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“Ow!” Grantaire yelped, lowering the ice pack on his eye to glare full force at Valjean as he wiped down the cut on Grantaire’s arm with alcohol. He was maybe exaggerating the hurt a little, but he had an audience, and that was what he did. He had dropped the suit off at one of his safe houses before coming here, and for a moment wished he had just stayed at the safe house and patched himself up.
But no. He had a job to do.
“Hold still,” Valjean chided, doing a medium-good job of holding in his frustration. He was generally patient, and Grantaire was always a little proud he could bring out the worst in the old man.
He hadn’t been moving, and decided to tell Valjean as much. “I wasn’t moving.” It was a relatively small cut, but deep, and Grantaire prayed Valjean would reach for the butterfly bandages and not the surgical thread. There were only so many stitches a man could take at once. “Regardless, I told you the suit’s too heavy. It slows me down too much. Speed is a big advantage, I need that.”
“Put the ice pack back on your eye, Grantaire,” Valjean muttered, turning away from Grantaire, and turning back, mercifully, with the butterfly bandages. “You got shot tonight.”
“Correction: I got shot at.”
Valjean scowled. “Any lighter weight and you won’t be getting up from a gunshot wound. And again, I am suggesting you get a gun for your own protection.”
“No guns,” Grantaire groaned, throwing his head back theatrically, which made Valjean scowl harder, but Grantaire was reasonably sure it was fond. Valjean wasn’t fond of people as a rule— Grantaire thought he had carved out a category for himself; there was Cosette, who Valjean loved, there was everyone else, who he cared for, and there was Grantaire, who he maybe kind of liked. “No, nope, never, no thank you. And besides, if the suit was lighter weight and I could move faster I wouldn’t get hit at all. I’m fast. You know I’m fast—Christ, you trained me, old man.”
“Surprisingly, at the time I thought it would mean you would get into less trouble.” The butterfly bandages went on quickly, and Grantaire managed not to wince. A history of bar fights had taught him how to take a punch and his recent nighttime escapades had only further desensitized him to pain. He was mostly sure that was a good thing. “What were you doing that got you shot at?”
There were a lot of things Grantaire could have said, and he stewed in his options for a moment. He wanted to be upfront with Valjean, but there were advantages to subterfuge, and it wasn’t like he had ever been completely honest with the man. “I may have been encroaching on the Penguins’ territory.”
“The Thenardiers? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Grantaire, you’re going to get yourself killed.” He paused, and fixed Grantaire with the kind of concerned fatherly look that Cosette complained about endlessly but that Grantaire craved like a drowning man craves air. “Has this become a suicide mission?”
It had always sort of been a suicide mission, but Grantaire doubted Valjean would find that reassuring. “I’m close to something. I already have enough on the Police Commissioner to get him ousted and most of the force along with him.”
Valjean frowned, fastening gauze over the cut with unhappy concentration. “And then what? How exactly did you think this worked? Lock up the Penguins and suddenly Gotham is saved? You know better than that.” He gave Grantaire a weary once over. “Do you need the knee wrapped?”
Grantaire shook his head; his knee would keep and he could feel the resolve in his chest strengthening. He was wide awake now, and the world was full of opportunity. He grinned a feral grin at Valjean. “I’ve got this. The citizens of Gotham are slaves to slum lords and crime bosses, with no options but bad ones, and if we take those fuckers out, the people will be free. Able to make better choices for themselves, for their families, for this city which doesn’t deserve the scum ruling it. No more muggers in alleys.” He offered Valjean half-assed finger guns. “Plus, Grantaire Industries is bringing manufacturing back to Gotham. Job opportunities galore for when people try their hand at professions other than flunky.”
“And whose idea was that?”
Grantaire affected a dumb, innocent expression. “Not mine! I’m far too busy partying and going on very public dates with very understanding supermodels to try and make any actual changes to Gotham.”
Valjean rolled his eyes. “Not everyone will take you up on your ‘opportunities,’ Grantaire. Some people don’t want to be saved.”
Grantaire sighed, taking a quick inventory of his body to assure nothing else needed urgent attention. He was pretty sure he had busted a rib, but it’s not like there was anything really to be done for that. “That’s rich coming from you, old man.”
Valjean looked so very unimpressed. “Yes, I was able to turn my life around through kindness, faith, and patience. You’re suggesting you can rehabilitate people with your fists.”
“My fists, my honed sense of observation, and also a lot of themed gadgetry.” He wiggled his eyebrows and Valjean offered him a little pitying laugh. “Uh, and also help. Help is another thing that I could use in this one-man mission of mine.” He moved the ice pack off his eye again. Eye contact, slight tensing of his lower lip; his face was a tool as much as anything, and years in the limelight had taught him how to master it. “This is me asking for help. Move in with me. You and Cosette. There’s plenty of room in the manor and, with most of the police force potentially on the outs, there aren’t that many options for the next Commissioner besides Detective Javert. Who I know you’re not technically on the run from, but aren’t you? I can offer you protection, employment, a place to lay low.”
Valjean was looking at him very seriously, a sudden look of exhaustion plastered across his face, and Grantaire almost felt bad for manipulating the situation like this. “And I, what? Train you more? Keep house?” He licked his lips, resolve weakening, and Grantaire barely resisted a grin. Victory was within grasp. “Is it even wheelchair accessible?”
Grantaire nodded. “Has been for months. And sure, if you need something to do, I need a head of house. But training would be helpful. Someone to look at the computer when I’m out, double check my investigatory work. You know, a—”
“Don’t say side-kick.” Valjean sighed. “How much would I get paid for this illustrious role?”
No longer able to resist, Grantaire grinned. “I’m open to negotiation. And I have rooms waiting for you, whenever you’re ready.”
Valjean was still frowning, but Grantaire was a shark; he could smell the blood in the water; he was going to win this one. “Cosette can’t find out about your vigilantism, Grantaire. She won’t be dragged into this.”
“Absolutely not,” Grantaire said, imbuing his voice and expression with as much solemn agreement as he could. “By the by, where is Cosette? Out with that boy of hers, or—”
The door slammed open. “Papa! I’m home!”
“Speak of the devil!” Grantaire grinned and Valjean shot him a dirty look. Probably something about referring to his precious daughter as the devil, but Grantaire had known her since she was little and he reserved the right to be a bastard.
Cosette wheeled around the corner, stopping suddenly when she caught sight of Grantaire. “R! Your face—your arm! What happened?”
Grantaire looked down at himself, slowly raising the icepack back to his bruised eye. He offered her a little smirk, the kind the tabloids liked to slap on their covers, and waggled an eyebrow. “Bar fight.”
Cosette pursed her lips, looking more disappointed than even Valjean could manage. “You told me you were going to be more careful.”
It was rote from here, public persona perfectly in place and memorized like a piece of music—playable without looking. “I was careful! I’m in one piece aren’t I?” He grinned a shit-eating grin at Valjean. “I’m gonna head out, thank you for playing nursemaid. Don’t want to miss the last train.”
He went to stand, but Cosette physically blocked the doorway with her wheelchair, a steely look in her eye. “The train? At this hour? Call a car. I’ll wait with you. Give us a chance to catch up.”
Grantaire’s smile faltered slightly but he didn’t let it fall. He saluted her, sending a text to his driver. “Shall we?” He gestured at the handles to her chair, and after a moment she nodded. “Bye old man!” He pushed her out of the door, through the hallway and all the way outside before he let the smile fall.
“Did you know they’re calling you The Bat this week?” He let go of the handles, hopping up on the garden wall outside the flat, and considered lighting a cigarette. Of course he knew, and she knew he knew, she just also knew he thought it sounded dumb. Cosette eyed him warily. “Fine. Be obstinate. Did he go for it?”
Grantaire scoffed, losing the battle with himself and liberating a lighter and a cigarette from his coat. “Of course he went for it. Which reminds me, I installed direct hookups to the main computer in your room, so you and your papa won’t ever have to cross paths.”
She sighed, maneuvering herself closer. “It’s never going to work. Me and him, both helping you, under the same roof? He’s going to find out.”
Grantaire didn’t bother removing the cigarette from his mouth before speaking. He was tired of being on, he wanted to put on his costume and punch something. “He’s not going to find out shit, Oracle, unless you tell him. You still have your voice modulator don’t you? Besides, Jean Valjean is interested in the people and helping the people, and once you’re helped, he doesn’t notice much.”
“He’s going to notice you. You’re different now. He still buys your public persona, and he won’t when he sees you moping around the house, or frantically investigating the private lives of Gotham’s Most Wanted.” Grantaire didn’t react. Valjean was unlikely to notice the difference in him unless Grantaire wanted him to, living in the same house or no. Cosette sighed. “Who’s next, after the Penguins?”
“Anarky.” He glanced behind him and saw Valjean at the window. “I’d pull up a hologram on my fancy new watch, but papa’s watching. Take out your phone.”
Cosette pulled out her phone irritably, unlocked it, and started scrolling through her files. “I don’t have him in here.”
“He’s new. Or rather, newly back in town. Here.” Grantaire pulled his own phone out and passed it to her, making it look casual, like maybe he was showing her his newest beau. The picture showed a young man in a red down jacket and white, featureless mask, ponytail of blonde hair thrown over one shoulder.
“He looks young. Send me whatever you have and I’ll do more digging tonight. What are you going to do?”
A black car pulled up, and Grantaire stubbed his cigarette out, strolling towards it. “Go meet him, of course.”
Cosette scowled at him. Worrywart. “The real you? Or the Bat?”
Grantaire smiled at her wanly, and got into the car. The real him? Psh. That line had grown so blurry he wasn’t even sure there was one, anymore.