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The man's heart was beating. It is beating, still; will be for a long time if he stays out of trouble. The heart was beating when Bruce left and there is no reason to believe that it is not still beating now. It was beating. He doesn’t need to check again.
He opens the recording.
The man swings—can’t do that without a beating heart—and Batman's foot collides with his chest. It sends the man careening to the ground, a resounding crack filling the alley as head meets stone but his chest still rises and falls. It rises and falls. In the recording, the man’s chest is still rising and still falling—can’t do that without a beating heart.
Batman’s gauntlet reaches forward and two fingers press against the skin. The pulse was fast, he remembers, but not alarmingly so, and the logs Bruce has pulled up confirm this.
Bruce has always been a logical man. He relies on facts and evidence. The recording and the logs allow him to believe, without a single doubt, that he did not kill that man. His heart was beating, he is sure, and yet—
The man swings—can’t do that without a beating heart—and Batman’s foot collides with his chest—
The man swings—can’t do that without a beating heart—and Batman’s foot collides with his chest—
The man swings—can’t do that without a beating heart—and Batman’s foot collides with his chest. It sends the man careening to the ground, a resounding crack filling the alley as head meets stone but his chest still rises and falls. It rises and falls. In the recording, the man’s chest is still rising and still falling—can’t do that without a beating heart.
He pulls the gauntlet logs up again. The pulse was fast but not alarmingly so, and most importantly, definitely there.
He did not kill anybody. He is sure of this, and yet—
His name was Zach Samson. He’d worked a regular nine-to-five until half the company was laid off, leaving Zach Samson with a six-month-old to feed and no income. The few grand in savings didn’t last very long when faced with formula, rent, diapers, and clothes that seem to shrink as fast as a baby grows. No matter how many applications he sent, nobody wanted to give him the time of day, and the odds jobs for friends and neighbours were far from enough to suffice. It truly was a last resort, it seemed.
He’d gone back to dealing. He had a few texts drafted that he’d never sent – looked like old regulars. Bruce assumes that he perhaps didn’t want to risk anyone sober getting hooked again, because Zach Samson had no issue going out on the streets and getting new clients. That was how he’d met Black Mask, or some subordinate of his at least. It was Black Mask he was working for that night, having gotten roped into a shipment delivery.
Zach Samson still has time to get back on his feet. As long as he is alive and breathing (which he is, Bruce knows), he is capable of accepting the job offer from Wayne Enterprises. There is still time, Bruce knows this, he does, and yet—
“You’re leaving early tonight, Sir.”
Bruce finishes pulling his gauntlet on and says, without turning around, “Got something I wanted to check out. Business as usual after that.”
Alfred hums. “Anything interesting?” He picks the utility belt off the table, checking each compartment, refilling when needed. It makes Bruce twitch, but he reminds himself that Alfred has long since memorised his particular way of doing things. He can trust him.
“No.”
“Feeling chatty tonight, I see.”
Bruce shoots him half a smile as he takes the offered belt, skin crawling as he clicks it around him. Alfred knows how to check his belt. Alfred knows what he needs. He can trust him.
“I’ll see you when I get back.”
“Hopefully not, Sir. We already have two nocturnal beings in the house, no need for another.”
“Valid point. In that case, good night.”
Alfred returns the goodbye, and Bruce makes his way to the Batmobile. He waits until he can no longer hear footsteps before giving in, taking off his belt as fast as he can and checking each compartment.
He was right. Alfred knows just what to check. Still, it never hurts to make sure. He should probably look again actually, just to be absolutely certain. He knows that nothing would have gone missing in the last few seconds, or that a bomb wouldn’t have miraculously appeared in the lollipop pouch, or that his license stating his full name wouldn’t be hanging off the front in full view, and yet—
Zach Samson had lived in a two-bedroom apartment in Downtown Gotham since he’d moved out of his parents’ house in the Narrows. That was four years ago. Two years ago, his partner (twenty-three-year-old Deliah Cameron, a nurse at Mercy Hospital) had moved in with him. Six months ago, they welcomed Valerie Samson to the world and to their home. Five months ago, Deliah Cameron was caught between two rival gangs on her way home from the store.
One stray bullet was all it took. One stray bullet, and a child had lost her mother, a man had lost his partner, and a woman had lost everything.
Bruce does not fault him for doing whatever he could to stay afloat.
Zach Samson’s daughter is not an orphan. Her father is alive and well, Bruce knows this, and yet—
The man was on the couch with a baby on his chest.
He had a wrap around his right wrist—a sprain, according to his medical records, likely caused by the kick Bruce delivered as the gun was raised. His right foot was elevated on the arm of the chair, but this may have just been a sleeping position. It didn’t look broken, at least. His left arm was slung over his face. Blocking the lights, maybe? It seemed to be covering his eyes, but his face was obscured from this angle. Possible concussion, not detailed in his records. Could have happened after that night, or was simply left unreported for whatever reason. If the concussion wasn’t reported, it’s reasonable to assume it could have been worse than that—a resounding crack filling the alley as head meets stone—with the potential to be fatal.
Or, he may have just been trying to sleep.
Better to be safe.
Bruce lifts the window, finding it already unlocked. Zach Samson had a child and lived in Gotham; why leave a bottom floor window unlocked? That could indicate a difficulty to think clearly. The slide of wood against frame grates on his ears and, apparently, on the man’s ears, too.
The man’s arm dropped instantly from his face, right arm tightening around the bundle against his chest as he rose, twisting his torso to face the intruder.
“Who the f—” His jaws dropped slightly as his eyebrows furrowed. Confusion. He was blinking too much. Vision issues? “You’re… You’re the Bat. Hey, man, I’m done with that, I swear. I—What are you doing?!”
He scrambled off the couch, landing heavily on the floor and scurrying backwards. He was shielding his daughter as Bruce comes closer, but Bruce has no time for his fear.
“Stand up.”
Zach Samson did not. His chest was rising and falling—can’t do that without a beating heart—almost too fast. He won’t get anything out of him in this state. Bruce needs to reconsider his approach.
“I am not here to hurt you, nor am I here to hurt Valerie.” Saying her name will show he sees her as a person, that he has no intention of harming her. He assumes Zach Samson was more concerned with her wellbeing than his own.
“How the fuck do you know her name?”
Right. He’s a stranger. He’s really off his game tonight. New approach.
“Do you have a headache?”
“Do I—? What? What the shit is happening? What?”
“Answer the question. Do you have had a headache, and if so, how long has it lasted?”
For a moment he thinks Zach Samson wasn’t going to answer at all. The man shook his head as if in disbelief before exhaling a harsh breath.
“I have a baby, man. Always got a headache. Cries all fucking night.” As if on cue, the baby responds with a loud shriek. “Damn it, you woke her up.” His voice turned softer but his eyes did not leave Bruce. “Hey, baby. Shh, it’s all right, sweetheart. It’s okay. Let’s go back to sleep. Shh.”
Bruce takes a step back, allowing him a moment to calm his daughter. Zach Samson was still on the floor, but he seemed to relax ever so slightly without The Batman looming over him.
The man had a large dark bruise under his left eye and a smaller one on his jaw but otherwise, he seemed to not be too badly injured (when not considering the sprain and the possibly fatal possible concussion, that is). It must have been painful to be holding the child right now, her weight pressed against his damaged wrist.
The baby stops screaming, but does not stop crying.
“Are you gonna hit me if I get up to grab her bottle?”
“No. I am not here to hurt you, nor am I here to hurt Valerie.”
Zach Samson blinked at him. “You’re a weird fucking guy. Bottle’s on the stand next to you. Pass me it?”
Bruce turns, finding it half empty. She must have been drinking it not long before he arrived. Zach Samson did not thank him when he hands it over, but Bruce doesn’t expect him to.
“How do you know her name? Why do you know her name?”
He may not have thought this through. Again, he’s off his game. In his defence, though, he’s still half convinced that Zach Samson was really dead and this man is just an imposter. Or that Zach Samson died and was somehow resurrected via Gotham’s mystical ways. Or that Zach Samson survived but would drop any second now.
“I want you to get examined by a doctor.”
The man’s face contorted into something resembling bafflement or anger or shock, or maybe all three. “You beat hell out of me and then stalk me and my little girl so that I’ll see a doctor? I already saw a doctor.”
“At a clinic in Metropolis. I want you to speak to a doctor I trust. Here. In Gotham.”
“I’m not doing that. Wait, is something wrong with me? Do you have special powers to, like, detect cancer or something? Do I have cancer?”
“You’re fine.”
“I’m fine, so you want me to see a doctor?”
Bruce understands his hesitance. In fact, Bruce agrees with his hesitance. There’s no reason to be dragging a man out of his home at ten in the evening when he’s clearly fine. Unfortunately, Bruce’s brain does not agree with his hesitance, and Bruce may be a master in self-control but not in these instances; not when his brain is convinced of things that he knows aren’t true.
“Yes.”
Again, Zach Samson blinked. “Dude. I have a baby.”
“You do.”
“I do,” he said slowly, as if Bruce is also a child. “I can’t just leave her here and I’m not dragging her through Gotham at God knows what time. I don’t even have a car right now.”
“I have a car.”
“Are you always this fucking dense?”
No, he isn’t. He just can’t think right now. Zach Samson needed to be seen by a doctor because his heart was going to stop beating if he didn’t. Even though it wouldn’t, Bruce knows. Bruce knows it wouldn’t. Zach Samson is fine, and he does not need to see a doctor, and yet—
“Batman, who’s your friend?”
“Zach Samson. I need you to check him out.”
“He’s not in the usual state of the ones you bring me,” Leslie says. “What seems to be the problem?”
They leave the rain behind them, because it’s Gotham and of course it’s raining, as they walk into her clinic.
“Fuck if—Uh, I mean, I don’t know, ma’am. I was just kinda dragged here.”
Leslie shoots a glare his way, and Bruce fights the urge to sink into his cape. “So the problem is you.”
“I need you to check him out.”
“And you know I need more than that. What exactly am I ‘checking out’?”
Bruce is a grown man. He is an adult with a job and children and is one of the most intimidating members of an organisation containing literal aliens and super-powered beings. He does not shuffle his feet. He does not.
It’s a close call, though.
“His head. His heart.”
“Okay. Why am I checking his head and heart?”
“Can you not just trust my word that it’s necessary?”
Her eyes narrow at him and for a moment he thinks she’s going to keep pressing. She’d be well within her rights to. She probably should, actually.
“Come this way.”
He loves her.
They follow her to the examination room, clean but not tidy, and she flutters around picking up papers. “I apologise for the mess,” she says. “I didn’t expect any company tonight. Zach, was it?” Zach Samson nodded. “Zach, you take a seat right here. Oh, what a lovely little girl you have there. What’s her name?”
“Ask tall, dark and creepy over there. He seems to have all the answers.” Leslie cuts Bruce another look, and he gets the strange urge to apologise for breaking one of her pencils fifteen years ago. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. Her name is Valerie. It’s just been one heck of a night, you know?”
“I can only imagine,” she replies. “Beautiful name, though. Valerie, meaning strong and healthy. Beautiful eyes, too.”
“Yeah,” Zach Samson said, something melancholy creeping in that Bruce is intimately familiar with. “She gets them from her mother.”
“Well, I’m sure her mother is just as beautiful. Batman,” she says, like she has an entire repertoire of names she’d rather call him right now, “you know where the waiting room is.”
He does, but something keeps him from leaving. He swallows, and tries forcing his legs to move. He tries again.
“Patient confidentiality,” she reminds him, but it’s gentle somehow. It feels… soft.
She’s right. It’s time to go. He could do a quick patrol of the area and be back in time to pick Zach Samson and Valerie up. That’s exactly what he’ll do.
“Here.” The pink baby bag shifts from his shoulder until it’s being held out to Zach Samson. “I’ll be back.”
He did not patrol. He sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair for half an hour and counted the tiles on the floor. Seventeen was the highest he’d managed before starting over. God, he should’ve probably stayed in for once. He could’ve been drinking tea in his robe and watching one of Alfred’s telenovelas right now, learning who the father of Paola’s baby was—Alfred insists it’s Bruno, but Bruce bets it’s Tony (there’s no way Paola would go near Bruno after discovering he was the one who killed her brother).
Fortunately (and possibly unfortunately), Leslie and Zach Samson come into sight before he can call Alfred to find out.
Standing from his chair, he says, “So?”
“’So’ what? Patient confidentiality, remember.”
He grunts and turns to Zach Samson instead, demanding an answer without saying a single word.
“Batman. You will not intimidate a patient into telling you private medical information. It’s bad enough that he won’t tell me how he became injured in the first place, though I do have my guesses. Zach,” she turns to him, “you do not have to say anything you don’t want to. I can call you a cab if you’d rather.”
Zach Samson spent another moment looking strangely at Bruce. “No. No, that’s alright, ma’am. Thank you, though. We’re all good with the Bat.”
“All right,” she says. “Well, you keep in mind what I’ve told you. Come back here if you or little Valerie ever need anything else.”
“Will do. Thank you again.”
Bruce spares one last glance at Leslie, who allows her face to slip into something softer. She offers him a small, sad smile. He doesn’t respond.
It’s silent as they climb into the Batmobile. When they’d first gotten in, Bruce had felt momentarily panicked as he realised he did not own a carseat. He may have been a father for years, but he had never had a baby before. Zach Samson had assured him that Valerie is safe on his lap, if the Batmobile is advanced as it seems (it is).
“So,” Zach Samson said, “I have a clean bill of health, aside from the obvious. Want to tell me why we came all the way out here?”
“What are you counting as the obvious?”
“The wrist. The bruises. Why did we come here?”
“So your head is fine?”
“Yes. Why are we here?”
Bruce swallows. “Had to check.”
“Okay. Why?”
“Have you always asked so many questions?”
“Only when a furry of the night breaks into my apartment and kidnaps me and my daughter.”
“I—I didn’t kidnap you. Or your daughter. I am not here to hurt y—“
“Or Valerie. I know, man. No denial on the furry part though.”
Bruce glares at him.
“Still not denying,” he laughed. “Seriously, though. Why did you drag me to some random lady in Crime Alley?”
“Leslie Thompkins is not a random lady. She’s one of the best doctors I have ever known.”
“For God’s—Dude, why are we here? I have a right to know.”
“You do.”
“I do,” he said slowly. “How about you tell me, then?”
Bruce’s lip twitches and for moment he debates staying silent. Zach Samson was a stranger. A stranger that Bruce had inconvenienced, sure, but a stranger nonetheless. He owes him nothing.
“I was concerned. You hit your head.”
“...Concerned? The Big Bad Bat was concerned about little ol’ me? I’m flattered, truly. Be more flattered if you told me the truth, though.”
“That is the truth,” Bruce snaps, sharp and biting. “You hit your head. I needed to be sure it didn’t…”
Zach Samson, once again, blinked at him. Bruce is starting to think the man may have just had something in his eye. “You were actually just worried,” he said, like a question and a statement and an accusation all rolled into one.
“Not worried. Concerned.”
“No difference.”
“There is.”
“Whatever you say, big guy. You do this to all the thugs you come across? Drag them outta their houses and force them to a doctor? Or am I just special?”
“Neither.”
Bruce needs to stop talking. He needs to stop talking.
Zach Samson sighed, quiet and soft and exasperated. “Yeah, okay. Well, I hope whatever the fuck’s wrong with you has a cure.”
It catches Bruce off-guard. It’s an insult, clearly, but something about it hits deep in his chest. He can feel it in his spine, all the way to the tips of his fingers. It electrocutes him, and he knows why, and he wishes he didn’t. He wishes there was nothing wrong with him. He wishes there was a cure.
He doesn’t reply.
They continue on in near silence, the only sound being Valerie’s sleep-filled sniffling. He makes sure to keep the car as quiet as it can go, and he shuts it off the same way. The baby doesn’t wake up.
“Well, thanks for the trip, I guess. Glad to know I’m gonna live long enough to fuck up even more.”
Zach Samson leaned into the back seat, grabbing Valerie’s bag. As he came back to the front, he exhaled a harsh breath—can’t do that without a beating heart— and Bruce feels it against the only part of his face exposed to the night.
Bruce watches as the car opens, as Valerie is carried out. He watches as he’s left alone.
“Zach,” he says.
Zach Samson turned to look at him.
Zach looked at him.
Zach looks at him.
Zach looks at him because Zach is breathing, and he is alive, and Bruce did not kill him, and Valerie is not an orphan. There is still time for Zach to get back on his feet.
“You have an interview with Wayne Enterprises’ tech department. Tuesday, eight A.M. Don’t be late.”
The car door shuts, and Bruce drives off. He takes one last glance in his rear-view mirror and sees the icy air turn Zach’s breath into mist. Bruce has never been more grateful for the cold.
Somehow, he finds himself back at Leslie’s. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t want to think about why.
“Why are you back?”
She doesn’t say it unkindly. It’s something he’s always admired about Leslie. She’s straightforward, but even her most brutal words carry no underserved sting. He could never quite figure out how to do that.
“I don’t know,” he says.
She looks at him, and he wants to look away, and he continues looking back.
“Take it off.” She doesn’t need to elaborate. He knows what she means. His hands are shaking slightly as he removes the cowl, letting it drop behind his neck. “Sit down. Tea?”
“Feel like I’d need a health check if I drank one of your concoctions.”
She swats his arm. “My tea isn’t that bad.”
“Hm.”
“Do you want the tea or not?”
“Sure.”
As the tea is brewing, Bruce doesn’t really think. He should be paying more attention to his surroundings but for now, just for now, he doesn’t really want to.
“I brought Zach here because I needed to know he was alive.”
“And you couldn’t see that by looking at him?”
“No. I mean, yes. But also no. I don’t know. It’s confusing.”
Leslie doesn’t speak again until she’s placing the tea down in front of Bruce. He’s sitting at her desk. It’s the only chair in the room, but Leslie had guided him to it and Bruce had just followed. She doesn’t seem to mind standing. “Why did you come back here?”
“I just wanted to explain, I think. Figured you deserved an explanation.”
“You’ve never explained before.”
“This time was different.”
“Bruce,” she says. “You’re allowed to admit that you just needed somebody to talk to.”
“Why would I come to you? I have Alfred for that.”
It’s an objectively rude thing to say, but she doesn’t take offence. “Alfred is different. You don’t want him to worry. You didn’t want to explain anything to him, and I’ve met Zach now.”
“Hn,” he acquiesces.
“Bruce… Have you ever considered going back to therapy?”
“I don’t need therapy. There’s nothing wrong with me,” he lies. She raises her eyebrows at him, and he rolls his eyes at her. “They may be a few things I would… benefit from speaking about. But I’m busy.”
“Busy beating up the disadvantaged and throwing them my way to fix?”
“That is not—“
“Bruce. He had a child. A baby.”
“I didn’t know he had a baby when I hit him, and he hit me first.”
It doesn’t occur to him how childish he sounds until the words have already left his mouth, and he knows she’s going to—
“Oh, he started it? What, did he steal your crayon? Take too long on the slide?”
“He pulled a gun on me.”
Her face softens slightly, but it doesn’t quite lose its edge. “You know how I feel about all of this. I find it useless to continue having the same conversation all over again when we both know you’ll be back out there tomorrow, but it would be remiss of me to not at least try. You are putting yourself and others in danger every time you go out.”
“I’m saving people every time I go out.”
“True as that may be, it isn’t the whole truth. There are other things you could be doing.”
“I am doing other things! You of all people know the effort I put into making this city safer.”
“Don’t throw this clinic back in my face, Bruce. You know I appreciate the funding, but you also know I’d rather have you here working alongside me instead. You spend so long trying to save Gotham as a whole that sometimes you forget about the individual.”
“I do not forget about the individual, Leslie.” He’s standing now. He doesn’t remember standing.
“That boy your brought in earlier was injured from something you did. Did you know his partner was shot down in the street? Did you know he’s been working tirelessly to make ends meet because he can’t afford to live? You sit there with your billions and yes, you help. You help as much as you can. But as long as you’re going out at night in that suit, your focus is not on the people of Gotham. Your focus is on revenge.”
“Deliah,” he says, and she pauses. “Her name was Deliah Cameron. She was twenty-three. A nurse at Mercy Hospital. She volunteered here a few times.”
Her lips purse for a brief moment. “That’s all well and good, but she’s still dead. Zach needed help, not a beating. Violence was unnecessary.”
“He was helping with a shipment for Black Mask. It was just supposed to be arms, but my equipment showed people in there; women and children. I don’t believe Zach knew of the people, but he still attempted to stop me. I did not have time to appeal to his morality. People were in danger, and I acted. I do not regret that, and you cannot make me.”
They’re in each other’s space at this point, Bruce several inches over her and yet still feeling like he was looking up at her. A car horn honks outside, and neither of them bats an eye.
“I understand your position,” Bruce says, shoulders sagging. “I wish violence wasn’t necessary. I wish I didn’t have to hurt people, but I do. I hurt people and I help people and I may be a monster but I’m exactly what Gotham needs.”
“Does Gotham need the monster, or do you?”
Bruce stares at her.
He pulls his cowl back up, and he leaves, his tea still steaming behind him.
He doesn’t need to go out tonight. It’s already late, and Gotham is being patrolled without him. Tim’s out there somewhere, and Jason probably is too, and Steph and Cass are keeping their suits in their bags while they do whatever it is they’re doing, and Duke will be out in a few hours. He’s allowed a night off. He’s allowed to go home.
He doesn’t need to go out tonight, and yet—