Chapter Text
Batman was having a perfectly normal night.
Well. Normal by Gotham standards, which meant he'd only been stabbed twice, thrown off one building, and forced to listen to Riddler explain a pun for forty-five straight minutes. By the time he and Deathstroke wrapped up their joint mission—something about a weapons shipment, something about mutual enemies, something Bruce was already trying very hard not to think about, he was tired, irritable, and desperately in need of a quiet conversation with Jim Gordon about chemical signatures.
So that's what he did.
He found Jim on the rooftop of the GCPD, coffee in hand, looking like a man who had accepted his fate and chosen caffeine anyway.
"Batman," Jim greeted. "Please tell me you have good news."
"Define good."
"Nobody's dead."
"...Define nobody."
Jim sighed. It was the sigh of a man who had long ago stopped being surprised and had simply settled into a state of low-grade existential exhaustion.
The chemicals. Right. Batman launched into his explanation—trace evidence, unusual molecular structures, something about the way the compound reacted to light. Jim nodded along, not really understanding but trusting the process, the same way he had for the past fifteen years.
And then—
A shadow moved.
Batman's head snapped up. His hand went to his belt. Every instinct screamed threat, weapon, fight—
But it wasn't a fight.
It was Deathstroke.
Just... walking up to them. Casually. Like he hadn't spent the past decade trying to kill Batman's family. Like he hadn't thrown Dick Grayson off a balcony when the kid was nine.
Like he was simply here.
"Wilson," Batman said flatly. "I'm busy."
"Hi," Deathstroke said.
"I'm busy."
"I can see that."
"Then leave."
"No."
Jim looked between them. "Do you two... know each other?"
Neither of them answered.
Deathstroke stepped closer. Batman's whole body went rigid. Jim, who had seen Batman fight gods and monsters and a clown in a purple suit, had never seen him look like that.
Like he was cornered.
Like he knew exactly what was coming and couldn't do a damn thing to stop it.
Deathstroke got on one knee.
Jim blinked.
A small black box appeared in Deathstroke's hand—leather, expensive-looking, clearly custom made. Batman stared at it like it was a bomb.
"Batman," Jim said slowly, "is he—"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"—because it looks like he's—"
"We're not talking about it, Jim."
"Batman, The Dark Knight," Deathstroke announced, "who I have been dating—"
Jim's brain made a sound like a computer crashing. "What—"
"—in secret—"
"WHAT—"
"—for approximately eight months—"
"EIGHT—"
"—will you marry me?"
The box opened.
The ring was obscene.
Black diamond. Deep as a void. Tiny rubies clustered around it like drops of blood, catching the Gotham moonlight and throwing red sparks across the rooftop. The band was black too—tungsten, maybe, or something darker. Something that matched.
"Marry me," Deathstroke repeated, "so we can finally tie the knot and ignore each other's problems for the next ten years."
Jim's coffee hit the rooftop.
The mug shattered.
Neither man looked at him.
Batman's eye, the part of his face visible through the cowl, twitched. Once. Twice. A full-body tremor of restrained violence.
Then he facepalmed.
Slowly. Deliberately. With the air of a man who had been to Hell and back and somehow this was worse.
He removed his right gauntlet. Then the glove beneath it. His hand was pale, scarred, the fingers calloused from years of punching criminals in the face.
He held it up.
Ring finger.
Right hand.
Bare.
"We're not getting married," Batman said, and his voice was exhausted. "Right hand ring finger. That's what that means."
Deathstroke considered this for approximately three seconds. "Fair enough."
He stood. Closed the box. Slipped it back into his pocket like he hadn't just detonated a nuclear bomb in the middle of Jim Gordon's already fragile psyche.
Then he looked at Jim.
Jim, who was still standing in a puddle of cold coffee and shattered ceramic. Jim, whose mouth was opening and closing like a fish having a stroke. Jim, who had seen a man turn into a clay monster and somehow this was the moment he genuinely questioned his sanity.
"You," Deathstroke said. "You're the witness."
"I'm the—"
"Now if you excuse me."
Before Jim could process—before Batman could process, apparently, because he just stood there like a man awaiting execution...
—Deathstroke closed the gap between them.
His hand found Batman's waist.
Batman's arms went around Deathstroke's neck.
And they kissed.
Not a peck. Not a quick "good to see you" brush of lips.
A kiss.
A full minute of it.
Then another.
Deathstroke held Batman like he was something precious—one hand splayed across his lower back, the other cupping the back of his neck. Batman's fingers tangled in Deathstroke's tactical harness, pulling him closer, like he couldn't get enough.
Like he'd been waiting for this.
Like this was normal.
Jim made a sound. He wasn't sure what kind of sound. Possibly a whimper. Possibly the last shred of his sanity leaving his body.
When they finally pulled apart—two minutes, Jim's brain supplied hysterically, two whole minutes, they didn't even look at each other.
Deathstroke just... nodded.
"I'll see you next week."
Batman nodded back.
Then Deathstroke left.
Just... walked away. Dropped off the side of the building. Gone.
Batman stood there for a moment, adjusting his gloves, his gauntlet, his dignity. Then he turned to Jim.
"Jim."
"Batman."
"Don't."
"DON'T?!"
"Don't tell anyone."
Jim opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"You just—" Jim pointed vaguely in the direction Deathstroke had disappeared. "He—" He pointed at Batman. "You—"
"Jim."
"THERE WAS TONGUE, BATMAN."
"I'm aware."
"TWO MINUTES OF TONGUE."
"It was a kiss, Jim."
"IT WAS A MAKEOUT SESSION ON MY CRIME SCENE."
"Our crime scene."
"DON'T 'OUR' ME RIGHT NOW."
Batman sighed—that deep, put-upon sigh that Jim had heard approximately four thousand times over the years. "I'm leaving now."
"YOU CAN'T JUST LEAVE."
"Watch me."
And he did.
He grapple-gunned away.
Just... swung off into the night like he hadn't just shattered Jim Gordon's entire worldview into a million tiny pieces.
Jim stood alone on the rooftop.
Coffee.
Broken mug.
His life.
"You know what," he said to the empty night air. "I'm not dealing with this. I'm going home. I'm going to hug my daughter. And I'm going to pretend this never happened."
He didn't, of course.
Because the next morning—
The video was everywhere.
Someone had recorded the whole thing. A bystander. A cop. Someone who had been standing in exactly the wrong (or right) place, phone already out, capturing the exact moment Deathstroke the Terminator got down on one knee and proposed to the Goddamn Batman.
The news went insane.
Vicki Vale's face, live on air, as the video played: priceless.
Jim watched from his desk, coffee in hand (a new mug, because the old one was shattered, like his soul).
His phone rang.
Barbara.
He answered.
"Dad," she said.
"Babs."
"Why did Deathstroke propose to Batman on your crime scene?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Dad—"
"I don't want to talk about it, Barbara."
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "I'm looking at the footage right now. Enhanced it. There's lipstick on Batman's face, Dad. Black lipstick."
Jim hung up.
Poured himself another coffee.
And seriously, seriously considered retiring.