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Gotham was a dark city built on despair and injustice. A city where crime ran rampant, and the streets flowed with the blood of the innocence. Above all else, it was a resilient city, with people with iron woven into their spines and a will to be better. It was most noticeable during the months after the Riddler’s ‘cleansing.’ Since then, the city has changed in better and worse ways.
The Riddler was one of the tamer monsters hiding in the shadows, and with him out of the spotlight, and they were finally ready to take their turn on the stage. Poison Ivey. The Joker and his recently acquired assistant, Harley Quinn. The crocodile that lived in the sewers. The Mad Hatter. Scarecrow. And the recent fallen white knight, Harvey Dent, turning into Two-Face.
Poverty rates have lowered, something Wayne Enterprises have assured, as well as organised crime, but what socio-economic failures turned these once bright minds into the madmen they now are?
It is a thought that keeps them all awake at night. But it is not the only one. Something is wrong with the city. The shadows are moving, and there’s tension in the air, a stillness. An owl surveying the field for its ideal prey –
“B! Are you done scrapbooking?”
Bruce Wayne sighed heavily, setting his pen down, not even trying to defend himself from his ward as Dick stomped into his bedroom. It was impossible not to know where Dick was at all times; he was loud, his very breath filling the Manor with noise and life.
Bruce couldn’t say he disliked it. Dick made it very easy to keep track of him.
He turned to face the boy, entirely unsurprised to see the eleven-year-old glaring at him, a pout on his lips and his arms crossed in a manner to mimic Alfred. Give it a few years, and he would master Alfred’s disappointed scowl. However, what was new was the suit fitted to Dick’s skinny frame, and his hair styled neatly with his curls perfectly intact.
Seeing it only reminded Bruce that he was wearing something similar and about his worst nightmare yet to come.
The Wayne Gala. People.
Socialising.
Ew.
(He’s got to stop hanging out with Dick.)
Noticing he’s got the older man’s attention, Dick’s arms loosened as he preened his new clothes.
“How do I look?” he asked, straightening his jacket. “I would say better than you, but that honestly doesn’t mean much.”
It was a good thing Bruce didn’t care about his appearance as much as others did, or else that might have hurt him. Contrary to popular belief, he was also aware that he was objectively pleasing to most people. In the year following the Riddler, Bruce had already been making an effort to get out of the Manor more before adopting Dick and had been approached by several people who told him as much. But with Selina still clogging his thoughts and now having Dick at home, romantic relationships didn’t have much appeal.
Still, Bruce only blinked. “You look great, chum.”
“I know,” Dick said, smiling wide.
Of course, it might not have been noticeable to everyone, but it was clear to Bruce that Dick was nervous. It was the way he was standing slightly on his tiptoes and the tight corners of Dick’s mouth.
“Why are you nervous?” he asked bluntly.
Dick didn’t look surprised at Bruce’s question, slumping from his forced posture.
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
“No.”
Dick rolled his eyes. “Fine. There’s this journalist coming.” Bruce didn’t see how this was relevant; they came to every gala, but Dick was kept away from them. “She’s from Metropolis, and she’s, like, the only known associate with Superman. I want to ask her if I could meet him.”
Absolutely not, Bruce thought, knowing exactly who Dick was talking about.
Lois Lane was an incredible source of information regarding the alien flying around Metropolis – and do not even get Bruce started on him – and a phenomenal journalist, but she was still a journalist. After everything regarding his mother came to light, with a man wanting to spread her psychiatric history for the world to see, Bruce refused to allow any of them to interview him, no matter how good they were. Not even Alfred’s secure method of digging out their integrity had managed to convince him to sit down and talk to them.
All of Wayne Enterprise press was handled through someone else. Bruce was more active in the company, but he was still very rarely seen outside.
Maybe they should stay here tonight. Keep Dick away from the bloodhounds who called themselves a journalist. Each and every one of them was invited tonight, and they all accepted because they loved sinking their fingers into whatever demons kept the people of Gotham awake at night, eager to humiliate them to the public. Sure, some of their secrets should be exposed, but what reason was there to attempt at insulting his mother by releasing her trauma to the press?
“We can’t stay in tonight,” Dick said dryly. “No, you can’t lock me in, and no, you can’t keep me busy by watching Encanto with me. I’ve learned all your tricks.”
Bruce didn’t reply to that, knowing he hadn’t shown Dick The Greatest Showman yet, which would keep him occupied for days. (Which is why Bruce did everything in his power to keep Dick from ever learning about it. Listening to Robin hum ‘We don’t talk about Bruno’ while breaking people’s noses was far more entertaining than hearing him sing ‘Rewrite the stars’ as he climbs onto the chandeliers.)
“I’ll think about it,” Bruce said, the no going unsaid.
“No, you’re not.” Dick shook his head. “Please.”
Then, Dick did a horrifying thing.
Bruce was Batman, okay? He has seen the worse humanity has to offer. Has jumped from skyscrapers buildings, stared at the abyss long enough for it to blink first. Batman has had guns pointed at his face, experienced crashing the batmobile, and more without so much as a flinch. He didn’t cave in to fear then, and he sure wouldn’t now.
Dick’s lips turned down at the corners, blue eyes pulled wide with false tears. Puppy eyes so tear-jerking, they once made Alfred back down.
But Bruce was Batman.
“Fine.”
Bruce was Batman with a fear of disappointing his Robin.
“Yes!” Dick exclaimed. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” He jumped closer, throwing his arms around Bruce’s neck. It was sudden and unexpected, and he was proud of himself for not flinching. He was getting used to Dick’s love for physical affection.
Bruce couldn’t say he minded.
“But,” he cautioned, hands slowly coming to rest on Dick’s back, “I have to be with you at all times. I don’t like journalists,” specifically this one with her connection to an alien, “and I don’t trust them not to ask you evasive questions.”
Dick didn’t seem to hear. “Okay.” He let Bruce go. “C’mon, Alfred’s waiting for us.”
He should’ve dislocated his shoulder yesterday, which was far more preferable than this.
The Gala was in full swing when Dick tugged on Bruce’s sleeves. Eager to get out of whatever boring topics of conversation the other men were having, he leaned down and followed to where Dick was pointing. He bit back a groan at seeing Lois Lane, dressed as impeccably as she could be with a journalist salary.
He was somewhat surprised to find her away from the crowds, conversing with another man. Bruce scanned him. Handsome, tall, and broad-shouldered with messy black curls. White skin with a healthy tanned bronze from being outside. (Ew.) An ill-fitting suit and awful posture made him appear smaller than he was. Bruce imagined he would have some sort of Southern accent.
Not from Gotham and definitely not from any city.
Something about him set off all the alarms in Bruce’s head.
“You promised,” Dick whispered.
Bruce didn’t, but he straightened himself up, gave some feeble excuse before taking Dick’s hand and walking over to Ms Lane. He kept an eye on her partner, but he didn’t have time to greet her before Dick eagerly bounded up to her, dragging him along.
“Do you really know Superman?” he whispered loudly, standing on the tip of his toes.
“Yes.” Lois blinked, surprised at finding a child in her face. She shook her head. “I mean, no.”
“B!” Dick exclaimed, turning back to Bruce, nails digging into the older man’s wrist. “She knows Superman.”
“Richard,” Bruce scolded, aware of the sudden attention Dick’s excitement was receiving.
“Sorry! Sorry,” he tried to whisper. “But that’s so cool.”
“C’mon, Lois,” the unnamed man drawled " Huh, Bruce was right about the accent. “Tell the kid about how cool Superman is.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes. Something about the man was strange. Dick let go and crowded Lois in with his questions. Did he really fly? Where was he from? Did he have hidden limbs?
(He tried, really he did, not to take Dick’s liking for Superman so personally. But he just didn’t understand how wearing a suit modified after a bat was so much weirder than a man wearing his red underwear above his blue bodysuit? So what if Superman could fly? Bruce bought Dick a dog, didn’t he?)
“Bruce Wayne,” he introduced himself, holding his hand out.
The other man took in with a soft grip. Strange.
“Clark Kent,” he said with a bright smile. His teeth were perfect, and his eyes were a startling shade of blue even behind the black-rimmed glasses. They weren’t prescription, though.
Bruce didn’t like him.
He didn’t let himself be swayed by a suspiciously pretty smile. “From the Daily Planet, I presume.” Dick was asking Lois about Superman’s fashion choices. Brave, considering his own.
Clark didn’t seem to register Bruce’s antagonism. “Yeah. Can’t expect secrecy when Lois Lane is your desk mate.” He laughed, and Bruce wondered what was funny. “Is it too forward to ask for an interview?”
“Yes,” he answered, and Clark just laughed. Bruce really wasn’t seeing the joke here. Dick’s questions swung back to Superman’s power? Did he have any weaknesses, Miss Lane?
Clever.
Bruce shuddered to think about what Dick could accomplish one day. He wouldn’t oppose his son ruling the world; he would do a great job with it.
“I assumed as much.” Then why did he ask? “You’re a difficult man to find, Mr Wayne.”
False. Everyone knew where he lived. Everyone from Gotham, that is.
“Yes,” Bruce replied, trying to smile, sure it looked like a grimace. “I prefer not to spend my days running from invasive questions.”
Clark finally seemed to understand that Bruce wasn’t in the mood for any niceties. ‘Nice’ people sent chills down his spine; people from Gotham weren’t nice. The journalist cleared his throat, too-blue eyes flickering over Bruce’s face – the billionaire watching Dick animatedly talking with his hands – and lit up with understanding.
“Ah,” he said casually. “Not a fan of Superman then?”
“No.” Bruce’s answer was curt. Please do not get him started on Superman.
“Can I ask why? Off the record.”
Clark got him started.
“I think what he’s doing is great,” Bruce said quickly. Because it was true. Superman’s abilities gave him the freedom to help and save more people in less time. Not only did he save them from crime, he rescued them from natural and unnatural disasters. “But he makes me uneasy. Aside from miss Lane over there, he doesn’t have any known associates and he doesn’t work with or for anybody. His lack of governmental connection is great, but who does he answer to? With his powers and no known weaknesses, Superman could get away with anything.”
“Same could be said about you, Mr Wayne, and Wayne Entreprises,” Clark interrupted through clenched teeth.
“No,” Bruce shook his head. “I admit, my wealth allows me a lot of freedom to get away with what I please, but I don’t run my company alone. While I do have the most shares in it, I still answer to the board. Decisions can’t be made without consultations and agreement. Who keeps Superman in check?”
“Maybe he’s just a good guy,” said Clark. Bruce couldn’t help but notice how he shifted nervously. “Trying to do good with the powers he’s been given.”
“Great,” Bruce drawled. “What happens when he doesn’t want to be ‘just a good guy?’ What happens when, after one bad day, he decides to be more than that?” He thinks back to the Joker, to Harvey, to Ivey, and how their bad days just kept piling up until it became too much. To Nygma, who had spent years hungry and cold, but seeing his name in the papers, how people felt more sympathy for a billionaire orphan had sent him further into his mania. He thinks back to his twelve-year-old self, to Dick, and how one bad day had sent their lives spiralling out of control. “In my experience, Mr Kent, one bad day is all some people need. Who’s to say he isn’t one of them?”
“What about the Batman?” Clark asked, gripping at straws. “What about when he decides to murder Gotham criminals?
“Well, Mr Kent,” Bruce said. Dick was saying goodbye to Miss Lane. “The Batman is only human, and last time I checked, bullets don’t bounce off of human skin.” Dick came closer, tucking his hand in Bruce’s. “Goodbye, Mr Kent.”
Shocked and blinking rapidly, the journalist could do nothing but watch them go.
“What did you say to him?” Dick whispered, staying close to Bruce as the man navigated them out of the ballroom.
Bruce didn’t want to answer that question. “Have you ever heard of The Greatest Showman?”
“No.” Dick frowned, the previous conversation forgotten. “What is it?”
“A movie about a circus,” Bruce answered, finally breaking away from the crowd.
Dick lit up. “Seriously?”
Bruce hummed. “With musical numbers too.”
“Yes!” Dick exclaimed. “Can we watch it now?
“Sure.”
“Will you watch it with me?”
“Of course.”
“Can we have ice cream with it?”
“…Ask Alfred.”