Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I

        Hal has been doing this hero thing for a while now, and… he’s good at it. It doesn’t take a genius, sure, but what does? He is a pilot. He loves to be in the air. He wants to die in the sky.

        This line of work? It suits him.

        It’s only on days like these the glamour of it fades into dust; the Nile churning into blood. 

        The plan was simple. Bruce would lead a covert task force to infiltrate the Legion of Doom. And, it was all going well until Luthor got too curious about the rafters above their hideout. From then on, a battle ensued. The details of it all are still quite murky to Hal; he’s just the calvary called to action. It’s reached all the way into the west side of Metropolis, the most damage done to the city since Doomsday. 

        As Hal descends to the street level, and his feet touch the asphalt, the earth shakes beneath his feet. His eyes drift to the street adjacent. Red, yellow, and blue; envy and violet; blurring in motion. Superman has crushed a great deal of Luthor’s power suit. One arm has been pulled clean, exposing wiring and layers of metal; the right shoulder is indented with Clark’s fingers. 

        Above, he hears the deafening snap of steel beams. To his right, a skyscraper is tilting downward. Glass shattering, the air densifying. Hal is unfortunately familiar with the prelude. Only the shitty battles knock over buildings. The fights are no fun when they’re only ahead by an inch. 

        They’re certainly no fun when civilian casualties are in the thousands, either. 

        Just beside him is a mother clutching her son in her arms. He can’t be older than three or four. Their clothes are dusted by debris and stick to their skin with sweat. The mother’s hair sticks up in unruly strands. The kid tucked close to her chest is crying, face red and wet with tears. 

        “It’s gonna be okay, honey,” she murmurs. “Eyes on me.” 

        She looks to Hal, mouthing words he’s seen thousands of times before. 

        Help us. 

        The rubble falls in varying chunks. A cloud of debris sweeps toward him. Hal closes his eyes and raises his fist. He pictures it in his mind’s eye; an impenetrable dome, bathing everything within it neon. He can feel the familiar energy course through him. The ring burns on his finger yet never leaves a mark. A small price to pay. He’s grown used to the feeling by now. 

        When he opens his eyes, the first of the rubble has made contact with the force field. Hal holds out against the growing pressure as his knees buckle beneath him. The world tilts on its axis. Everything seems impossible. But, that’s what he does, right? That’s his job. He’s got to fix this, and he’s got to help— that’s what it’s all about. 

        As the building collapses and caves around them, the civilians under Hal’s constructed dome clutch each other tightly. The mother and son cry; one silent, one shrieking. A family behind them begins to pray. A lone straggler merely stands and stares, heart racing fast in his chest. 

        The weight of the building is enough to snap his concentration. It’s beyond critical to hold this position. He’ll have backup soon. Clark will come. If he can’t, then it’ll be Diana. If not her, Barry. If not him, J’onn or Arthur. If no one else, Bruce.

        Speaking of which…

        “Where is Bats?” Hal barks. The comlink is static for a few endless moments. Then, she answers.

        “Chasing Joker,” Diana says, voice grainy over the comlink. “He’s strapped a bomb to himself.” Hal groans and rolls his eyes, still maintaining the dome as the dust clears.

        “Oh, great. That’s just great! Just what we need right now— more fucking property damage—”

        “Cool it, Lantern. You need to concentrate.”

        “Yeah, yeah— I got it.”

        “Hold your position. I’m coming.”

        “Quickly, Diana. I can’t hold this for much longer.”

        The sky clears slightly, but the rubble is still falling; a seemingly endless stream of steel, cement, stone, and glass all colliding against the dome. The pressure mounts. It feels as though, at any moment, it’ll give way. He holds up his wrist with his other hand, focusing on the image.

        Every noise becomes a monolith. Every sensation is an afterthought. There is only a dome and him; this is all there is. His body flies away from him. His mind is centered on the construct. He stays like that for God-knows-how long.

        The mother behind him gasps then cries out in exasperated, unbridled joy.

        “Oh, Jesus! Thank you, thank you— oh my God!”

        Hal opens his eyes to the sight of her; godlike in every sense of the word. Diana descends from above, carrying and deflecting as much debris as she can. His muscles relax as he watches her. The heaps of rubble encircling the dome settle as she clears the remaining hunks of concrete and jagged metal. She motions to Hal. He almost loses focus.

        “Let the dust settle, Lantern.”

        “No shit,” he snips. Diana rolls her eyes. 

        The cloud of debris grays the sky and, as it slowly dilutes, the mother and son take steady breaths in. A straggler in the crowd collects his barking dog. A woman and her boyfriend embrace, whispering words unheard. The crowd watches as Hal’s dome dissolves. 

        “I’ll take care of this,” she says curtly. “Find Batman. He turned off his com.” 

        Hal nods. He turns soon after, facing the mother and her son. The boy’s eyes latch onto his as he clutches to her. Hal smiles at him. 

        “You’re a brave kid,” he says quietly. The boy’s eyes are puffy and red from crying, but that’s not why Hal keeps staring at him. He’s wearing a patched-together outfit, a crudely-cut cardboard Lantern on his chest. “What are you wearing?”

        For a long, awkward, and— frankly— painful moment, neither answers. The kid is too speechless to utter a word. Then, the mother chuckles, voice raspy.

        “Um— it’s his— his costume.”

        From behind, Diana calls out.

        “It’s Halloween.” 

        Hal mouths an oh before turning back to the mother and son.

        “It’s a cool costume.”

        He can just feel Diana’s smile. It’s warm. He doesn’t feel the need to explain himself to her, and she’ll likely never ask. She’s trustworthy in that way; a friend of true integrity. 

        The kid’s eyes are still glassy but wide. Hal raises his arm to salute him.

        “You’d make a good Lantern.”

        Then, Hal turns and ascends into the sky. The dust lingers in the atmosphere, causing him to cough as he flies. Over his comlink, he hears Barry chuckle. He grimaces, the wind blowing through his hair. The sun hits his eyes at an angle; little spots of color overlaying his vision.

        “Something funny, Allen?”

        “Yeah, you.”

        “I coughed. How the hell is that funny?”

        “Because, you cough like an asshole.”

        “Okay, dickhe—” 

        In the distance, he sees them on the rooftop of a Wayne Enterprises building. Specks of black, gray, white, and green. That isn’t as remarkable as what he sees as he flies closer. Joker sits on a red milk crate, smoking from a cigarette holder. 

        “Hal?”

        “Just a minute, Barry.”

        “Ahh,” he drawls over the comlink. “Diana sent you to find Bats, didn’t she?”

        “Yep.”

        “Well, let’s think positively here, Hal. Stay on his good side, and maybe he won’t chew you out.” Hal scoffs.

        “He has a good side?” Barry hums with amusement.

        “Break a leg, GL.”

        Hal huffs as the comlink goes quiet. Still hovering in the air, a good distance above them, he curses. Then, after a long sigh, he descends. 

        Virid hair is parted to the side, slick with product. Joker’s curls end at his nape, and his smile is eerily more subdued than usual; his lips are a muted pink rather than a bloody red, and his eyes are lined and smudged black. He wears layered pearl necklaces, pumps, a fringed dress, and— strapped to his chest— a bomb. 

        To Joker’s side, his counterpart. Bruce towers over him, body hidden in the breadth of his cape; a shadowy silhouette even in the daylight. He seems to be speaking, but his body language is stiff and tense. Yet, he doesn’t seem angry. Hal knows what his rage looks like,— has unfortunately faced the brunt of it many times— and this isn’t that. No, this… is something different.

        Unidentifiable.

        Joker’s eyes find him first. As always, his gaze is an unpleasant one; unnatural, pearlescent blue irises with mismatched pupils. He picks Hal over piece by piece, likely analyzing every detail of him and how he can use it to toy with his head. He’s been at this too long to ever underestimate Joker. 

        Bruce’s jaw is tightly wound, more so than usual. There’s a thickness to the air as Hal lands on the rooftop. He approaches cautiously towards them.

        “Wondy sent me to come find you, Bats,” he announces. “What’s going on?”

        “Oh… goodie…” Joker’s voice floats like clouds and scratches like nails on a chalkboard. “We have company.” 

        “I have this situation under control, Lantern,” Bruce clips. His voice is oddly… hoarse. 

        “Do you, Batsy?” Joker asks slyly. “Do you really?”

        Hal ignores him as best he can (which, he admits, is a very difficult task but a necessary one nonetheless).

        “Are you sure?”

        “She sent you?” Bruce diverts. His head tilts in Hal’s direction, but he does not turn around. Hal furrows his brows.

        “Yes, I said that.” Hal steps closer, eyes catching the bomb strapped to Joker’s chest. “What’re we doing about that?”

        “Good question, hotshot!” Joker stands from the crate, dress swaying with his movements. Now, Hal sees a shimmer on his cheeks. “What’re we going to do about this, hm?” 

        Bruce grabs Joker by the arm.

        “Take it off.” His voice is… unsettling. It’s a tone Hal has never heard before, but it’s not entirely unwarranted considering it's directed at Joker, he supposes. “Now.”

        There is a long spell of silence where Joker and Bruce stare at each other. Hal isn’t sure whether he feels left out or if he wouldn’t want to be included at all. Either way, it’s a ballsy play. Bruce is expecting Joker— the most impulsive, unpredictable loose cannon on the planet— to listen to him. Joker doesn’t like playing by the rules and certainly not ones that benefit his enemy.

        But, of course, Joker never fails to be surprising.

        Bruce’s hand loosens around his arm.

        Joker leans back his neck and giggles, loose strands of hair falling in front of his eyes.

        “Alright, Bats. If you say so.” He unclasps the straps of the bomb. It falls from his chest and dangles in his hand. “How do you like me now?”

        Bruce snatches it from his hand. Almost immediately, he gives it to Hal.

        “I don’t have time to defuse it. Take it to the bay.”

        “Okay, but what about him?”

        Joker smiles, lips curving in their familiar, unnatural way. Bruce looks at him, turning his back to Hal once more. His shoulders are solid steel, unfurling cords of muscle hidden inside a cape of shadows. His next words are laced with concentrated spite.

        “I’ll handle him.”

        Hal nods. Bruce says nothing. Joker doesn’t, either. It’s eerily silent apart from their surroundings.

        “Alright… whatever you say, Bats.”

        Hovering from the ground, he flies toward the bay. The salt hits his senses in waves. Crowds of people line the docks and shore. They see him pass overhead, his shadow darker than it has any right to be. His mouth feels dry as he notices the horror on all of their faces— each distinctive from the last: a father with wide eyes, parted lips, and glassy eyes; a teenage girl red-faced and teary; a tight-jawed businesswoman with a thousand-yard stare; an elderly couple, embracing.

        Hal whips past them. This bomb is set to explode in the next few minutes. In that time, he needs to get it far enough to detonate without causing any more property damage. But unfortunately, as necessary as the task is, he still finds his mind drifting. 

        Bruce is a very reserved man. Hal has never tried to pry much about him for this reason. He wouldn’t want to know something Bruce wouldn’t want him to know. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have questions. He exchanges these questions with Barry from time to time; they think alike like that.

        This is one for the ages. Barry won’t believe him. It’s too ludicrous to be anything close to believable. Not even Hal is sure if it was real. The intrusive thought to pinch himself flickers in his head.

        He doesn’t know what to think. Sure, Hal doesn’t know much about their history. There are decades worth of material in the League archives, but all of it is just public knowledge; nothing special from Bats, nothing noteworthy. Yet, his name carries a heavier weight than even Darkseid. If his name is uttered in a room of heroes who’ve met him, the crowd silences. 

        He isn’t the only one curious; there are others. 

        What he does know— as little as that is— indicates it should have never happened. Joker was supposed to pull out a concealed dagger. He was supposed to fight back.

        Right?

        He sighs as he constructs a neon cylinder around the bomb and directs it under the water.

        It doesn’t matter really. It’s none of his business. There are more pressing matters.

        Barry will never let him hear the end of it.

Chapter Text

II

        The Watchtower is relatively empty on Halloween. 

        Supes is dealing with something personal; dinner with Lois, he’s certain. Hal is on Oa for some sort of “meeting” with John, Guy, Kyle, and Kilowog. J’onn is somewhere else— Barry’s never quite sure where he goes to when he isn’t at the Watchtower. (Maybe he should just ask.) And, the rest are with family, he presumes. 

        Barry is the only one within the League who seems to care about the festivities; decorating the station with jack-o-lanterns, cobwebs, blood splatters, and skeletons at record speed. Near the trans-dimensional teleporter, he’s hung a ghost; near the observation deck, he’s placed cauldrons of punch alongside a fog machine. Orange and purple lights adorn every corridor. Every nook and cranny he could find; candy corn and caramel apples. 

        All of which was jeopardized three hours and forty minutes ago when an unidentified spacecraft, using League landing codes, entered the hangar without authorization. 

        The first one to notice was Bruce, ever vigilant (and ever paranoid). Everyone rushed in his stead, ready for any kind of action. Diana led the hunt. A chase ensued then for a solid twenty. The assailant had a lot of stamina given the remarkable assortment of heroes speeding after him. He threw explosive pellets and wet the floors with acid. 

        It was more than clear who they were dealing with when Barry caught him. The laugh gave him away more than anything. He wasn’t wearing his usual clothes— or at least not what Barry has come to expect from him. From head to toe, he wore black; a catsuit of some kind, leather possibly. A ski mask covered his face. There was a sparkle in his clouded gaze, wholly unnerving. It was very strange, and as such he chose not to think too hard about it. 

        (After all, that’s Bats’ job— not his.)

        And, Barry wasn’t exactly hoping to be the guy to catch Joker, but as fate and luck would have it, he didn’t account for how far tripping in the speed force would propel him, and Joker was knocked down by the momentum. He estimates Joker broke at least a few bones. It wouldn’t shock him if his back is bruised for weeks. 

        Bruce cuffed him as soon as he caught up. Joker just giggled and said nothing. A bit unsettling, to put it lightly. Diana towered over him with a scowl. Together, they dragged him to a nearby conference hall and shut the door behind them.

        The Watchtower is a wreck. All his hard work, all of the effort it took… wasted.

        (In truth, it took a total of five minutes, but it’s the principle that counts here— not the time.)

        Now, Barry’s not exactly a nosy person, but he can’t deny being curious about the outcome. Everyone in the Watchtower is, yet only Diana is privy to what’s going on inside having seen herself inside with them. 

        Bruce has been interrogating him for over three hours now. 

        Barry stands just outside the room. Alongside him are a few other rubbernecks. Kara and Patrick converse in hushed tones as he attempts to stretch his ear closer to listen. Some distance away, others congregate sparsely. Micheal and Ted are chief among them. They talk in a rhythm no one else can quite understand or emulate; knowing each other’s thoughts unspoken, shared only between the two men. Barry wonders if maybe he has that with Hal.

        Then, there’s Mari. 

        She stands alone, arms crossed and expression stern. Barry approaches her cautiously, calculating his smile to not seem overly enthused about the situation.

        “I don’t get it,” she says. Bitterness laces her every word. “Why can’t any of us be in there with her? I thought we were a team.”

        “We are,” says Barry. Mari rolls her eyes. “Bats just has— uh— he’s got a lot of history with—”

        “And, how are we supposed to deal with Joker if we don’t know what we’re up against?”

        “He isn’t a metahuman. He’s just a killer clown, Mari.”

        “If that’s the case, then why can’t we just—”

        She’s interrupted by the door to the interrogation room flinging open. Diana struts out. Patrick’s ear snaps back to his face with an elastic snap. 

        She seems, more than anything, royally pissed. Disgruntled is a nicer word for it. Her expression is hard and pointed; as if the very air she breathes fills her with seething irritation. 

        “Princess?”

        “Flash,” she answers calmly— too calm. “I’d choose your next words carefully.”

        “Uh… well— I, um—” 

        Mari groans and approaches Diana. Barry turns pink. It’s in moments like these he wishes Hal was beside him, so at least he wouldn’t be alone in embarrassment.

        “What’s going on in there?” 

        “Batman is grilling Joker to rat out the Legion. Trying to find out how they got a hold of the encrypted flight logs.”

        “And, he’s done? Joker talked?” Mari asks, poking her head to look behind her. Batman isn’t there. Neither is Joker. Her lasso hangs loosely in her fist. 

        “Yes,” Diana mutters. “I simply do not wish to witness it any longer.”

        “That bad, huh?” Patrick blurts. Diana shoots him a warning glance. He scratches his nape nervously. “Yeah, okay. I get it. I’ll shut up now.”

        “What happened?” Kara pipes in. Her voice is airy and compassionate. Barry, from what he’s observed over the years, has determined Diana has a soft spot for her. This is further solidified in his mind when Diana’s expression softens. 

        “It… shouldn’t concern you— any of you.” Mari scoffs. 

        “Damn straight it does. We’re supposed to be a team. How am I supposed to deal with him if I can’t even get a good look at the guy?”

        “If you wish to see him, Vixen, go right ahead. Hera help you if you do.”

        This seems to bewilder Mari, although, her stride is still confident as she brushes past Diana and bounds toward the conference room. Diana stands idly, unsure of what to do with herself; more than anything, she seems disturbed. As such, Barry approaches her slowly. He waits patiently for her to speak first. After a spell of utter silence, she acknowledges him.

        “Yes, Allen?” She couldn’t sound more exhausted.

        Barry smiles.

        “What’s going on in there? Clue a friend in, won’t ya?”

        Diana sighs, long and breathy. A strand of her black hair falls in front of her eyes. 

        “He targeted me for mockery,” she mutters. There’s a notable distaste in her tone, hard-edged and chiseled in stone. “I did not anticipate it… affecting me.”

        “Well, what did he say?”

        “I don’t wish to repeat it.”

        “Alright…”

        It doesn’t take a scientist to figure out something happened in that room. What it was, he’ll likely never know. Bruce is too secretive, Joker is too unreliable, and Diana is unwilling to say anything about it. But, there’s always a possibility it’ll come out of the woodwork eventually. Perhaps sooner rather than later. 

        From outside the conference room, there’s a commotion. Kara looks at Diana, concern furrowing her brows.

        “We should go in there. We need to know what’s happening?” Beside her, Patrick extends his finger to point at her ear.

        “Can’t you just super hear what’s happening in there?”

        “That’s not the point. I don’t enjoy violating people’s privacy, Patrick,” Kara snaps back. 

        “Okay… but you are willing to bust in there?” She crosses her arms, frowning.

        “If they’re in danger, yes!”

        “They’re not in danger,” Diana says softly. Everyone seems to direct their attention to her. “Joker is merely provoking them in whatever way he can.”

        “How could he provoke Mari?” Kara asks.

        Almost on cue, Mari swings open the door and storms out; slamming it shut behind her. She shoots Diana an oddly sympathetic glance. Kara walks up to her.

        “What happened? Are you alright?” 

        Mari never minces words. Barry knows this— most of the team does, too. She’s stronger than most of them for that reason alone. But, even the toughest among them struggle against Joker. He’s just not someone you can predict. In Barry’s personal experience, he’s someone who has a frighteningly good ability to read rooms.

        “That clown is gonna get what’s coming to him,” she seethes. “Not by my hand but his.” Kara’s lips part as she gives Mari a befuddled look.

        “What do you mean?” 

        Before she answers, Mari casts Diana one last glance; this time, with something other than sympathy. Barry can’t quite comprehend it… which likely means he’s better off not knowing.

        “Batman.”

        “Oh…” Kara says, breathy. 

        The room seems to quiet at that. Patrick is uncharacteristically restrained, apprehension evident in the way he fidgets his elastic fingers. Kara doesn’t say anything further. Mari simply leaves, wordlessly; her footsteps echoing as she walks away. Diana appears lost in thought. 

        It’s horrible. Barry has never liked silence— he’s never enjoyed peaceful relaxation or tranquility. He doesn’t like to dwell on the past. It’s a trait that many have deemed annoying (Bats included), but Barry likes to think it gives him an edge.

        Maybe. It’s difficult to determine.

        “I’m going in,” he announces, breaking the silence. Everyone looks at him, baffled.

        “What?” Diana asks. Her gaze is now pointed and sharp. Barry swallows dryly. He had a feeling it would go something like this. Kara watches them both with a doe-like expression; a deer caught in the headlights. It’s in moments like these that he remembers she’s only a teenager.

        “I can handle it, Princess. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got a plan.”

        “Really? And, what is that?”

        “Roll with the blows.”

        And, with that, he speeds into the conference room. 

        Promptly, Barry is greeted by the sight of Joker in… what can only be described as a crude joke. The ski mask and black clothing lie discarded on the floor. His body is covered by a red and blue bodysuit with golden metal trimmings; identical to Diana’s suit (from tiara to boots to gauntlets). A steady flow of blood runs from his crooked nose down to his chin, mixing with the red of his lips. He smiles at the sight of Barry, leaning forward in his chair at the end of the table. Vivid, green strands fall in front of his face; stick-straight, just like Diana’s. 

        “Oh, my!” he exclaims. His voice scratches like a record. “Another one in the fray.”

        Bruce towers over him. His cape cuts his body strangely; as though he is much slimmer. He stands adjacent to Joker. There’s a noticeable difference in his demeanor, but Barry can’t quite place what it is. He almost looks like a statue, he thinks; still, silent, and forever staring.

        “Flash,” Bruce says calmly. Barry’s jaw drops just a bit. It’s jarring. He’s never sounded this calm. He stares at Barry far longer than he usually would in situations like this. It’s almost as if he’s waging an internal war on what he should do next. Ultimately, he turns to face Barry. His white eyes have never seemed as ghostly as they do now. “Lock that door. No one else gets in here.”

        “Sure thing, Bats.” Barry does as told, silently cursing himself for always inserting himself where he doesn’t belong. 

        “Chop-chop!” calls Joker. “We haven’t got all day, do we?”

        “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

        It seems like… a dumb question from someone like Bruce, but then again perhaps Joker only answers dumb questions. He really isn’t sure. The longer he’s here, the more unsure he feels.

        “I’m celebrating,” he answers. It clicks far too late. Barry is nearly speechless. 

        Nearly.

        “This is your costume?”

        “See? Someone understands my passion—”

        “Quiet!” Bruce snaps. 

        He drags Joker from his chair and slams him against the wall. There is little he can do against Bruce. His arms are cuffed behind his back. Anyone else would cave completely under his intensity alone. Barry himself has before; everyone in the League has. But, Joker just tsks him as Bruce seethes. 

        “A bit touchy today. Aww… are you still upset about last year?”

        “You were in solitary confinement under twenty-four surveilla—”

        “What happened last year?” Barry interrupts. Joker cocks his head, staring solely at Bruce. His gaze is almost as intense as Bruce’s. He seethes into Joker’s gleeful face, gritting his teeth and breathing heavy. 

        “What happened, Bats?”

        For what feels endless, nobody says a word. Barry merely watches from a fair distance, both observing and entirely confused. Bruce’s anger dissipates into a smaller, deeper bitterness. He pulls back, dropping Joker to the floor.

        “No,” he says. His voice is cold, indifferent. Barry would almost say he sounds apathetic. “You don’t win this time.”

        “That’s what I like to hear. Music to my ears, darling.”

        At that, Barry has a momentary lapse of cognitive thought. It’s as if he’s lost in a sea with no surface to swim up to. Still, he searches for any possible logic that equates to this interaction. Joker likes to get in people’s heads. That’s what Bruce has always said. 

        But, how would that get in his head?

        “Flash,” Bruce says. His voice is no longer calm. Now, he sounds much worse. Alongside the bitterness is something almost primal in the way he glared at Joker. Barry gets the image in his head unprompted; a lion mauling hyena. “Get out.”

        “What?” Barry says. 

        Bruce doesn’t move; doesn’t take his gaze away from Joker; doesn’t stand down. Somehow, he feels larger than life. It’s a strange phenomenon— to feel so powerless to someone without any power. Barry can’t quite reckon with it. 

        “Get… out.”

        Joker remains silent, a sickening smile stretching his features unnatural. Inexplicable nausea strikes Barry, and— suddenly— the suggestion doesn’t sound so bad; it doesn’t feel like he’s doing as told. Acknowledging that makes the sinking feeling more visceral. 

        “Yeah, alright. I’ll just— yeah.”

        He speeds out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Kara, Patrick, and the other bystanders farther off turn to look at him. Everyone seems to perk up their ears. Even Michael and Ted in the back crane their necks to possibly get a good angle of him. It’s strange, but he almost feels uncomfortable by the number of eyes on him. Normally, Barry wouldn’t really mind— some like Hal would argue he actually loves the attention, and they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. 

        But, this? It’s just… weird.

        So fucking weird.

        “What happened this time?” Patrick asks. There’s a bit of sarcasm lacing his question. It’s completely lost on Barry. He scratches the back of his neck, staring blankly at nothing in particular. 

        “I gotta be honest… I have no fucking clue what just happened.”

        “Yeah,” says Kara. “I don’t either.”

        Barry gives her an odd look. Patrick snorts.

        “So you did listen in?” Patrick asks. 

        Kara’s face turns red.

Chapter Text

III

        Clark has a rule when it comes to Bruce, and it’s this: never meddle in his affairs. He learned long ago in their relationship that Batman as a concept is just as unnerving as he is in action. Cornered, Bruce is willing to do almost anything. It scares him— it scares the team. There have been a fair number of close calls; moments of betrayal.

        It’s better now than it ever has been, but the hesitancy still lingers. Clark trusts Bruce with his life. He knows he has the League’s best interests in mind, despite his methods of going about things. He’d like to think Bruce has begun to care or, at the very least, respect them. 

        Even still, the feeling persists. 

        The sinking, pulling weight in his gut; reminding him Bruce cannot be trusted. He can’t be trusted, and he can’t be controlled or contained. He is a force of human nature so strong that very few can rival. Trailing behind his every step is his shadow, a history he has never fully captured. 

        Maybe he could ask. Maybe not. It hardly matters. Clark wouldn’t dare ask him about Joker if there was a gun with kryptonite bullets to his head. He wouldn’t ask for anything without his express consent or approval. Maybe it sounds silly— Lois always says it’s ludicrous—, but it’s more necessary than most would assume. It keeps Bruce an ally and a friend… and he likes being Bruce’s friend. It’s a role not easily gained or maintained. He’s proud of the fact Bruce respects him enough to value his opinions and beliefs. 

        So, this situation is awkward at best. And, at worst, it’s a goddamn nightmare. 

        Clark came here with a very specific goal in mind: capture Lex and return him to Blackgate. It’s not every day he gets to confront Luthor after all. He’s a planner and a thinker first. He waits to strike Superman when he’s most vulnerable. It’d almost be impressive if his life wasn’t in danger. 

        Lex’s latest? A method to mass produce kryptonite. It’s an obvious threat; one Bruce is clearly investigating. He hears his heartbeat before anything else, but it’s more than that. His very presence leaves a shadow on everything he touches. Clark knows it isn’t something he can explain to anyone who doesn’t know Bruce. 

        The atmosphere thickens when Bruce enters a room. An invisible fog follows his every step, misting everything in his wake. His reputation carries a bone-crushing weight. His gaze is intrusive in a mere glance. His expressionless face laces his every word with an element of uncertainty; as if he cannot be predicted or truly understood. 

        When Clark descends from the sky to the top floor of LexCorp, he sighs. The balcony is as familiar as it is draining. Everything in Lex’s vicinity drips of luxury and blissful ignorance, tied together in a bow of overcompensation. 

        The ceiling is impossibly high when he enters. Everything is cut in the same sleek, industrial fashion. The floor is polished black granite, speckled with something he could only describe as glitter. 

        He chuckles. Even after all this time, it still amuses Clark that Luthor would request something so specific. He envisions the conversation; the eye rolls of all the construction men and interior designers. He pictures the smug pride on Lex’s face, stretching the only smile lines he has. 

        The kitchen is sharp, with white marble counters (an eye-sore if anyone asks Clark) and monochromatic accents. The living room is just as impersonal. A long, stiff couch in front of a pseudo fireplace. There are no plants or candles or any signs of any interests outside the cold aesthetic. 

        He wonders if Lex could let go of this feud and be a normal person, would he personalize such a room? How would he decorate it? What would he value seeing every day? Clark thinks of Wayne Manor and how— in almost every way— it’s a relic of the past. All its rooms and halls are haunted by Thomas and Martha; their legacy and memories stain the walls, and their faces sit above every mantlepiece, watching every word and move.

        What would Bruce do if he could let go? What would he value seeing every day?

        Nobody is here besides Clark. He figures, given the slight commotion coming from down the hall, that they are in Lex’s lab. It’s then that he hears another heartbeat— another voice— coming from the same hall. It isn’t Lex, and it certainly isn’t Bruce. No, that voice only belongs to one person he could know.

        Clark strides down the hall with bated breath; he closes his eyes and mutters a few prayers. It’s going to be a long day. Lois is surely going to kill him. He’d be naive to assume otherwise.

        His pace continues as he reaches the end of the hall. He’s greeted by a lead-lined, steel door. As such, what is behind the door Clark can’t see, but he doesn’t need to. He already knows what’s inside. He crushes the door handle in his grip, ripping it from its socket. The trio of voices ceases abruptly. Clark opens the door.

        His eyes gravitate to… well— it’s impossible not to gawk at the scene in front of him.

        Joker stands taller than he should, because he’s wearing black leather stiletto boots. They reach up to his knees and stick to his skin. His hair fans out in long, virid waves— much longer than Clark has ever seen it. The top half of his face is covered by a purple cowl with… accompanying cat ears. Fastened around his shoulders is a green cape, reaching to his ankles. But, that isn’t what shocks him. That would be the purple dress with slits on either side. It exposes his thighs and chest, chemically white skin peeking out. Its sleeves are long and reach his knuckles in pointed cuffs.

        Bruce is stony, as always, lips forming an impossibly straight line. His cape hangs askew, off one shoulder more than the other. He towers over both of them; Luthor only slightly. 

        There is something amiss about everything happening in front of him, but Clark can’t quite put his finger on it. Luthor seems to be in on it judging by his utter disinterest which only proves more infuriating. A part of him feels the desire to count his losses and leave. Pa always told him to listen to his intuition, but sometimes intuition was just hesitation in disguise. Lois taught him that.

        Lex is the only one who matches his surroundings. He wears his normal business attire, short of a blazer and tie. His shirt is buttoned up to his collar, but his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. The lab is just as tailored as his clothes; just as designer. The equipment varies from futuristic to modern, but nothing is of an older age or model. It’s just like Lex to constantly be updating his tech. It shouldn’t surprise Clark. 

        Maybe he’s still in shock from the scene in front of him.

        Eventually, all eyes gravitate towards him, and thus Clark makes a point not to stare at Joker. 

        Joker smiles at Clark. If his blood could run cold, it does.

        “Well, hello handsome,” he greets. Joker draws out each syllable as if to spite everyone else in the room. It seems to work on Luthor, who scoffs and rolls his eyes. Joker twirls in place, dress and cape swaying with the motion. “Do you like my costume?”

        “Superman,” Bruce says. “Deal with Luthor.” Clark nods, burying his amusement for another time. He approaches cautiously.

        “That would be why I’m here.”

        “Did you think he was here for your clown?” Lex spits.

        Bruce narrows his eyes. Lex doesn’t flinch.

        “Luthor,” Clark greets. “Joker…”

        “You know,” he drawls scratchily. “I see the appeal now, Lex. He’s got that boy next door aura about him, don’t you think?”

        “Do you ever shut your mouth?” Lex barks back.

        “What brings you to Metropolis, Batman?”

        “Him,” Bruce answers. “I’m bringing you back to Arkham, Joker.”

        “Hm, let me think that over…” Joker taps a finger against his chin, looking up toward the ceiling. “I don’t think so, Batsy. I’m just having too much fun!”

        “It’s not up for discussion.”

        “Mhmm.”

        Bruce steps closer to him as Joker ignores him to instead observe his acrylic nails. Clark takes notice of them, too; long, acid-green and pointed. 

        “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be,” says Bruce lowly. Joker’s cloudy eyes center back on him as he tilts his head and smiles.

        “Really, darling, if you wanted me all to yourself, all you had to do was ask.” Luthor steps forward, brushing past Bruce’s shoulder in the process. He points a finger in his face, contempt seething off every word.

        “Get out of my suite before I kill you, clown.”

        “Oh, Lex… don’t be such a buzzkill.” Joker’s tone takes on a sharper edge. He raises his hand to drag nails against Lex’s bicep. “I’d just stay nice and quiet if I were you. Then, I won’t have to gut you like a fish.” Lex stares a moment longer at Joker before turning back to Bruce.

        “Get him out of here.” He walks past Bruce and toward Clark. “What the hell do you want?”

        “I know what you’re planning,” he begins. Lex chuckles heartily. Clark scowls.

        “You wouldn’t be the first.”

        “I’m here to ask you to stop… before I have to stop you myself.”

        “That’s funny. I don’t remember needing permission to do business, alien.”

        “I don’t remember it being legal to sell poison, Luthor.”

        “Well, that’s not entirely true, is it? We sell all types of poisons… for pests.” Clark narrows his eyes, cape fluttering behind him. Lex meets his gaze with nothing but scorn. It’s a familiar expression he’s borne the brunt of since they first met. Clark almost finds it nostalgic.

        “I have no interest in having this conversation with you, Lex. We can either compromise, or I will destroy your samples.”

        “Destroy it all you want. You won’t destroy the work I’ve accomplished.”

        Clark inhales deeply then sighs. 

        “I wish you didn’t make my life so difficult, Lex.”

        “Somebody has to,” he cuts. “You are beneath me, and soon you’ll understand that.”

        In the lull of their conversation, two fill the silence. Clark turns his head to the sounds. 

        “Is this some kind of fucking game to you?” Bruce demands. Joker giggles as he’s slammed against the wall of the lab.

        “Oh, oh— can we play a game? I’m getting bored.” Bruce makes an almost animalistic grunt of disapproval.

        “You don’t get it. I’m done, Joker.”

        For whatever reason, that grabs Joker’s attention. His glee dissipates into something wholly opposite. It’s alarming, to put it lightly. 

        “Are you, now?”

        Clark isn’t used to dealing with Gotham’s special brand of insanity, and he’s certainly not used to Joker. He’s seen him numerous times; encountered him enough to know he’s unpredictable… but that’s the extent of his knowledge as far as how to handle him. He trusts Bruce enough to know what he is doing. Yet, that nagging feeling of doubt still rears its head in his gut. Clark swallows drily. Luthor huffs with something like humor— Clark is relatively certain he doesn’t have a sense of humor. 

        “Look at them,” Luthor comments. “May we never turn out like them.”

        “And, what is that, Lex?” He eyes Clark strangely. It’s as if he said something revealing. It discomforts him instantly; it sends shivers down his spine.

        “Bitter.”

        At that, Clark bursts with laughter.

        “Oh— oh, I think you’ve already crossed that bridge.”

        “Have I?”

        “Don’t,” Bruce snaps. He forcibly turns Joker, his face pressed against the wall as Bruce cuffs him. “You’re going back to Arkham. You don’t get a choice.”

        “You know,” Joker drawls darkly. “I don’t remember you being this elementary with me, Bats. Has your new birdy softened you up?” 

        Suddenly, Bruce stills, silent. Clark knows why. It’s Jason, his newest Robin. He’s seen how Bruce and Jason interact. He imagines Bruce would do anything to protect him. And, apparently, it seems Joker thinks this, too. He hums with delight, basking in Bruce’s speechlessness. Joker turns to face him, arms behind him and tightly cuffed at the wrists. 

        “Do I have your attention now?”

        Then, Bruce isn’t silent anymore. He’s furious.

        “You fucking” — Bruce grabs him by the throat and punches him in the gut— “worthless sack of shit!”

        Joker laughs through the onslaught of jabs. Every punch Bruce delivers seems to be harder than the last.

        “Oh, keep going,” he mutters in between. “You’re doing great.”

        “Goddamnit!” Lex shouts. “You’re getting blood everywhere! Do you know how much it costs to clean stains like that?”

        “Batman!” Clark calls out. Bruce doesn’t relent, and he doesn’t respond.

        “Will you be useful for once in your pathetic little life and do something?” Lex yells. 

        Clark ignores him, instead focusing on Bruce’s brutality. Blood drips from his gloved knuckles, bruised and broken. He doesn’t need his X-ray vision to know that. Even still, he keeps going; continuing to hit Joker, moving up to his face. Joker makes no attempts to fight back. All he does is laugh. It’s nauseating to watch— even worse to listen to.

        “Batman!” he calls again. There is no answer. “Jesus Christ.”

        Clark speeds towards them, catching Bruce’s wrist in a falcon grip. He’s breathing heavy, with his chest rising up and down to the rhythm of his adrenaline. He grits his teeth as he pants. Despite the whiteness of his eyes, Clark imagines the pair of eyes behind the cowl must be glowing red.

        Joker’s lips drip red from his chin down to his neck. His teeth are stained with the same blood. He smiles as Clark holds Bruce back.

        “Did you get it all out?”

        Bruce straightens his back, breathing slowing.

        “You need to calm down,” Clark says.

        At that moment, everything seems to change. Bruce doesn’t fight back as Clark had expected. Instead, Bruce seems almost… dazed. It’s as if he isn’t there at all; as if the world around him and the people in it have become an empty void. Clark’s grip loosens. Bruce lowers his bloody hands to his sides. His gaze remains blank, absent of emotion; his jaw tightly wound. 

        “You’re right.”

        It’s the first time, Clark thinks, that Bruce has ever admitted that.

        Joker giggles, blood spurting out from his lips. Bruce just stares at him— through him. 

        “Take him to Arkham. They’ll know what to do with him.” Clark nods, intently observing Bruce’s body language. It’s… strange. He doesn’t understand how Bruce can be so calm after being so violent. It’s downright disturbing. “I need to… get back to Gotham.”

        “Of course.”

        “Yes, yes, yes— that clears everything up, doesn’t it?” Lex interrupts. “Now, get the hell out of my lab.” Clark shoots him a sharp glare.

        “Can it, Luthor. We’ll be out of your hair before you know it. Just… watch him, will you?” He points to Joker. 

        Lex snorts but says nothing. It’s the closest he’s going to get to okay from Luthor. Clark ushers Bruce by the arm out of the lab and towards the balcony. Once they reach it, he sighs. The sky is a pale shade of blue, a chilly wind blowing through the city streets. Metropolis is alight with Fall and the holiday. 

        He breathes in the air, shedding the discomfort like clothes. Beside him, Bruce is stoic. Still, he’s emotionless, robbed of even the slightest semblance of himself.

        “What the hell just happened back there?”

        “I… don’t know.”

        “What do you mean? You almost beat him to death.”

        “I know,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t have let him get to me.”

        “Okay… well, how do I know you won’t pull another stunt like that?” Clark asks. “I’ve never seen you that angry before. If something happened, you know you can—”

        “You don’t understand him like I do,” Bruce cuts, as if it’s the simplest thing he could say. “I know what he means.”

        “What the hell are you talking about, Bruce?”

        “He’s made it very clear.” Clark watches Bruce shudder as he inhales. “I need to be on my guard. I need to be ready.”

        This is… far from how he saw his day going. Clark closes his eyes and drags a hand down his face. 

        “You know what? I’ll take your word for it, then. Just… take it easy, alright?”

        Bruce nods, solemn. 

        He is beyond screwed. Now, he has to bring back Joker to Arkham Asylum on Halloween. Lois isn’t just going to kill him. She’s going to filet him alive with steak sauce and serve him to Krypto. Clark isn’t sure how this nightmare could get any worse. 

        “Happy fucking Halloween.”

        Bruce doesn’t respond. He just stares into the clouds. The sun hides behind them. Clark briefly thinks of the sun; how it rejuvenates and gives him strength. The deafness of space is a blanket, and the warmth of the boiling star lulls him to slumber.

        He pictures Bruce floating in space, staring as he does now, at the moon. 

Chapter Text

IV

        Kara has a tendency to be stubborn. It’s a trait certainly inherited from her mother, and one she takes great pride in. On Krypton, it kept her an outcast amongst her peers, constantly finding herself at odds with anyone who crossed her path. Politics were often the cause. 

        The planet was going to die, yet nobody seemed to care.

        It bothered her endlessly; it bothers her even now— even here, where the last remnants of her homeworld reside. The Fortress whistles with whipping winds, a gust filtering past Kal’s assortment of keepsakes. 

        Kandor stands out amongst them. 

        Her eyes always gravitate toward her city, shrunken but alive. Kal has yet to find any way to restore them. A part of her— the cynical, bitter side— thinks he never will. Trapped within are thousands, if not millions, of Kryptonians; her people. Mother, father, home.

        She tries her best not to think about it most days. It’s better that way.

        Kal-El didn’t call her here. She came here to visit them. Usually, she avoids the Fortress altogether. But, today, something felt different. Kara couldn’t exactly put it into words; perhaps Kal could. It’s a special day here on Earth. It’s Halloween… and maybe part of her still longs for her family to be here for it; to experience it with her. 

        But, more than likely, she’s just stalling.

        Diana called her. The League is away, but— apparently— Batman needs assistance in Gotham. Very rarely does the occasion arise that Bruce seeks out help. Kara smiles to herself, picturing the utter frown that must’ve accompanied that call. They often butt heads in League meetings, and Kara doesn’t really understand his philosophy, yet— despite how much she hates to admit it— she respects him. He’s a good fighter, and he’s incredibly smart. 

        Bruce is the only person she knows who never gives up; no matter the odds. 

        It’s strange, this request. It doesn’t make any sense. Why would he even need help? He’s taken on the likes of Darkseid and made it out alive. She’s certain he’d be unstoppable if he weren’t human. So, why does he need her? He didn’t ask Patrick or Dinah or any of his friends in Gotham. Bruce specifically asked for her.

        He must have. It’s the only explanation that Kara can come up with right now. 

        The Fortress is a decent place to procrastinate. Not the greatest place for… obvious reasons but not the worst, either. She’d rather be here than in Gotham any day. Kara hovers just above the ground, taking in her surroundings one by one.

        Oddly, it’s something Bruce taught her that’s just sort of stuck. 

        “Center yourself. Focus on every detail around you. It can mean the difference between victory and defeat— it can mean life or death.”

        The bottled city; a glass dome, easy to shatter, millions of casualties. The phantom projector; Zod, inescapable, stasis. Golden statues of Lara Lor-Van and Jor-El, holding up Krypton; tall, heavy, imposing, family, destruction. 

        She closes her eyes.

        “Catch your breath. You’ll need it.”

        She breathes in deeply and steadily out her nose. 

        Kara finds it difficult to piece together why she really feels such hesitance. It’s layered. Bruce is an intimidating man, even if she knows he’d never harm her. He can be… mean, given the right circumstances. He can be confusing, and— more often than not— Bruce never explains himself.

        She often wonders about him; about his life. What does a guy like him do with his free time? Does he do anything at all?

        Kara doubts it.

        Bruce’s family all have mixed opinions of him, from Kara’s limited perspective. Individually, they’ve all decided to leave him. Most of them still keep in contact as far as she knows; Dick, Cassandra, Tim, and Barbara all talk about him with some amount of fondness, but a bitterness underlines it. 

        They were never the same after Jason. 

        Bruce has never been the same. He never speaks of it, and nobody ever dares to ask him about it. The League knows better than to broach it. Even Diana dances around it. Kara herself has never considered bringing him up. She only knew Jason on a working basis, and she imagines Bruce doesn’t take too kindly to probing questions. 

        Kara remembers his face. His hair was dyed black, and— every so often— she’d see his ginger roots attempting to grow back in. He was nice, if not a little impulsive. He was a little hotheaded from time to time, but he was extremely compassionate and empathetic, too. He had a knack for always predicting what an opponent would do; he had an eye for what they wouldn’t do. He was just as invaluable as anyone else in the League.

        (Kara remembers how his voice cracked every other sentence; how his face was still baby-smooth.)

        She remembers how Bruce used to smile at the jabs Jason would throw his way; how he’d huff at all his corny jokes. She remembers how he’d take him aside to whisper how proud he was of him. 

        It’s strange, looking back on it. He’s a different person now. Colder, more distant. Kara doesn’t blame him. Put in the same position, she’s not sure how she’d react. She’s never been a parent; she has no clue of what that kind of loss does to a person. She can only assume it’s a deep pain— a pain that lingers until death. 

        Bruce loved him— she’d be blind to not see it. Kara is certain he still loves him now. 

        Maybe she doesn’t want to salt the wound. Maybe she just wants to stay here forever, watching Kandor. 

        Kara sighs long and hard. She thinks of home. She thinks of Krypton. She thinks of Mom and Dad. Then, she looks to the city, recalling the first language she ever learned. Inwardly, she clings tight to the childish hope that they can hear her.

        “Ehrosh :bem, Ieiu. Ehrosh :bem, Ukr… Ukiem khap rraopo. ”

        Suddenly, Kara feels hot. Her vision blurs at the edges. 

        It’s time to leave. She’d rather be in Gotham than here.

        As she exits the Fortress of Solitude and suspends idly in the sky, a snowstorm whips up on the horizon. Kara eyes it steadily from afar. She drifts against its powerful current and drops low to the ground. Her boots touch the ice; one fist, knuckles grazing. Then, she propels herself upward and bursts through the sky, leaving behind a deep crater in the ice. Frigid saltwater ripples in her wake. It’ll be a long trek to Gotham at her current pace. She’ll need to go faster than this if she wants to be on time.

        Why could Bruce possibly want her to be on time? What does he even have planned?

        She tries to reason with it as she speedily propels upward, the smell of ozone and the weight of G-Force greeting her like an old friend. Seeing the world pass by this fast is an experience Kara never tires of. Everything below blurs into colors; some bright, some dull. It gives her a focus she doesn’t entirely understand. She sways and twirls in the air as she descends through the cloudscape. Air rushes at her, whipping her hair behind her in powerful gusts. She breathes in. She breathes out.

        Kara could recognize Gotham from anywhere. It’s unlike any other city. The architecture is antiquated and gothic, as if it never evolved past the Victorian era. Here, new money doesn’t blend in with the old— it’s promptly snuffed out as soon as it arrives. From above, she eyes Wayne Enterprises. It stands unremarkable amongst the cityscape. Its name is plaqued in bold silver letters, visible even from afar. The skyscraper resembles the same aesthetic as its peers; all sharp angles and baroque embellishments. It’s so different from Metropolis— almost its opposite in every way. 

        It fits Bruce like a glove. 

        Of course, she would never tell him that, but that hardly matters.

        The air is so polluted Kara can taste the smog in her mouth as she swoops overhead. Her cape flaps behind her as she descends further to observe the people below. Gothamites walk faster than people walk in Metropolis. They talk with a frenetic rhythm, one Bruce distinctly lacks; likely because he never lived in the inner city. She can hear the echoes of it now, thousands all speaking at once. It took a while for her to adjust to it; hearing everyone in the world at once. Eventually, she learned it’s about focus. She can pick and choose who she wants to hear and who she doesn’t. 

        Right now, she’s honing all her senses to hear Bruce. His voice is distinctive enough to find him easily in a crowd but to pick out from an entire city? 

        Kara sighs as she notices the decorations marking each residential street. It’s particularly festive in the Narrows; it’s what Kara knows (hearing it from Barbara and Dick) to be the city’s most crime-ridden district. Jack-O-Lanterns line sidewalks, steps, lawns, and even fire escapes. Dusk settles over Gotham like a warm blanket; a familiar embrace. She watches as the children and parents fawn out across every neighborhood. Something twists in her stomach. She finds it hard to swallow, mouth inexplicably dry. 

        Bruce. She’s here to help Bruce.

        She soars faster, determined now more than ever to find him. But, evidently, she doesn’t have to. Kara’s comlink buzzes with static before she hears his voice. 

        “Supergirl.”

        He would startle her if she weren’t used to his confrontational approach to greetings. She clears her throat and suspends idly in the air, pressing the comlink closer to her ear. 

        “I’m flying over Gotham right now. Where are you?”

        “Good. I need you with me to go to Arkham.”

        And, this is precisely why she didn’t want to come here. Somewhere in the back of Kara’s head, she predicted something like this happening. Arkham Asylum is a place she’s only visited once and truly had no intentions of ever revisiting. Her first encounter left her with a nausea she couldn’t shake for weeks; it shook her enough to leave a lasting impression. Kal had accompanied her, Bruce leading them to Toyman’s cell. As they walked through, they passed by other cells. Each was occupied by an inmate, a thick wall of plexiglass separating them from Kara; some were nameless, some were infamous. She didn’t look at any of them too long. Even now, she shudders just thinking about it.

        Kara drags her teeth against her lip, silencing the sigh Bruce is sure to overhear. 

        “Why Arkham? Why me?”

        “I can’t trust anyone else around him.”

        He can’t trust… anyone around him… Kara toys with the words as they loop in her head. What the hell could that mean? What the hell is he talking about?

        “I’m sorry, Batman, but I’m a little lost here. Who are we seeing at Arkham?”

        For a long moment, Bruce doesn’t say anything. Kara tries her best to be patient as the awkward tension grows. She’s almost about to say something when Bruce finally does respond.

        “Joker.”

        Oh… 

        “Alright,” she says softly. “Well, do you want me to just—”

        “Meet me at the entry gate. We’ll walk in together.”

        “Yeah, okay. Sure. Sounds like a plan.”

        There’s another awkward silence. Then…

        “You sound like Clark.”

        Kara rolls her eyes. She ignores how the tension releases in her shoulders.

        “Kahkhyf,” she mutters under her breath. It’s at that moment she remembers Bruce’s talent for learning just about anything. Her face turns white. The embarrassment is enough to kill her. “I’m— I’m sorry. That was—”

        “Uwedh e dhyv finud.”

        Kara does as told, much to her chagrin, and leaves behind a gust of wind as she bursts across the night sky. One of the things she misses about being away from Aunt Martha and Uncle Jon’s are the starry nights. She liked to spend hours out on the lawn, just staring up at the stars from afar. Sometimes, if one twinkled a certain way, she’d leap from Earth and through space until she found it. 

        Gotham’s skies are clouded with smog, and no stars are glimmering beyond it. Kara searches the horizon for anything of the sort. All she finds are new things to dismay her. Beyond the outskirts of the cityscape, withering grass and dead trees are scattered across fields of dry earth. She can smell the chemicals in the air; the toxic waste. A winding dirt road leads to Arkham, and she follows it. Thousands screaming, crying, and laughing threaten to overwhelm her hearing. She breathes in steadily, listening only to her heartbeats. 

        It takes her a total of thirty seconds to find herself at the iron-wrought gates. 

        It takes a total of five seconds for Bruce to sneak up on her.

        Bruce is much taller than Kara. Most times, she has to tilt her head ever so slightly up just to speak to him. Today is no different, if not exacerbated by how he blends in with his surroundings. The black of his cape and the desaturated grays and yellow of his suit feel one with Gotham; as integral to the city as the streets and the power lines. He belongs here. 

        Kara couldn’t feel more out of place.

        “Supergirl,” he greets. His voice sounds… duller than usual; as if the sharpness of his bladed voice had diminished. She notices his chin. Nine o’clock shadow. It’s relatively shocking. Kara has never seen him with any kind of facial hair. 

        “Batman,” she returns. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

        “Joker is being transferred to Blackgate.” 

        Kara raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms. 

        “On whose authority?” 

        Bruce tightens his jaw. He’s calmly furious. She’s familiar with the emotion. Her father often wore the same expression; frustration boiling over in spats with Jor-El. 

        “Not mine.” He says it with enough contempt for Kara to fill in the blanks. She hums, nodding.

        “Didn’t think so.”

        A whistling wind whips past them, flicking both of their capes. Bruce looks to the asylum. 

        “Let's go,” he says. 

        Bruce walks with purpose, something Kara has always tried to explain to Kal without much luck. It’s both confidence and deadness; unique to him and him alone. She follows Bruce and tries her best to match his aura.

        It’s clear the moment she enters alongside him that the effort is in vain.

        A flurry of doctors and guards are at the entryway, waiting for him. They all nod as Bruce passes them; they wear openly their respect for him. In contrast, when they lock eyes with Kara, they seem more guarded. She isn’t quite sure what she should do, so she tries smiling.

        None smile back.

        Kara swallows drily and accepts defeat. If she’s honest with herself, it was inevitable. Gotham doesn’t like outsiders, and she is that very thing.

        She just doesn’t belong here.

        Bruce strides through corridors, guards and doctors following them. Kara keeps up, even as she hears the cries and calls of inmates all around her. Some reach through the bars and try to grab at her. Some merely whistle or catcall. Others only stare, and a few pay her no attention; most of them women. As they cross the threshold between the general population cells and intensive care, dread washes over her in waves. 

        The first comes when she spots the red hair of Poison Ivy. The pale jumpsuit offsets the vibrant color of her skin. She’s silent but stares at Kara with such intensity that Kara feels compelled to look away. Bruce doesn’t even bother acknowledging Ivy. Instead, he walks faster, forcing Kara to try and keep up. 

        The next comes shortly after as Bruce turns the corner, and a red-headed man rushes towards them in his cell. He presses his face against the plexiglass, bulbous nose flattening to the pressure. He gawks at Kara with wide, glossy eyes. The man looks as if he’s about to cry.

        “Alice! Oh, Alice!” he cries. Kara flinches as he puts his hands on the glass. “Oh, you’ve come back to me. Alice, Alice, Alice—”

        A gruff-looking guard bangs his baton against the plexiglass, startling the inmate back. 

        “Get back!”

        “Oh… oh… you see, Alice? They’re keeping us apart, Alice. They’re taking you away from me.”

        “That’s Tetch,” Bruce explains. His gaze remains even, unfettered. Kara breathes in deeply, trying to steady herself. “He’s obsessed with finding an Alice to his Hatter.”

        “Mad Hatter,” she mutters. “So… he thinks I’m Alice, then?”

        “He thinks every blond, blue-eyed girl is Alice.”

        “No, no, no— Alice, where are you going?” he calls. His voice echoes across the asylum. Shivers run down Kara’s spine. 

        She shifts closer to Bruce as they trek further. The rest of the inmates are quiet or— if they do have anything to say about Kara’s presence— concise. The fluorescent lights above flicker and buzz. Together, they turn another corner and enter Intensive Care. There, the cells only have a small slit for food trays, and all of them are shut. No one makes a noise besides the almost thunderous clacking of everyone’s footsteps. It’s impossibly quiet. 

        Something bothers her about the whole thing; something she just can’t put her finger on.

        Then, Bruce stops. The guards flank both sides of the cell door at the end of the hall. Kara stands just behind Bruce, watching for what he’ll do next. A loud buzzer rings out when the door cracks open. Bruce enters, and Kara follows. 

        The door buzzes again as it closes behind them. 

        Joker is strapped to a gurney, straitjacket tightly constraining him. His hair is cut short to his nape but fringes in front of his eyes. His eyes are outlined in black greasepaint; in the shape of a domino mask. Red peeks out from underneath his straitjacket. He smiles at them, all teeth and giggles.

        Suddenly, Kara feels nauseous. She chances a glance at Bruce. 

        In all the years of knowing him, Bruce has never looked so… tired. His lips form a harsh, expressionless line, but his wobbling chin betrays him. He doesn’t blink or tear his gaze away from Joker. It’s as if he’s frozen in place. His fists clench tightly as he allows his cape to fall in front of his shoulders, cloaking his body. His heart races.

        “Well, well, well— Bats didn’t tell me we’d be having company!” Joker shrills. “If I knew, I would’ve bought champagne… or” — he looks Kara up and down — “maybe not.” 

        Joker cocks his head like a marionette and smiles. Kara narrows her eyes.

        “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she spits. 

        “And, why’s that?”

        Kara crosses her arms, gaze pointed with spite. Bruce remains silent.

        “Because, he was my friend.” 

        “Ahh, I see now. Bats brought you along because he doesn’t have his little birdy anymore. How sweet.”

        Her gut twists in knots. Disgust colors her face.

        “He brought me along, because I can break every bone in your body.”

        “Mhmm, well…” Joker purrs. “Let’s hear what the big man has to say for himself, hm?”

        Joker meets Bruce’s gaze without flinching. She figures he is maybe one of the only people who can. Bruce’s lips part, but he holds strong onto silence.

        “You know, I’m glad you came along. He’s been so mopey lately— so down in the dumps! And, you? You’re just the right kiddo to fill that hole. I can’t blow you up, now, can I?” Kara’s brows furrow together as she steps forward.

        “You piece of—” 

        Bruce places himself between them, craning over Joker. 

        “Oh, so he can hear us, then. Bats, why are you being shy? You know you don’t have to be—” 

        “I don’t want to be alone with you,” Bruce says bluntly. Kara stares at him. It’s the first time he’s spoken since they entered Joker’s cell; it’s the first thing he has chosen to say. “I don’t want to think about you ever again.”

        It’s strange, but it seems to be effective in shutting Joker up. The cell grows eerily quiet. He leans back against the gurney, smile slowly morphing into something like… sadness? Defeat? Devastation? Kara can’t tell. She’s not entirely sure if she even cares.

        He deserves to be miserable. It’s the least Bruce can do.

        Then, miraculously, Bruce turns to leave the cell. Kara double-takes between the two of them.

        “Batman?”

        “We’re leaving,” he says shortly. Kara nods, albeit, unsurely and turns to follow him. Joker doesn’t smile or laugh during their departure. 

        Bruce says nothing during the walk back to the iron-wrought gates. She doesn’t press him, either. Kara knows better than to pour salt on the open wound. The Batmobile is waiting for him, engine humming as they stop in tandem just beyond the entry gates. Bruce’s heart hasn’t slowed. It still beats faster than it should.

        She doesn’t blame him for that, either. Kara can still feel the pit in her stomach and the shivers down her spine.

        Eventually, after the wind whips and whistles for a moment longer, Bruce tilts his head in Kara’s direction, back still facing her; cape still enveloping him whole. Her hair flicks along to the current. 

        “I shouldn’t have brought you with me, Kara.” He says it so softly it would seem he doesn’t want to be heard. “I should’ve gone alone.”

        “No,” says Kara. “I needed to be here. You needed me in there, right?”

        Bruce says nothing. 

        Kara doesn’t need him to. 

Chapter Text

V

        Perhaps visiting him in such a setting at such a time isn’t appropriate. J’onn is still getting used to human customs and cultural differences. Is it irregular to “drop in” (as Barry Allen calls it)? 

        Taking into account his limited history and dealings with Bruce Wayne, he is aware he is unlike other humans. He values his reservations more so. He tends to take charge and rally the League yet is headstrong and speculative of the team he commands. He’s often construed as arrogant or untrustworthy by some of the League; those who know him more closely consider him an invaluable, irreplaceable asset and— to a select few— a well-intentioned but tactless friend. 

        J’onn isn’t sure he has a concrete opinion of him. In the years he has known Bruce, he hasn’t learned much about him. He knows just by virtue of his public identity he was orphaned. He knows how he interacts with the League members. J’onn, alongside Hal and Barry, has come to the conclusion that of all the League members, he gets along most with Diana. Outside of that, his knowledge is purely impersonal and vague; just as reliable as the whispers in the Watchtower corridors, the rumors in tabloids, and the headline stories of thousands of Gotham Gazette articles. 

        But, he does know one thing… beyond all of that.

        Bruce is the single most intelligent being he has ever met. 

        J’onn has encountered all different kinds of lifeforms in his lifetime. He’s battled different species all across the multiverse. Bruce is singular and unique among them all, an eclipse to Gotham’s burning sun. A master detective, an expert combatant, and a creature of the night; stalking through the shadows, ready at any moment to catch his prey. It’s an image powerful enough even to sway the most unfazed… including himself. 

        He does not like to even entertain the idea of ever having to overcome him. 

        But, they are not entirely unalike. His presence offers solidarity in loneliness, if nothing else. He’s not entirely sure what his plan was. Trying to picture Bruce handing out candy or putting up lights is an image Hal and Barry would jest greatly at. It’s very odd that he never considered this outcome; that Bruce would not be home.

        It’s just… he doesn’t really have anyone to celebrate this holiday with. It’s in moments like these where the reminder of his home brings him great pain and grief. 

        As such, J’onn assumed Bruce didn’t, either. 

        But, it didn’t occur to him that he might not celebrate at all. J’onn arrived at Wayne Manor in his human form. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Being near someone like Bruce Wayne garners more eyes than not. 

        It’s a strange thing; the concept of fame. On Ma'aleca'andra, there was no such thing. Everyone knew one another as equals regardless of occupation. Amidst the red soil, solidarity ebbed and flowed. Everyone had a place; everyone belonged. No one was valued above the other in Martian culture. There was no status nor hierarchies of command. It is a confusing concept to reckon with still, and at times it creates a bitterness within him, a tension tight yet malleable— stretching every single cell of his ever-shifting skin and coloring it red. 

        J’onn wonders if Bruce shares this feeling, bearing the brunt of it all his life. How does life change when living in a room full of eyes? How does one project an image of themselves they cannot see? What harm is inflicted when one intimately knows death at an age counted on fingers?

        Clark once told him in the aftermath of a League meeting how Bruce trained in the Alps. He didn’t give as many details as J’onn would’ve hoped, but it piqued his interest nonetheless. He asked Diana a few weeks later when the topic came up naturally. 

        (He never forces such things. Human emotions contain many nuances, some he has yet to uncover.)

        Regarding Diana in particular, she values her kinship with Bruce in a way he’s never quite understood; it defies most expectations of her. She is not reserved nor is she brooding, yet she sees something behind the white eyes and pointed ears that most cannot. And, what she sees she respects more than any other being in the Justice League.

        When he asked what she knew, she hesitated. She stared at J’onn for a moment longer before she answered. Bruce had trained under many teachers. His intelligence and experience guided him through the rest. While for anyone else, this would be an egotistical and preposterous impossibility, both Diana and J’onn know better; they’ve seen Bruce in his element firsthand. 

        Her knowledge extended a limited range. After she had given him the bits and pieces garnered from Bruce over the years, Diana had laughed breathily. The sound of her laughter echoed throughout the high ceilings of the Hall of Justice.

        “You know… it’s funny. We’ve known him for years— we’ve known his kids, J’onn—, but we barely know anything about him.”

        J’onn didn’t disagree with her. If recalled correctly, he merely hummed and said nothing further about it.

        His butler— a new word, something he’d have to research when he returned to the Watchtower— was the first to meet him, shotgun in hand. They’ve met on a handful of occasions, but were never “formally introduced”. Oddly enough, it was Kal-El who had informed him of such unspoken traditions.

        “Apologies, sir. You must know I’m terribly sorry for such a terrible introduction. I don’t believe we’ve met formally.” 

        Met formally. It must be another rendition of the same… idiom. 

        “The name’s Alfred Pennyworth,” he said, holding out his hand. J’onn did know this custom, as odd as it was to him. He shook his hand with a firm grip; not too tight or too loose. Hal mentioned it as a critical part of first impressions; project strength but also restraint. “It’s such a pleasure when guests arrive. The manor is just not meant for only two.” 

        His voice had a different sound to it than that of many others in the League. What had Barry called it? An accent?

        “I am J’onn J’onzz, the last surviving Martian.”

        “I take it you’re not from the city, then,” Alfred said. J’onn shook his head.

        “I am from the red planet you know as Mars. You may know me as the Martian Manhunter.”

        “Martian Manhunter,” he muttered. “What is the planet’s name? In… Martian, I presume?”

        “Humans often struggle to speak it correctly,” J’onn replied. Alfred smiled brightly at him then.

        “Give an old man a crack at it, won’t you?”

        “Its name is Ma’aleca’andra.”

        “Ma’… aleca’andra.”

        J’onn nodded his approval. He hasn’t mastered smiling quite yet.

        He takes in the scenery of the Manor. It’s unlike most homes he had been to, reminiscent more of a museum than living quarters. Now, J’onn realized how much it befits a being like Bruce. 

        The colors were warmer than he expected, red curtains at every window and undertones of fire in the wood beneath his boots. The source of light was something he had never seen before; only here, briefly, each time the League was forced into his manor on business. Alfred caught him staring at the golden contraption.

        “That is a chandelier.” J’onn gazed at it a bit longer. 

        “How does it differ from other lights?” 

        “It’s exceedingly expensive.”

        “Hm.”

        Sometime later, Alfred had escorted him to the dining area where an impossibly long table sat, with not a chair askew. Yet another chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting an amber glow upon every surface. 

        “I dust every day in the hopes Master Bruce will finally find use in company. With your arrival, it appears I’ve won the lottery.” 

        He dragged his fingers across the surface of the table. The texture was smooth, and the appearance was glossy. Strange, artistic patterns ringed around the entire table. The chairs seemed to match, the same patterns presiding along its frame. 

        “Is this expensive as well?” J’onn asked. Alfred hummed with what he could only infer was amusement. 

        “Indeed.”

        After some more conversation and tea— something he seemed to enjoy with an amount of sugar and cream that Alfred referred to as “abhorrent”—, he stood from his seat at the table.

        “Going so soon?”

        “I must finish what I intended to.”

        “Very well, then. I would not mind if you dropped by again for tea, you know.”

        “I will,” said J’onn. Alfred smiled again, wrinkles folding with his eyes. “Where am I to find him?”

        “I believe he will still be at the asylum,” he answered. “Master Bruce has grown quite… weary of the holiday in recent years.”

        “For what reason?” 

        For a long spell, Alfred didn’t answer. His smile flickered. Then, he clears his throat.

        “I think it is best to hear it from him.”

        J’onn nodded, pondering the significance of his words. Then, Alfred ushered him toward the door with his hands. 

        “Well, off you go, then!” 

        At first, J’onn turned to leave. Yet, suddenly, an unfathomable urge struck him. He faced the butler once more.

        “Farewell, Alfred Pennyworth. Have a… happy Halloween.”

        “Happy Halloween, Master J’onn.”

        It is now, flying through the city’s skyline, that he hesitates. Will Bruce wish to see him? Was the goal of his venture to Gotham already met? From above, he can see the flurry of lit pumpkins and costumed children lining sidewalks, alleys, and streets. Adults trek after them. 

        Ultimately, J’onn decides to go through with his initial plan. Bruce would benefit from company— as Alfred had inferred— even if he does not explicitly ask for it. Spending his Halloween at Arkham Asylum is perhaps a fate better fit for a killer than a guardian.

        He searches amongst the millions for Bruce’s mind, attempting to peer into his thoughts. It takes longer than he would expect of anyone else, but Bruce is familiar with J’onn’s telepathy. He’s proven quite resistant to it. Not even Kal-El has such mental endurance. 

        The moment J’onn enters his mind, Bruce is there to meet him.

       “J’onzz.”

       “Bruce Wayne. I have come to join you, tonight.”

       “And, why is that?”

       “I am in the… holiday… spirit.” Bruce does not respond to that; he neither rejects nor endorses the sentiment. J’onn continues, undeterred. “I shall meet you inside.”

       “J’onn…”

       “What is it?”

       “Don’t co—”

        His thoughts are drawn to something else, snapping him away from J’onn. 

        The asylum, in many ways, reminds him of the manor. The entry gates are dark wrought iron, bent and broken; the letters spelling out Arkham’s Home for the Criminally Insane. The facility is shaped by archways and pillars that encroach upon the horizon, gargoyles perching on pointed stone. The rooftops glow with silver moonlight while the night sky resembles the darkest shadows of sapphires. The moon is dissected by crooked, dead trees. Gravestones litter a particular courtyard, names illegible from his distance. 

        As he floats to the ground, J’onn looks to the paved steps leading toward the entrance. They are stained with something dark.

        He keeps his footsteps light and phases through the door. Upon entering, he is greeted by an overwhelming odor; a mixture of blood, sweat, and a scent he can only describe as acidic. As he phases through walls undetected, J’onn observes the faces he passes. Weary psychiatrists with long faces and tired eyes. Seasoned guards with expressions of stone. Quiet inmates with jaws tightly set and fists tightly clenched. 

        Finally, in a padded cell near the end of a maze of corridors, J’onn finds him.

        Bruce is stark against the overwhelming creams and whites of the room, a black shadow cutting open the room. His cape encircles his body, arms and legs hidden beneath. His eyes are unblinking and his gaze is squarely fixed on the figure crouched in the corner of the cell. 

        “Joker,” Bruce says. “Stop this.”

        He doesn’t answer. To J’onn, who has only encountered Joker a handful of times, he appears like a different person entirely. Joker slouches, arms constrained by the straitjacket. His hair is longer than when J’onn saw him last and reaches just below his collarbones. The straitjacket and pants hang loosely on his body while their color blends with his skin. He does not turn to look at Bruce nor does he do anything at all but stare. It’s as if he is transfixed by how the walls intersect. 

        Joker’s erraticism is exempt from this moment; a contrast so sharp, it blinds J’onn.

        He wonders if Bruce feels the same.

       “I know you’re here, J’onzz.” For a moment, his body nearly loses its form standing inside the walls. “I need you to leave.”

       “But, I can assist you if you—”

        “Bats…” Joker’s voice is small and soft between the padded walls. “I’m sorry.”

        J’onn isn’t sure what to make of that, but… Bruce seems to. He inches closer, cape swaying and trailing behind him. Something remains hidden in the breadth of his cape. It, as well as the object carried in his gloved hand, catches J’onn’s eye. Bruce makes small movements, nothing loud enough to be heard. 

        As he halts just behind Joker, J’onn considers his own position; transparent, a silent observer watching the storm develop in the clouds. Something about this whole scene unfolding feels private. He reconsiders heeding Bruce’s request. Perhaps their shared history is too broad and layered to understand. He had heard as much. Decades of fighting between them would create such barriers. J’onn expects Bruce to be private about this matter as well, and he won’t pry— as much as it attracts his curiosity.

        But, what is happening now? He cannot deny his confusion. 

        J’onn witnesses Bruce reveal the wings. Golden feathers, a mimicry of what the humans deem “angels”. Bruce knots the straps around him, accounting for the straitjacket, and as such they hang lower than intended on Joker’s back. 

        Is this a human custom he doesn’t understand? Adorning others? Somehow, it feels… separate from that. 

        Bruce lingers there. His gaze lacks its sharper edges, and instead takes on a softer curve. He studies Joker so intently J’onn wonders if he has even blinked.

        Then, he continues. 

        Bruce reaches out and parts strands of hair behind Joker’s ears, placing the object J’onn spotted before— a thin, golden headband— atop his head. The fluorescent lights above blare down and reflect off the gilded ring that suspends above, held up by translucent, plastic attached to the band.

        J’onn knows it… a halo; something these “angels” wear. It’s something one finds in a Halloween store, he thinks— a type of costume meant to emulate.

        He retracts his fingers but remains in place. Neither Bruce nor Joker moves. Between the two, the only sounds within the padded cell are that of breathing and echoes from the asylum. Joker is uncharacteristically calm, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. He shudders briefly. The wings shift on his back as J’onn tears himself away from the scene, turning away. Back facing them, he pauses.

       “I shall leave you, then, Bruce Wayne.”

        J’onn doesn’t expect a response. As always, Bruce surprises him.

       “Thank you.”

        He doesn’t spend another minute at Arkham. Midnight strikes. The moon hides behind a misty cloudscape.

Chapter Text

+ I

        Battle is endless. Battle is timeless. 

        Diana has fought in wars; she’s fought in too many. She knows their losses, their compromises, and their broken promises. She knows the promise of what will prevail, and she knows the cost. Blood stains skin long after the color has washed away. Wounds scar deep and invisible. Ghosts follow to the ends of every galaxy. Memories live more vividly than any present moment. Her sword, shield, and lasso are dark muses only she can hear. They sing to her at night; they sing to her with every blow she lands.

        They sing to her now.

        In many ways, their song is almost a comfort in its familiarity. Diana is numb to the screech of their voices and their lyrics of lies weaved within romance. 

        She breathes in. She breathes out.

        All around, stretching for miles, desert. Diana overlooks it, atop an outcropping. The canyon offers her height, an advantage most take for granted. She won’t. Neither will Bruce.

        Beneath the surface of parched earth and rock lies the compound; the Legion’s newest base of operations. She eyes the entrance from afar. An unsuspecting button hidden on the underside of a pebble reveals the hatch. According to Bruce, it’s the only known entry point inside. Diana watches it from afar, awaiting any kind of movement or life to emerge. Midnight touches every corner of the landscape, cooling the warm tones with shadow. The moon hangs waning crescent amongst the starfield, misty clouds drifting slow and steady.

        It’s been hours now.

        They alternate. Diana’s watch is nearing its last legs. Bruce isn’t sleeping, but he isn’t doing much of anything. He looms over an adjacent cliffside, gazing aimlessly. She’s tempted to coax him from his reverie.

        She doesn’t. 

        Something keeps Diana’s feet firmly planted. Would anyone else hesitate to talk to a friend? 

        Does anyone have a friend like Bruce?

        (Does she?)

        It’s hard to swallow; the doubts swarming in her head. As such, Diana doesn’t like to dwell too much on them. They mean nothing. They are merely her mind playing tricks on her— playing cruel games, concocting crueler scenarios by the minute. They are nothing more than that which keeps her humble. 

        Even so, still… she wonders. 

        Bruce's body is tauter, thinner. He’s been eating less. He’s been less present in League meetings. 

        She wonders what his ghost must look like. Does it look like the battered, charred corpse Bruce found amongst the rubble? Does it resemble the boy prancing around the Batcave in a yellow cape? Does it appear in the form of a teenager, fiery and young and headstrong? 

        Diana is very familiar with ghosts. She carries Steve’s dog tag wherever she goes; a reminder of the memories, good and bad. She can still remember his crystalline gaze, his charm, and his wit like it was yesterday. 

        Steve was a man. 

        Jason was a boy.

        They never spoke of it. Years passed on. Diana didn’t broach it. She knew Bruce well enough to understand that talking didn’t help him— it only seemed to make things worse. Bruce is a man of many secrets; before him, she had never understood the purpose of keeping things from others. The importance he places on anonymity is something she has never valued herself, but she values him. 

        Bruce is a warrior by heart. In his blood runs the will of thousands and the perseverance of millions. His mind is crafted from the same clay that she was. He commits himself to a forever honor; a life of lifeless duty. Watching over his city and his people. Fighting the forces that be. Blood stains every inch of his skin, colorless. His wounds leave scars of all types. 

        He understands battle as she does.

        And, Diana considers him an equal. She would like to think Bruce shares the sentiment. In moments like these, she’s certain he does. He feels so sure of her watch that he’s taken to staring across the desert’s faraway canyons.

        The night carries on into the dawn. Bruce is awake for all of it. Diana’s not so sure he even slept at all. It wouldn’t surprise her. She tries her best not to roll her eyes. At any moment, the Legion could retaliate and the League would be unable to help them for quite some time. 

        After all, the League had not exactly ordained this mission. 

        Clark had argued it was too dangerous to only take two members. J’onn had objected on a similar basis. Hal and Barry went along with the others, entirely disinterested in the matter. Nobody else bothered if they held objections. It was only in the quiet aftermath, when only Diana and Bruce sat, that they had come to a unanimous decision. Both agreed it had to be covert and it had to be done in secret, outside League jurisdiction. A joint investigation of sorts. She didn’t get into the semantics of it with him. Bruce doesn’t care about that kind of thing and neither does she.

        Her bracelets reflect the silver moonlight. She briefly allows herself the luxury of blinking away the sleep in her eyes. She sighs to the stars and places her hands on her hips as she then looks at her boots. The red and white blur under the blanket of cold night. The chill seeps into her very bones, fawning out throughout her body like a disease. 

        It’s unpleasant, to say the least.

        The hatch has a gunmetal shine, the lever a dusty shade of red. Beneath is a supposed lair. A headquarters for the best of the best villains. Diana isn’t so sure she would call them the best at anything considering all the Legion’s machinations always crumble and fall apart; some harsher than others. Luthor, despite all of his posturing, cannot deny these consistent defeats and thus keeps his leadership under wraps until he presumably has success. 

        Ahead, the hatch screeches; metal rubbing against metal. She turns behind her.

        “Bruce,” Diana whispers. He snaps from his thoughts to her. “I think I see something.”

        He approaches quickly, eyeing the hatch alongside her. 

        “What is it?” he asks.

        “Not sure. I only heard it move—”

        The hatch screeches again. Both duck behind a boulder and watch silently as it lifts open. A gloved hand emerges first. Then, an ungloved hand follows. The details come faster and faster as the man ascends the ladder. A gray tweed suit, white cuffs, and a bow tie. A mop of permed brown hair. His skin is oddly peachy, and in the dark Diana sees the odd color of his eyes; a clouded blue.

        But, something isn’t right about him. He stands and straightens his blazer. There’s an orange flower on his lapel. His smile stretches the lines of his face; shadows playing unnaturally. 

        Even from afar, Diana knows; like reading the lines of her palms— an omen of the immediate future. She hates every fiber of him. She desires nothing more than to strike him down; if by her own blade, so be it. She will gladly paint her face with his blood. She’ll never wash it off. She’ll wear it like a badge of honor.

        Bruce was getting better. Diana saw it. She saw how fragile it was; how paranoid it made him. He always had an eye on Jason, no matter what. He held a comlink on him more often than not during patrol. He brought him along to the Watchtower whenever he could. She watched him fawn over Jason. Diana saw that boy almost every day she could. There was some… part of her that felt he needed her. Perhaps an intuition, perhaps an instinct. She looked out for him; she felt an obligation to look out for him. 

        She had hoped he would look up to her.

        Then, he was gone… and so was Bruce.

        Diana clenched her fists and grinds her teeth. She can hear his laughter, a melody, before he even opens his mouth.

        “Joker…” mutters Diana. “He’s… his skin.”

        “He got a tan.”

        “It’s garish.” Diana’s gaze peers into Bruce. “Why?” 

        “It’s Halloween.”

        “And, who is he supposed to be?”

        “Himself.” 

        Something flickers across Bruce’s face; almost like relief. But, it’s something else, too. A profound joy. Bruce rises to his feet, and Diana attempts to pull him back down. He stands anyway. His cape trails behind him as his lips part in shock. She watches him helplessly, unsure of what to do. Bruce begins to scale down the canyon. She groans loud enough to echo throughout the desert.

        “Fuck!” 

        She follows him down the canyon, trying to catch up to him without flying. It proves to be more challenging than she anticipated. 

        “Bruce!” she calls. Diana drops down from a sizable few feet, earth caving under his boots and leaving behind an imprint. Bruce stands in front of her, making his way toward Joker. “Bruce!” He doesn’t turn, but he halts in place. “What’re you doing?”

        She’s only met by the black of his cape and the ears of his cowl, tall and camouflaged in the dark of midnight. He’s stiff and barely moves.

        “I need to… He needs to come back to Gotham. He’s been missing for months.”

        “What?”

        “That’s why I came here with you. To bring him back.”

        “Why would you want him to come back? Isn’t it better—”

        “No,” he interrupts. “It’s not.”

        “Why must you keep him in Gotham? What possible benefit does he contribute to your city?”

        “He doesn’t.”

        “Then, why, Bruce? Why?”

        It takes a moment before the dam breaks. Bruce’s brows are furrowed beneath the cowl. He looks so… tired. 

        “He understands me, Diana.” It’s a pained voice; as dark as any muse. “And, I understand him. I can help him.”

        At first, Diana feels so sick she can’t even muster coherent thoughts. Then, it boils over.

        “And, what about Jason? What about all the people he’s hurt— he’s killed?” she snaps. “What about them?”

        Bruce looks at him idly standing outside the hatch. Joker’s hands are in his pockets. He appears to be whistling something, but Diana cannot decipher it. 

        “I have to believe… he can change.”

        “Why?”

        “If he can’t change, Diana, then neither can I.”

        “Bruce…”

        “Diana,” he says. “Let me do this.”

        Suddenly, the canyon wind chills her skin to ice. She can feel the colder resolution settling in her chest, heavy and dark. She finds herself nodding before she has even formed the words.

        Diana doesn’t stop him as he closes in on Joker. From afar, she watches. She stands. Her lasso glows between her fingers, golden light fawning out around her. 

        She thought she understood Bruce. She thought she knew the kind of man he was, inside and out. Diana had thought they were the same. 

        Maybe she still does. 

        She fights the urge to interrupt them; to stop this once and for all. Joker cocks his head in Bruce’s direction. His lips part, and it’s then she turns away.

        Battle is timeless. Battle is endless.

        It takes every form.