Chapter Text
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The warehouse smelled like mildew, desperation, and Joker venom.
It was, Bianca thought distastefully, not the worst place she'd been held captive. At least this one had windows. Even if they were barred and approximately twenty feet above ground level.
"Chess Queen," the Joker sing-songed, pacing back and forth in front of her like a caffeinated scarecrow. "Fancy title for a dead girl who crawled out of her grave."
Bianca didn't blink. "Fancy rant for a clown who can't hold a grudge without monologuing about it."
Behind her, chained to a support beam and currently testing his restraints with the kind of focused patience that suggested he'd already identified three escape routes, Red Robin—Tim, her mind supplied, because she was allowed to call him that now continued working his wrists against the cuffs.
Neither of them acknowledged him. That was the point.
The Joker's grin twitched. "Oh, ho ho. Seven years and you're still mouthy." He leaned in close, close enough that Bianca could smell the cheap face paint and something metallic underneath. "You know, most people who come back from the dead are grateful. Humble. They've learned their place."
"Most people who come back from the dead didn't get murdered by a failed comedian with a superiority complex." Bianca tilted her head, star-flecked ocean eyes never leaving his face. "I woke up annoyed."
"ANNOYED?" The Joker's voice pitched upward. "I killed you! I put a bullet in your chest! I WATCHED YOU BLEED OUT!"
"And I blew up twelve of your hideouts, hacked your financial accounts, and donated everything to Arkham's rehabilitation fund." Bianca smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "In your name. Tell me, how did the IRS audit go?"
The Joker's eye twitched.
From somewhere above them: a catwalk, perhaps, or a ventilation shaft, there was the faintest shift of fabric.
The Batfamily was here.
Bianca didn't look up. Neither did Tim.
She'd known they were there the moment she'd been brought in. The micro-shift in air pressure, the almost imperceptible shadows in the rafters. Batman was here. Nightwing. Spoiler. All of them, probably, watching this disaster unfold.
Good. Let them watch.
"You think you're clever," Joker hissed, his face inches from hers now. "You think you're so smart with your chess titles and your fancy suits and your—your—" He gestured vaguely at her entire being with clear disgust. "—poker face."
"It's called emotional regulation," Bianca said dryly. "You should try it. Though I suppose that would require having a genuine emotion that isn't 'homicidal rage' or 'desperate for attention.'"
"I HAVE PLENTY OF EMOTIONS!"
"You have two. Three if you count 'peaked in the 1940s.'"
The Joker made a sound like a boiling kettle.
Behind Bianca, Tim's chains rattled. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his attention—sharp, analytical, tracking the argument like it was a game he was already winning.
(He was definitely recording this for later. She was going to kill him.)
"You—" Joker jabbed a finger at her chest. "You think you're better than me? You're a freak, just like the rest of them. Half-nymph, half-vampire, all broken. I read your file, Chess Queen. I know what you are."
Bianca's expression didn't change. "And I know what you are. A man so terrified of his own mediocrity that he painted his face and decided if he couldn't be remembered as good, he'd be remembered as unforgivable." She paused. "It's working, by the way. You're unforgivable. You're also forgettable, which must sting."
The Joker's grin was gone.
That was when everyone should have run.
"The thing is," Bianca continued, because she had seven years of pent-up loathing for this man and she was going to use it, "you've never actually scared me. Annoyed me, yes. Inconvenienced me, absolutely. But scared?" She laughed, soft and sharp. "You're not even the scariest person in this room, and I'm currently handcuffed."
From the rafters: the sound of someone—probably Jason—choking back a laugh.
"I killed YOU!" Joker shrieked.
"You shot me. There's a difference." Bianca leaned forward, her voice dropping. "Killing me would have required you to matter to me. But you don't. You never have. You're not my nemesis, Joker. You're not my rival. You're not even my equal." She smiled again, all teeth. "You're just a plot point I survived."
The Joker went very, very still.
Then he laughed.
It wasn't his usual laugh—the showman's cackle, the performer's madness. This was something else. Something ugly.
"You wanna know what I think?" He paced away, then back, then away again. "I think you're lying. I think you think about me all the time. I think I'm in your HEAD, Chess Queen. I think—"
"I think you're projecting," Bianca interrupted. "I haven't thought about you once this month. Not until your goons grabbed me. Meanwhile, you've clearly been obsessing over Batman, but me? For seven years? Did you miss me, Joker? Did you feel empty without someone who actually talked back?"
"OBSESSING? I'M NOT OBSESSING!"
"You blew up a building to get my attention."
"It was SYMBOLIC!"
"You sent me a singing telegram last Christmas."
"It was FUNNY!"
"You used my face as a dartboard in your hideout. I saw the pictures."
The Joker's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"I hate you," he said, with feeling.
"I know," Bianca replied, utterly serene. "It's the healthiest relationship you've ever had."
The argument devolved after that.
Not in strategy. Bianca never lost strategy—but in tone. The Joker stopped performing and started fighting, and Bianca met him blow for verbal blow.
"You're a CONTROL FREAK who can't HANDLE that someone survived you!"
"You're a PARASITE who dresses like a budget funeral and thinks that makes you DEEP!"
"At least I HAVE a personality that isn't 'what if Elmer Fudd had a psychotic break'!"
"You're SHORT."
"And you're TALL. Neither of us can change our genetics, but only one of us made it their entire brand."
"You—" The Joker was actually vibrating now. "You—little—BRAT—"
"Brat?" Bianca's eyebrow arched. "That's your comeback? 'Brat'? I've been called worse by children. Literal children. The youngest Robin called me 'annoying' once, and it was more creative than anything you've said in the past hour."
From the rafters: a very small, very smug "Hmph."
The Joker whirled toward the sound. "WHO'S THERE?"
Nobody answered.
Bianca waited until he turned back to her. "They're not real, Joker. You're hearing things. Stress, probably. Or the early onset of cognitive decline. Have you been forgetting things lately? Walking into rooms and forgetting why?"
"I WILL—" He spun back to face her, face paint cracking around his mouth. "I WILL MAKE YOU REGRET EVERY WORD YOU'VE EVER SAID—"
"You've been trying to do that for seven years. How's that working out?"
"I'LL—I'LL—" He grabbed her by the collar of her bolero, yanking her forward. "You keep TALKING to me like that—"
"I'll stop when you say something worth listening to."
"YOU KEEP CALLING ME THAT—" His voice cracked. Actually cracked. "I'M GONNA PUT A FUCKING BABY IN YOU!!!"
Silence.
Not the good kind.
The kind where everyone in a fifty-foot radius stops breathing simultaneously.
Bianca's thousand-yard stare could have shattered glass.
Her star-flecked eyes went wide. Then blank. Then empty, in a way that had nothing to do with her usual emotional control and everything to do with her brain rebooting from a fatal error.
"...What," she said.
Not a question. A system crash in verbal form.
The Joker seemed to realize, in that exact moment, what he'd said. His face, already pale beneath the paint, went somehow paler. His grip on her collar loosened.
"I—" He swallowed. "That came out wrong—"
From somewhere above them: a strangled sound that might have been Dick Grayson having a crisis. Another sound—Stephanie Brown, definitely, because only Stephanie could both gasp and cackle simultaneously. A soft "Oh no" from Barbara over the comms.
But the loudest sound—
SNAP.
—
All eyes landed on Red Robin.
The chains that had been wrapped around his wrists, industrial-grade, tested to hold metahumans—lay in pieces on the concrete floor. His cuffs were bent, actual metal bent out of shape, and his hands were—
His hands were fine. Unscathed. Because apparently, Red Robin had just broken steel restraints with nothing but muscle and willpower.
Tim Drake stood up slowly.
He was shorter than the Joker. Leaner, younger, less physically imposing in every measurable way. But as he straightened to his full height, something in the room shifted.
The shadows seemed to deepen around him.
"I dare you," Tim said, "to repeat that."
His voice—
Bianca had heard Tim Drake's voice a thousand times. Soft, when he was thinking. Dry, when he was joking. Gentle, when he was with her. Analytical, when he was working.
She had never heard this.
This voice was low. Not loud—it didn't need to be. It was the kind of low that resonated in the chest, that vibrated through the floor, that made the air itself feel heavier. It was the voice of someone who had calculated every possible outcome and found only one acceptable.
It was, Bianca thought distantly, the voice of someone who was about to do something very stupid and very necessary.
Behind her, from the rafters, Jason Todd whispered, "Holy shit."
Damian's response was immediate: "Drake?"
"That's Red Robin?" Stephanie hissed, fanning herself with her hand. "Oh my god."
Nightwing's voice, barely audible: "B, did you know he could do that?"
Batman said nothing.
But Bianca could feel him watching. Calculating. Filing this information away for later.
And Tim—
Tim was walking toward the Joker.
Not fast. Not slow. Inevitably.
"I said," Tim repeated, each word measured and precise, "repeat what you said."
The Joker took a step back.
The Joker took a step back.
"I was—" The clown's voice wavered. "It was a—a figure of speech—"
"It sounded like a threat."
"It was a joke—"
"You're not funny."
The Joker's grin returned, brittle and desperate. "Oh, Red Robin. Come on. You know me. I'm always—"
Tim's hand shot out and grabbed the Joker by the collar.
Bianca blinked.
She hadn't even seen him move.
"You threatened her," Tim said, still in that voice, the one that made Bianca's stomach do something she refused to acknowledge. "You killed her. And now you think—" His grip tightened. "—you can say something like that to her?"
The Joker's eyes were very wide. "I—"
"You can't."
Tim pulled him closer, until they were nearly nose-to-nose.
"She doesn't belong to you," Tim said, each word a separate sentence. "She never did. And if you ever—ever—imply otherwise again, I will make sure the only thing you remember is my face when you wake up in a hospital bed."
The Joker laughed—a high, nervous sound. "You sound like him."
"Good."
Tim shoved him backward.
The Joker stumbled, caught himself, and immediately tripped over a loose floorboard because Bianca had—apparently unconsciously—kicked it into his path.
She didn't remember doing that.
She also didn't remember untwisting her own restraints, but somehow, her hands were free.
"We're leaving," Tim said, and his voice was almost normal now. Almost. There was still something underneath—something dark and simmering and possessive in a way that made Bianca's vampire half sit up and pay attention.
She opened her mouth to say something—anything—that would restore equilibrium.
What came out was: "That was hot."
Tim froze.
The Joker froze.
The entire Batfamily, listening through comms, froze.
"...What," Tim said, in a voice that was suddenly very high.
Bianca's brain caught up with her mouth approximately four seconds too late.
"I—" She closed her eyes. Took a breath. Opened them again. "We're never discussing this. Ever. You heard nothing. I said nothing."
"You said 'that was hot,'" Tim repeated, and his voice was climbing steadily toward a register usually reserved for teenage boys and certain species of birds.
"I said nothing."
"You definitely—"
"TIMOTHY."
He closed his mouth.
Bianca turned, very deliberately—and walked toward the exit. Her heels clicked against the concrete. Her posture was perfect. Her expression was completely blank.
Inside, she was screaming.
The Joker, forgotten on the floor, watched them go with an expression of absolute bewilderment.
"Did—did I win?" he asked the empty room.
The Batfamily dropped from the rafters.
No one answered him.
---
Ten minutes later, on a rooftop two blocks away:
"You broke the chains," Jason said, staring at Tim like he'd grown a second head.
"I was motivated," Tim replied, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.
"Motivated? You sounded like Bruce. Like, scary Bruce. The Bruce that made me afraid of commitment."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You said 'I dare you to repeat that' and the Joker backed down."
"The Joker backed down because Bianca was about to kill him with her brain."
"I was not," Bianca said, still not looking at anyone.
"You absolutely were." Tim glanced at her—just a glance, quick and almost shy. "Your left eye was twitching."
"That's a tic."
"It's your 'I'm planning someone's death' tic."
"I don't have a—" She stopped. Sighed. "We're not discussing this."
"Oh, we're absolutely discussing this," Stephanie said, appearing between them with a grin that could power a small city. "Bianca said 'that was hot.' Bianca. Who never shows emotion. Who is literally half-vampire and probably has extra emotional control. She said—"
"I will end you, Stephanie."
"—'that was hot,' in response to Tim doing his best Batman impression—"
"It was not a Batman impression."
"It was exactly a Batman impression."
"It was better than a Batman impression," Damian muttered, and then immediately looked horrified at himself.
Tim's head snapped toward the youngest Robin. "Did you just—"
"No."
"You did."
"I said nothing. I am leaving." Damian turned on his heel and stalked toward the edge of the roof. "This family is insufferable."
"No one's stopping you," Jason called after him.
"Don't test me, Todd."
---
Later...
Much later, after the reports were filed and the Batfamily had dispersed—Tim found Bianca standing on the penthouse balcony, staring at the city lights.
He didn't say anything at first.
Just stood beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
"The Joker's in Arkham," he finally said. "Maximum security. They're keeping him sedated for the next forty-eight hours."
"Good."
"And I... I'm sorry. For what he said. I should have—"
"You broke steel restraints, Tim." Bianca turned to look at him, and her eyes, those impossible star-flecked eyes were softer than he'd ever seen them. "With your hands. Because he made a crude joke about me."
"I was angry."
"You were magnificent."
Tim's breath caught.
Bianca seemed to realize what she'd said. Her composure flickered, just for a moment, and then smoothed over.
"That's—" She cleared her throat. "That's a tactical observation. Not a personal one."
"It sounded personal."
"It wasn't."
"Bianca."
She closed her eyes.
"Tim."
"I broke chains for you."
"You broke chains because you're ridiculously overqualified for the vigilante lifestyle."
"I broke chains because I couldn't stand the thought of him touching you."
Bianca opened her eyes.
The city lights reflected in her pupils like trapped stars.
"...We're still not discussing this," she said.
Tim smiled—small, soft, real.
"Okay," he said. "We're not discussing this."
They stood in comfortable silence for a long moment.
Then Bianca said, very quietly: "But if we were discussing it."
"Yes?"
"That voice." She paused. "Do it again."
Tim choked.
Bianca's lips twitched—almost a smile—and she turned back to the city skyline.
Behind her, Tim Drake—Red Robin, the smartest person in any room, the man who had just intimidated the Joker—stood frozen on the balcony, face red, heart pounding, wondering when exactly his life had become this.
From somewhere inside the penthouse, Endgame—Bianca's AI system—played a soft, synthesized sound.
It took Tim a moment to recognize it.
The Price is Right failure noise.
"...I'm turning you off," Bianca called toward the window.
"I am simply providing ambiance," Endgame replied, in a voice that was definitely programmed to sound smug.
Tim laughed—loud and genuine and helpless.
And when Bianca looked at him again, eyes bright and expression almost warm—
He thought maybe breaking those chains had been worth it.
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