to follow, just be with John for a little while longer. “I have a lot to do, but my phone’s on if you need me, John.” He lowered his voice enough so Alfred couldn’t hear him from the hall. “You’ll do fine,” he reassured, giving him the same thumbs up he so often received.

John met his gaze with a warmth that made it feel like all the stress was worth it. “Right back at ya, buddy,” he answered, flashing the gesture in return.

Bruce took the sight of him in, of the purple and green with the splashes of pink and checkered black, of the earnestness of his expression in his too-white face, of the slightly mussed seaweed-green hair that shone softly in the light - and not for the first time, he felt a rush of protectiveness come over him, and it was all he could do not to make a fool of himself then and there.

So he didn’t stop John following Alfred out, or comment on him noticeably snatching another bite off his own plate on the way. For the second time that morning he had to let him go while wanting nothing more than to bring him back and breathe him in like he was a hit of fresh air.

Bruce breathed in, smelling only a rapidly cooling breakfast as he thought of all the pointless, inane work that Bruce Wayne had to do in the grand scheme of things, and let it out in a sigh as he stabbed his partially-eaten eggs and fixed his daytime mask back into place to prepare for what was inevitably arriving on his doorstep.

*~*~*~*~*

Notes:  Sooo….about the update times...yeah, 2 weeks isn’t working out, is it? Let’s go ahead and say it’ll be 3-4 weeks for future updates. This last long hiatus was temporary - as mentioned, I had to pass an exam. (I thought I was done with that since college, but nooo, it was work-mandated. At least I can slap someone with my CompTIA A+ certificate around if someone tells me I don’t know what I’m doing.) Thank you so so so so so so so much for all your kudos and comments during the past 2 months! You don’t know how happy I was to keep getting notifications while I studied my butt off and tried to drag my muse back into the saddle by their metaphorical hair.

And what a nice feel it is to be finished! It’s rather difficult writing such major characters all interacting in one place. I’ve done a few rewrites, lemme tell ya… I originally considered the other route for waking Bruce up (which would’ve more romantic and smoochy off the bat) but I was like “you know what, let’s make Bruce suffer a little more and show off player’s consequences”. I couldn’t not have them make-out, though, because I thought of the whole “[John] must be exploring the manor, Alfred :|” exchange and almost laughed myself silly at the idea of Bruce going through that while his dad was nearby. Then I turned it sad because there’s important character development afoot! That’s just how it goes! <:3c

Of course, since we’re talking about routes… Even as Bruce’s love interest, this Selina spends a lot of time away from Bruce and thus wouldn’t really live in the manor. She’s always come off as a come-and-go sort of person who doesn’t like being pinned down, so John having to visit her is still relevant to the story - especially if he’s still villain!John rather than our version of John here. Naturally, the whole scene with John waking Bruce up wouldn’t exist if you didn’t get the “BFF’s for life” ending in S2 or make up with him early on in S3/AtBoM, and thus have John stay with you, but it’s only this saucy if you chose to romance John in AtBoM. ;)

And I’m sure you can see the potential for having this new Bat Fam around. Some of my design for this storyline would make playing the game much harder for the player who chooses to go the evil route. So you want to be a really cruel Bruce, huh? You want to jail Tiffany? You don’t care about what happens to Iman? You chose being Batman over having your father figure’s loving support? You gleefully sacrificed Selina and forced John into a dark path? Well then you’re not getting fun scenes, buddy. Your going to have to go through boring shit and suffer, pal, because that’s what Bruce will have to put up with. You will face the consequences of your choices just as much as the character you chose them for does, and that will be your burden to bear.

But now that’s all said and done, and do you know what that means for the next chapter?? The chapter I’ve been building up to and dreaming about since the beginning of the story??? It’s the mother-fucking WAYNE GALA, guys!!!!! The tropes!!!! The sharp tuxedos!!!! The surprise guests upon surprise guests!!!! THE METAPHORICAL DANCING!!!!!! It’s gonna be so great!!!!!!!!! My whole smile just thinking about it is like one big exclamation mark!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! As always, please leave your feedback - if you think I used an excess amount of exclamation points talking about how I feel about writing the gala, you don’t want to know how many heart emoji I feel when I see my A03 notifications… See you lovelies in a few weeks! ٩(*❛⊰❛)ʓਡ～❤