Chapter Text
He was at the funeral. She vividly remembered the last time she talked to him--he’d dropped Maps off at her clinic and vanished again, but not before saying the usual trite crap. “I’m sorry, Harper.” “I didn’t mean for this to happen, Harper.” “I understand if you can’t forgive me, Harper.”
He stood by the casket in the graveyard, flowers in hand, face solemn. Well, a bit more solemn than usual. Harper took a deep breath, stood up straight to her full height of admittedly not-that-tall, and walked with a determined dignity to stand by him.
“I heard she left you the clinic.”
Harper nodded.
“She chose well.”
An unexpected lump swallowed Harper’s throat, and she cursed herself for being this touched. Yeah, the great and terrible Batman rarely bestowed compliments, but it wasn’t like she needed his approval.
Harper picked up the empty food tray from the bed and smiled at the old woman lying on it. “There you go, ma’am,” she said. “Do you need anything else before I go?”
The old woman smiled and shook her head. “Thank you, dear.”
“Just doing my job,” Harper said, stepping away and pulling the curtain back around the cot. She turned around and nearly jumped at the sight of a figure she’d never expected to encounter here.
“Batman,” she said, her voice torn between a dozen possible emotions. Her eyes immediately landed on the boy in his arms: she didn’t recognize his costume, but she didn’t keep up with the cape and cowl crowd these days.
“Get him onto a bed,” she commanded immediately, setting down the tray. “What happened?”
“Hit a bunch of times, but it’s the stab wound I’m worried about.” Batman pointed to a particularly blood-soaked part of the costume, where Harper could see bloodstained skin through the kevlar. “Possibly poisoned.”
“Who?” Harper said, businesslike as she sterilized her tools.
“Cheshire.”
“Okay. I can handle that, she has a limited arsenal,” Harper said, mostly to herself. She glanced at Batman and said, “get out of my operating room. If you need to make yourself useful, we just finished dinner. You could wash--”
He was gone before she finished the sentence. Harper smiled, tight and small, as she slipped on her surgeon’s mask.
Thomas Wayne, still in full Batman regalia, awkwardly walked into the kitchen. The closest worker to him, a blonde a little younger than Damian, stared at him for a second, open-mouthed. Then she simply handed him a dripping plate and said, “you dry? Rag’s over there, wash your hands first. I’m Steph.”
Thomas obeyed.
When Harper emerged, bare-handed and without her mask, she found Thomas still dutifully doing dishes, reaching places Steph couldn’t to Steph’s poorly hidden annoyance.
“Batman,” Harper said, and both Steph and Thomas immediately spun to her, dishes halfway to their designated spots. “Your son will make it.”
“He’s your son?” Stephanie said in amazement as Thomas frowned at Harper. Harper smiled.
“Thank you for helping with the dishes, Batman. And if you wouldn’t mind, we could use some funding if you’d consider making a donati—“
“Consider it done,” Batman said, setting down the dish. “Thank you. Dr. Row.”
“It’s what I do,” Harper repeated. “I treat people who come to me. No matter who they are.”
Batman nodded. “Does he need to stay here?”
“Take him home. He’ll get better care with you and your…”. She searched for a proper euphemism.
“Understood.”
Harper tried to ignore Steph’s look of absolute shock and constant mouthing of phrases like WHAT THE FUTZ, YOU KNOW BATMAN?, and SERIOUSLY HARPER? behind Batman’s back.
Batman turned to leave.
“And—Batman. Stay safe. All of you.” Her voice almost showed some vulnerability, if one knew her well enough. Unfortunately, Steph and Thomas did.
Batman stopped, gave a half smile, and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”