Chapter Text
It’s 4:36AM on a Tuesday when Lucas hears the most horrific sound of an engine pulling into one of the pumps outside the convenience store. He thinks nothing of it at first—these street-racer types are notoriously reticent this late into the night, usually coming down from the adrenaline and dopamine hit of acceleration—and continues trying to beat the level on Candy Crush that had been giving him issues the past ten minutes. In another life he might be racing among them, if he weren’t working this graveyard shift to save up enough money to buy himself a secondhand (or thirdhand) beater sedan. Instead, he’s sat behind a convenience store counter four days a week, usually studying or reading whatever his Humanities professor deemed important enough to force upon poor first-year college students.
When the bell at the front door rings, the greeting comes out automatically before he even lifts his gaze from his phone: “Welcome to GCG.”
He receives no greeting in return; fine by him.
The vague shape of a really tall man in Lucas’s peripherals goes into the candy aisle. He hears their boots against the linoleum, padding to the back wall where all the drink fridges are, presumably to grab an energy drink or coffee this late into the night.
“Full tank on pump two,” a low, raspy voice says as a can of soda and a pack of candy hits the counter.
“Sure,” Lucas says, and then looks up.
The street racer is wearing a Batman costume. A really good one, actually. Complete with the opaque white lenses for eyes and a heavy-duty utility belt. Nearly every Gothamite has seen the Batman with their own two eyes before, whether that be a silhouette of a demon blurring across the rooftops, or the laughter of one of the Robins ringing across the alleyways. But every single Gothamite has seen the videos and photos. Of Batman with the Justice League fighting off intergalactic threats, of him with his Robins both past and present that get posted and immediately go viral, of the interviews of people recounting how they had been saved or beaten to bits by the Batman. And, evasive as the guy might be, he has a brand and by God does he stick to it. Everyone knows what the Bat looks like.
Lucas straightens up on pure instinct.
But as he does, the sight of the fucking Batmobile parked at pump 2 greets his eyes. The Batmobile. Outside his window. Pump 2 is the closest one to the cashier’s counter, so Lucas can see every detail on the body of the car, highlighted by the station’s aggressively fluorescent lights. It has wings. It’s all black and looks like it could chew up a woodchipper.
This isn’t a Batman cosplay. This is the Batman.
And holy shit— he’s huge.
Lucas is 5’11, slightly above average height for men in the US. He’s used to seeing the tops of heads and being among the largest in the room. Batman towers over him. He must be— what, 6’3? Maybe more?
“Uh…” Lucas says, incredibly eloquently. He has no clue why Batman of all people would be at a Gotham City Gas station. Shouldn’t he be, y’know, fighting crime in downtown proper?
It was four-thirty in the morning… What time did the bats turn in for the night?
“Pump two,” Batman repeats, reaching into his belt for holyshitisBatmangoingtotasehim— oh thank God, it’s just a wad of cash, “and a pack of sour gummy worms and a Zesti.”
As if needing to explain, the other hand pushes the two items a little closer to Lucas, who resists the urge to step back. (The candy and soda are not enemy troops, there is no need for a tactical retreat.)
Right. Gas and snacks. Why else would Batman be at a gas station, if not for the same reason that every other person goes to a gas station? Were the bats considered people?
“Y-yes, sir.”
He reaches for the snacks to scan them, pushes the button for pump two, and holds out his hand for payment.
Batman takes his claws—holy mother of God, he has claws on his hands—and carefully separates a bill from his wad of cash. Which Lucas is now realizing is a small stack of one hundred dollar bills. What the fuck.
A slightly-bent yet otherwise crisp hundred dollar bill is deposited carefully in his open palm.
Lucas balks at it before remembering he has to do his job.
“Uh— sir? How many gallons is your tank?”
Batman seems to bristle, much like an upset cockatoo. (Robin? Were Batman’s sidekicks and partners also bats, or were they birds? Could one also call the Bat a bird?)
“Why do you need to know that?”
“Well— most people pay with a credit or debit card, so I only have the barest change in here.” He hopes he doesn’t have to explain the dangers of having a full cash register at ass-o’clock-in-the-morning in Gotham. He has mostly ones and fives, and a shitton of coins, and even the most desperate of thieves wouldn’t risk getting arrested for so little a prize. “Unless your tank is, like, thirty-five gallons or something like that, I won’t be able to give you the full change back—“
“Keep the change,” Batman says quickly.
“Right. Thanks,” Lucas nods, thankful for the interruption before he could get into the national penny shortage and the intricacies of rounding up to the nearest penny or nickel. He doesn’t think Batman would be the type to throw a fit over two cents, but he’s also seen videos of Batman kicking villains in the throat so who really knows where his limits lie. He tucks the cash under the bill sorter in the register.
Batman swipes the soda and candy off the counter and stalks to the entrance with a dramatic flare of his cape.
Lucas watches as Batman approaches the Batmobile and the passenger side door opens, revealing Red Robin holding a tablet in one hand and reaching out for the treats with the other. Batman hands over the junk food and, honest to god, starts pumping gas into the Batmobile. From the monitor by the cash register, Lucas can see that the Batmobile takes premium.
He’d’ve thought the Batmobile took premium jet fuel or something like that. Not regular ol’ 93 octane.
After just under sixteen gallons of premium, Batman returns the nozzle to the pump and climbs into the driver’s seat. Lucas hadn’t even realized he’d stared the whole minute or so it took to gas up the car. The engine roars to life, and the Batmobile tears into the roadway.
After a good three minutes of staring at the now vacated pump two, Lucas intones to himself: “What the fuck?”
Because—
What?
There is no way the Batmobile just stopped at his gas station. There’s no way the Batman bought a pack of sour gummy worms and a can of grape Zesti Cola. There is no way the Batmobile takes regular premium gasoline.
Of all these impossibilities, the last one seems like the most implausible to Lucas. Because even superheroes can have their cravings, as human as they may be. Superman has gone on record saying his favorite food in the world is homemade apple pie, so why can’t the Bat—or at least one of his Robins—also have a vice?
Lucas snickers to himself, imagining the bats sequestered away in whatever hideout they’ve gotten for themselves, munching away on junk food and flat soda. A reward for a job well done. Did they do this every night? Surely not, or word would’ve gotten out by now… right?
With a jolt of realization, Lucas goes to the computer in the back where all the security cameras feed into and scrolls back a few minutes.
And there’s nothing.
Not even a hint of the Batmobile, nor Batman. The Lucas on the screen hardly even moves, except for the twiddling of his thumbs as he works on the Candy Crush level on his phone. Then, the camera blinks and Lucas is staring out the window at an empty pump.
What the fuck?
Lucas is baffled. That… happened, right? He goes back to the counter, swiping a pack of gum off the counter display and scanning it just so he can look into the cash register. When he lifts the sorting tray, the hundred dollar bill sits there, just as crisp as it was when Batman handed it to him.
It wasn’t a hallucination.
Okay. At least I’m not going crazy.