Chapter Text
The first time you meet the infamous Batman of Gotham City, he’s attempting to cram himself out through a tiny window in the empty GCPD break room right as you walk in at two AM to grab some coffee to power your way through the rest of your night shift.
“Um,” you say dumbly and he twists around awkwardly to face you, his eyes narrowed behind his mask as they drop to your badge and scan your name briefly.
“You’re new,” he says after a moment.
“Yeah, I transferred from Blüdhaven last month.” You inch warily over to the counter, keenly aware of how he tracks your movement with the slightest swivel of his head. He seems marginally more at ease, at least, even if his lower half is still dangling out the window and onto the fire escape. “Coffee?” you offer, not sure what else to say.
He blinks slowly once, then twice, but doesn’t answer.
“It’s been a long night,” you add, wondering why you’re still talking. “I’ll even put it in a to-go cup for you.”
He continues to stare at you blankly as you reach for a styrofoam cup and a plastic lid. You’re forced to tear your eyes away from him so that you can pour coffee from the pot into the cup.
“It’s not exactly Starbucks, but it-” You break off when you look back up and find no one in the window; he must have wriggled out onto the fire escape and melted into the shadows beyond it. “-does the job,” you finish wryly, half-wishing you’d thought to ask him how he takes his coffee before he’d vanished.
Impulsively, you decide to pour in a splash of creamer and two sugars, mixing them into the coffee before snapping on the plastic lid and carefully placing it on the windowsill.
“Be careful out there,” you say into the night before turning to get yourself the cup of coffee you had originally entered the break room for.
“Who are you talking to, Detective?” Lieutenant Gordon - “just Jim, please” - enters the room, casting a wary glance around the empty room over the rim of his black-framed glasses.
“Did you know Batman just runs off to the nearest window and squeezes himself out when he does that disappearing trick you told me about?” You crack a grin as you make your coffee and then pour out another cup for your superior officer, who snorts with laughter.
“So that’s how he does it. Well, good to know you two have met - it probably won’t be the last time you see him.” He claps your shoulder before turning to leave the break room with his coffee.
As an afterthought, you glance back at the window only to find that the coffee cup you had left on the sill is gone. You find your mouth twitching into a smile that you can’t quite stop, hiding it behind a sip of coffee as you slip out of the break room.
The second time you meet Batman, you’re kneeling on the carpeted floor of the mayor’s house in front of his newly bereaved wife and son on the couch. It’s not the first time you’ve had to comfort a grieving family in your line of work, and as long as you work in Gotham, you don’t think it’ll be the last.
“We’re going to do everything we can to catch whoever did this,” you reassure Lydia Mitchell even as she sniffles and dabs at her streaming eyes with a handkerchief.
The boy tucked into her side is silent and ominously still. He’d been the one to discover his father’s body, and if you’re being honest, you hadn’t needed Jim to tell you that; it’s written in every line on the kid’s young face.
“Hey,” you greet him, keeping your voice low and soft to avoid spooking him. “It’s Jamie, right?”
He blinks slowly once, then twice - you can’t help but think you’ve seen that haunted look before - and then nods.
“That’s a nice name.” You try for a smile, but he doesn’t return it.
“Promise you’ll get him?” His little jaw is tight, his eyes dark in a way they really shouldn’t be for someone so small.
“I promise.” You hold out one pinky and he hooks his own pinky finger around yours. “I have to get back to work,” you add to Lydia apologetically, “But if you need anything, just ask for me by name, okay?”
“Thank you,” she says feebly, her voice cracking, and you briefly squeeze her hand before climbing to your feet.
When you turn to leave, Batman is standing there as if he always has been, cutting an imposing figure as he lingers in the doorway. For a moment, you wonder if he’s looking at you - likely trying to place where he’s seen you before - but belatedly, you realize he’s staring at Jamie Mitchell instead. Jamie turns and stares right back at him with red-rimmed, damp eyes, and you decide not to get involved in their strange contest, instead inching your way past Batman’s looming figure and into the hallway.
“Doing your own investigation?” you ask quietly to avoid Jamie and Lydia overhearing and he dips his masked head in a brief nod. “Find anything useful?”
“Remains to be seen,” he answers ominously.
“It must be exhausting being so cryptic all the time,” you muse and catch the barest upward twitch of his lips before they smooth back out into a straight line, his expression all business once more.
“Talk to Gordon - he’ll catch you up to speed.”
“Guess I will.” You turn toward the crime scene - the mayor’s office at the end of the hallway.
Batman catches you before you can get too far, the leather of his glove creaking as his fingers close around your wrist, and you jolt, startled, as you wheel around to face him.
“What?” It comes out sharper than you’d intended in your surprise, and you wince inwardly.
“Sorry,” he says hastily, releasing your wrist just as quickly as he had grabbed it. “I just - thanks for the coffee. The other night, I mean.”
“Oh,” you say bemusedly as it takes a moment for his words to register, but when they do, you manage a tiny smile back up at him. “Uh, sure. Anytime.”
“Talk to Gordon,” he repeats meaningfully and then disappears down the hall, his cape billowing dramatically behind him as he goes.
The first - technically second - time you meet Bruce Wayne is at Mayor Mitchell’s funeral.
You don’t even realize he’s there at first, but then right as Jim drops the bombshell on you and your fellow officers that District Attorney Gil Colson is missing, Officer Martinez catches sight of him and greets him cheerfully, “Hey, Mr. Wayne!”
You glance over your shoulder just in time to see Mr. Wayne grimace, shrinking in on himself and turning away slightly, and despite all indications that he doesn’t want to speak to anyone, you break away from your colleagues to cross over to him.
“You look like you don’t want to be here,” you point out.
“I don’t.” He’s soft-spoken, to your surprise; you’d have assumed social elites like him would be boisterous and outgoing, but he looks and sounds like he would rather have the earth swallow him whole than interact with anyone.
"Then why are you here?” you press, bewildered.
He shrugs uncomfortably, the movement tugging at what you assume are broad shoulders hidden beneath a loose-fitting suit jacket that makes him look more scrawny than he actually is.
“Felt like I had to be.” He hesitates. “I, uh - I don’t know how to ask this without sounding rude, Detective-”
“-but why am I talking to you?” you guess and he winces like you’ve slapped him across the face.
“Yeah.” In the pale lighting of the church, the dark circles beneath his eyes stand out more, making him look gaunt and exhausted, and you wonder what on Earth could worry billionaire Bruce Wayne enough to keep him up at night.
“I grew up in your old house,” you admit and he blinks slowly once, then twice as his eyebrows climb on his forehead. “The orphanage,” you clarify. “The one your family donated.”
“Oh.” His confusion doesn’t quite dissipate, but he at least looks a little less like he wants to escape the conversation.
“I just - it meant a lot to me and - I don’t know - I figured I had to say something,” you add, feeling more and more ridiculous by the second.
Mr. Wayne opens his mouth to say something, but then you’re both distracted by a tug on your sleeve. You glance down to find Jamie Mitchell at your side, his eyes large and bright in a way you haven’t seen them since you’d first met him on the night of his father’s murder.
“Sit with me and my mom?” he asks hopefully.
“Sure,” you agree, startled. “As long as it’s okay with her.”
“She said it was,” he confirms. Belatedly, he seems to realize you’d been talking to someone and plasters himself to your side, peering up at Mr. Wayne anxiously.
“I should, uh-” You gesture vaguely to where Lydia Mitchell is sitting in the front row, dabbing at her eyes carefully with a tissue, but Mr. Wayne doesn’t acknowledge you, his gaze fixed on the child at your side intently. You clear your throat to get his attention and his dark blue eyes flick up to you again, visibly guilty that you’ve caught his distraction. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Wayne.”
“You, too.” He hesitates before shaking your outstretched hand.
“Come on, Jamie,” you say to the boy clinging to your other arm. “Let’s get you back to your mom.”
You’re keenly aware of Mr. Wayne’s gaze on the back of your head as you lead Jamie back to the front row, but thankfully, Lydia distracts you when you reach her, smiling weakly as she gets to her feet.
“It’s good to see you again, Detective.”
“You, too, ma’am.” You shake her hand as Jamie releases your arm to rejoin his mother. “Hope you’re both holding up okay.”
“We are,” Lydia confirms, her arm sliding around her son’s shoulders to squeeze him close briefly. “Was that Bruce Wayne you were talking to?”
“Yeah.” You blink, bemused. “Why?”
“No reason,” she dismisses, though she still glances warily over your shoulder at the billionaire behind you. You chance a peek over your shoulder as well to find that his attention has turned away again, his eyes roaming over the crowd. “It’s just that he’s a bit of a hermit - you rarely see him in public.”
“I don’t blame him,” you muse partly to yourself. “I wouldn’t want so much attention on me all the time, either.”
As if he had overheard you, his gaze snaps back to you, and you quickly turn back to Lydia and Jamie to pretend you hadn’t been looking. Your phone rings abruptly in your pocket and you pull it out to glance briefly at the caller ID - Noah - before sending the call to voicemail with a swipe of your thumb; you’re not about to answer a call from your ex-boyfriend when the mayor’s funeral is about to start.
“Who was that?” Lydia asks as you pocket your phone.
“Personal call,” you dismiss. “Not important.”
Your phone rings with another call from Noah and you send him to voicemail once more, flicking your thumbnail against the side of your phone to put it on silent mode so that you won’t be interrupted again.
“Maybe you should take it,” Lydia offers and you shake your head.
“Trust me, it can wait. Come on, we should take our seats.” As you usher her and Jamie to their seats, you catch sight of the crowd turning behind you, their attention on the doorway to the church. The sound of an engine revving echoes through the large hall and before you know it, Jamie is nudging past you so that he’s in the main aisle.
“Jamie, get back here,” Lydia calls, but he ignores her, standing on his toes and peering down the aisle toward the source of the noise.
“I’ll get him,” you reassure her, but even as you step forward, an SUV crashes through the glass door as the crowd screams and scatters, roaring down the aisle.
You jump for Jamie at the same time Bruce Wayne does, and the three of you roll to a halt in a mess of tangled limbs amidst the fallen chairs as the SUV slams into the stairs leading up to the casket and finally stops.
“You okay, Jamie?” you gasp, winded as you scramble to check the boy for any injuries first.
“Y-Yeah,” he manages to stammer, eyes wide with shock.
“Go find your mom and stay with her.” As he hurries to obey your order, you turn to Mr. Wayne. “Are you okay?”
His gaze tears away from the crowd on the upper balcony - what was he looking at up there? - and focuses back on you.
“What?”
“You’re bleeding.” You reach out before you can stop yourself, thumbing at the fresh scrape on his jaw where it had likely hit the ground, and he jerks away from your touch like it burns him. “Sorry,” you apologize quickly. “Thanks for, uh-” You gesture vaguely to the wrecked car behind the two of you.
“Don’t mention it.” He pushes himself to his feet and holds out a hand to help you up.
“You’re gonna want to stand clear,” you say, taking his hand and allowing him to pull you up, and when he blinks bemusedly at you, you jerk your chin to gesture silently behind him. He glances over his shoulder and quickly steps out of the aisle as a swarm of your fellow police officers converges on the car wreckage, guns drawn.
“Get out of the car!” one of the officers at the front of the crowd shouts, but there is no movement from the car.
You fall into step beside Jim when you see him in the group of officers, pulling your own gun out of your holster and aiming it carefully while keeping the safety on; you don’t want to actually shoot, if it comes down to that.
“You good?” he mutters to you.
“Yeah. The family’s safe,” you add under your breath. “Though I’m not sure they were the target.”
“We’ll see about that,” he says grimly as the dented door on the driver’s side opens slowly at last, a trembling hand extending out in surrender.
“Holy shit, it’s Colson,” you breathe when you recognize the bruised, battered man climbing shakily out of the vehicle, his mouth duct-taped shut.
“There’s a bomb around his neck!” someone in the crowd behind you screams and chaos erupts around you as several officers branch off to begin evacuation efforts.
An abrupt ringing cuts through the noise and everyone screams and ducks. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice that only Bruce Wayne seems to keep his cool, his gaze dark and fixed on Colson like you and your fellow officers.
Colson gestures frantically to his lifted right hand with his duct-taped head and you see what no one else seems to have noticed in the commotion - a phone ringing with an incoming call.
“Jim,” you hiss to your superior officer to get his attention, nodding to the phone, but he’s already seen something else.
“Look at the note on his chest,” he tells you, and your stomach drops when you see what it says.
To the Batman.
The third time you meet the Batman, he’s prone on the table of the interrogation room in the GCPD, where several officers have transported him after Colson had quite literally blown up in front of him and knocked him unconscious.
“What’s that mask made of, leather?” one of the officers closest to the unconscious man mutters.
“What’s that shit around his eyes?”
“Who cares? I wanna see his face.”
“What are we doing here? Let’s just take it off.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t-” you try feebly to intervene, but before you can, Batman jolts awake, flinging out an arm to grab the wrist of the officer who had tried to reach for his mask.
The interrogation room erupts into pandemonium as the others try to restrain him, but he rolls off the table and lands shakily on the floor before they can, wild-eyed and breathing hard. You manage to get to him before the others do, catching his raised fists quickly before he can throw a punch. He freezes when he recognizes you, his chest still heaving with residual adrenaline as he allows you to lower your joined hands.
“You’re okay,” you say - more to will it into existence than because you actually believe it - and he nods slowly, confirming it.
“Hey! Hey, relax!” Jim shouts as he pushes his way between the two of you and the surrounding officers. “Relax, god damn it!”
“The hell are you two protecting this guy for?” you hear Chief Bock snap at Jim behind you. “He interfered in an active hostage situation. Colson’s blood is on his hands.”
“Maybe it’s on yours,” Batman rasps, his dark eyes fixed on Bock over your head, and you squeeze his gloved fists in a silent warning even as the crowd roils behind you at the accusation. “He would rather die than talk. What was he afraid of? You?”
“Out of the way, girl,” Bock spits at your back and you glance warily over your shoulder at him, but reluctantly release Batman’s hands and step out of the way when Jim places a hand on your shoulder and tugs on it gently. “You son of a bitch,” Bock snarls at Batman. “You have any idea what kind of trouble you’re in? You could be an accessory to murder.”
“Why are we playing games-?” one officer snaps irritably, reaching for one of the pointed ears of Batman’s mask, but he whirls around sharply and punches the other man hard enough to knock him back, which causes the room to devolve into bedlam again as several other cops rush him. He throws two of the officers bodily across the room before Jim manages to plant himself between Batman and the rest of the officers once more.
“Back off!” he shouts, silencing everyone again.
“Great, now I got you on assaulting an officer,” Bock sneers.
“You got me on assaulting three,” Batman retorts, but Jim whirls on him this time, slamming him into the window.
“What’s the matter with you?” he barks. “This isn’t the way to do this!”
Batman blinks at him, startled. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him this wounded before.
“You too, now?” he accuses quietly enough that you almost don’t hear him.
“Give me a minute with him, Chief,” Jim says sharply over his shoulder.
“You’re gonna put yourself on the line for this scumbag, Jim?” Bock demands.
“I’ll get him to cooperate, just give me a minute,” Jim insists. “Her, too.” He jerks his head in your direction to your surprise, and even Batman blinks bemusedly at you for a moment before his gaze returns to Jim.
Bock is silent for a long moment before sighing heavily through his nose.
“Alright, give them the room. Two minutes.”
Jim steps back from Batman as the officers file out slowly and eventually, the door clicks shut behind you.
“The glass is thin, so we’re gonna have to talk low,” Jim informs you under his breath before he promptly turns around and slams his fist into Batman’s chest. To his credit, the vigilante doesn’t even flinch. “You listen to me,” Jim says more loudly for the officers lingering on the other side of the door before lowering his voice again, barely moving his lips as he adds quietly, “We gotta get you out of here.”
“The break room’s probably crowded now,” you add in a whisper, glad that you’re facing away from the door so that no one can read your lips. “Can’t use your usual ‘disappearing’ trick.”
“That was only one time,” Batman grumbles, visibly disgruntled, and you bite back a smile. “It’s gonna put a lot of heat on both of you, you know.”
“Well, you punched me in the face,” Jim offers an excuse dryly. “And the good detective over there panicked and went to check on me instead of going after you.”
“I don’t panic,” you huff and wonder if it’s only because you’ve seen Batman smile once before that you recognize the tiny upward twitch of his lips now for what it is.
“You do today,” Jim retorts in your direction. “Here, take this key.” He disguises slipping the key to Batman beneath a well-timed flap of Batman’s cape. “Through that door, down the hallway, there’s a set of stairs that go to the roof.”
“The hell is going on in there?” someone complains outside.
“We don’t have much time,” you warn.
“Who’s the mustache with a broken nose?” Batman demands suddenly.
“That’s Kenzie - narcotics,” Jim supplies. You disguise your peek over your shoulder by pretending to roll your neck, catching a brief glimpse of the gray-haired detective with a plaster over the bridge of his nose.
“He’s one of the guys I got into it with at the Iceberg Lounge,” Batman mutters.
“Don’t tell me you were the one who broke his nose,” you blurt out before you can quite stop yourself in time and he simply tilts his head in your direction. You bite the inside of your cheek again to stifle a snort of laughter in time at the silent confirmation before the implication registers in your tired brain. “Wait, Kenzie’s dirty?”
It’s not a surprise to you anymore - more than half of Gotham and even Blüdhaven’s police forces are corrupt - but it still stings like a needle to your heart each time the realization strikes you.
“Either he moonlights for the Penguin-” Jim says slowly.
“Or he moonlights as a cop,” Batman deadpans, turning to pin Kenzie with a pointed stare. You follow his gaze and find Kenzie shifting subtly with discomfort on the other side of the glass door when he recognizes the vigilante inside. “Start panicking, Detective,” Batman adds dryly and you whirl around, startled, just in time to see him punch Jim across the face.
“Jim!” You dart to your superior officer’s side, dropping to your knees next to him even as Batman unlocks the back door and makes his escape. Officers flood into the room, storming past you even as Batman slams the door shut again before taking off down the hallway.
“He really didn’t pull that punch,” Jim mutters so that only you can hear him over the noise surrounding both of you, rubbing his jaw ruefully as he sits up beside you.
“Looked to me like he did, actually.” You grin briefly before arranging your expression back into a concerned one as you stand and help him to his feet.
Every single muscle of your body aches when you drag yourself through your apartment door an hour later, closing and locking it behind you before reaching for your gun automatically to remove it from its holster so that you can place it on your coffee table in the living room. Your fingers brush an empty holster and you grimace when you remember that your badge and gun are currently suspended, thanks to Chief Bock’s disgruntlement following your lackluster response to Batman’s escape.
“Maybe that’ll teach you to think twice when a suspect escapes instead of panicking,” he had sneered at you as you had handed them over, wincing inwardly the whole time.
Shaking yourself back to the present, you kick off your boots and flip on the hallway light, forcing your lips to clamp down on a scream before it can escape your throat when you realize Batman is sprawled out on your couch.
“Christ,” you breathe as your heart rate slows back to a reasonable rate, clutching the wall as if it will give you more strength. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“Sorry,” he rasps.
“How did you know where I lived?” you demand and he opens his mouth to answer, but you quickly hold up a hand to stop him. “Wait, don’t answer, I don’t want to know. What are you even doing here?”
“I-” He pushes himself upright, wincing and curling in on himself, and you realize he’s clutching his side as if bracing it. “I got injured while escaping the station. Your place was closer than anywhere else I could’ve gone.” He shakes his head as he pushes himself to his feet, grimacing in pain as he does. “Forget it, I’ll just go-”
“No, no, sit down,” you hurry to stop him, waving him back toward the couch. “I’m not kicking you out when you’re hurt. Hang on, let me get the first-aid kit and I’ll be right back.”
“I’m sorry you got suspended,” he says to your retreating back as you head down the hallway.
“How’d you know I got suspended?” you shoot over your shoulder as you open the cabinet below your bathroom sink, retrieving the box of first-aid supplies and kicking the door shut again.
“Your badge and gun are gone,” he answers frankly. “What happened?”
“The chief was pissed that you got away. He’s already put out an APB on you, for the record,” you admit as you return to the living room, setting the first-aid kit on the coffee table and opening it. “He couldn’t pin anything on Gordon, but his excuse for me is that my first priority should’ve been apprehending the suspect over helping a fellow officer, so-” You gesture feebly to the empty spot on your lapel where your badge should have been. “Suspension. It’s fine - Jim’s already going to bat for me.”
Batman ignores your unintended pun - much to your relief - and instead watches you unpack the first-aid kit, his head tilted slightly.
“You don’t even know what’s wrong with me yet. Why are you bringing out everything?”
“Doesn’t hurt to be prepared.” You set down a roll of gauze before nodding to him. “Alright, you’re gonna have to take at least some of that armor off if you want me to help. Any head injuries?”
“No,” he answers a little too quickly even as he moves to strip off his gloves first - revealing broad palms and pale fingers that you force yourself not to stare at - and begins unbuckling the armor surrounding his torso.
“I’m not gonna take the mask off without your consent,” you sigh long-sufferingly. “But if you’re hurt under there-”
“I’m not,” he insists, but something in his tone seems to have softened. “Really.”
Up close, the only visible injury you can see on his face is a half-healed scrape on his jaw - which stirs a stray thought at the back of your mind that you decide to ignore for now - so you concede the point with a wordless shrug. When the armor falls away from his torso, though, you can’t help but wrinkle your nose sympathetically.
“That bad, huh?” He sounds faintly amused even though his mouth doesn’t curve into the almost-invisible smile you’ve come to expect from him.
“I didn’t say anything,” you protest.
“You didn’t have to.” He glances self-consciously down at the mess of black and blue splotches across his abdomen and chest. “I, uh - may have hit the top of a bus on my way down from the roof.”
“God damn.” You huff an incredulous laugh as you prod tentatively at a bruise closer to his hip. “You’re lucky to be alive right now.”
He hums noncommittally, watching you pick up an antiseptic wipe and tear it open before hissing slightly when you dab it over a shallow laceration.
“Sorry,” you apologize and he shakes his head.
“‘S okay.” To his credit, he remains silent through the rest of your ministrations as you patch up the few stray cuts and scrapes you find across his torso, only gritting his teeth wordlessly when your fingers find two broken ribs, and you set to work wrapping up his abdomen so that the ribs are secured.
“I would tell you to stay off the streets for a little while until your ribs heal,” you say wryly once you tie off the gauze, “But something tells me you won’t listen to me.”
“Why would you say that?” he says, having the audacity to sound offended.
You’re half-tempted to reach under his mask and tug on a lock of his hair - whatever color it is - but instead, you pinch the inside of his muscular forearm and take a little sadistic delight in how he jolts slightly before his eyes - smeared with black makeup to blend in better with the mask, you realize - narrow down at you.
“Can I at least convince you to stay the night so that you’re not wandering around this badly injured?” you press.
He hesitates before dipping his head in a brief nod, to your relief.
“As long as it won’t be a problem.”
You shake your head to dismiss his concern. “Not at all. I think I still have some of my ex’s clothes and you two are probably the same size, so you can borrow some of those to sleep in.”
“You have an ex?” he asks, and you wonder if he’s raising an eyebrow behind the mask.
“Don’t sound so shocked, I’m sure plenty of women tend to acquire one of those at some point,” you say dryly as you pack away the remaining first-aid supplies and climb to your feet. “I was already planning to move here, but our admittedly messy breakup was the final push I needed to actually go through with it.”
“And the clothes?” Batman presses as he climbs gingerly to his feet.
“A few of his things got mixed into mine in the mess of moving and I haven’t bothered separating them out yet.” You snap the box of supplies shut. “Bedroom’s down the hall, first door on the right, and the bathroom’s right across. Clothes should be on the right side of the closet, help yourself to any of them.”
“Thank you.” He limps down the hallway and vanishes into the bedroom in search of Noah’s clothes.
Suddenly remembering that your phone is still on silent mode, you dig it out of your pocket only to find five missed phone calls from Noah and three voicemails. Assuming he’d seen the news about the crashed funeral, you send him a quick text - I’m fine, please stop calling me - and then block his number for good measure.
“You okay?” When you look up, you’re forced to bite your lip hard so that you don’t laugh at the sight of Batman still wearing his mask, but otherwise clad in a faded black Nirvana T-shirt and black sweatpants. You’d been right; Noah’s clothes fit him almost perfectly, and if the shirt is a little tight around his broad shoulders, you’re not going to say anything.
“Yeah, I’m good.” You pocket your phone again. “Are you hungry?” He shakes his head. “Well, too bad, because I am, and I have leftover mac and cheese.”
You head for the kitchen, pulling out a Tupperware container and setting it on the counter before scraping the leftover pasta into two bowls; you have an inkling Batman will change his mind by the time the bowls reach the wooden kitchen table.
Sure enough, by the time you pull the second steaming bowl out of the microwave, he’s inched across the threshold into the kitchen, his gaze darting warily between the other bowl on the table and you.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, just eat it,” you sigh heavily. “It’s not poisoned.”
Grudgingly, he sinks into the empty chair at the table and accepts the fork you hand him before taking a bite of macaroni.
“‘S good,” he concedes.
“Thanks. I’d lie and say it’s an ancient family recipe, but it’s just Food Network.” You sit across from him before taking a bite of your own very late dinner. “Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but as a cop, I have to ask. Why all of…this?” You gesture vaguely to his head.
He blinks, taken aback by your abrupt line of questioning, before shrugging one shoulder.
“Needed a disguise.”
“You know perfectly well that wasn’t what I was asking,” you inform him wryly. “What you’re doing is insanely dangerous. Why do it at all?”
“Because this city is corrupt on a fundamental level.” He takes another bite of macaroni. “And someone has to do something.”
“And that something is vengeance,” you say bemusedly as you swallow a forkful of your own meal.
“You make it sound stupid,” he mutters irritably, but you can see the tell-tale signs of his lips twitching upward slightly with amusement.
“It is stupid,” you inform him dryly. “You, sir, are a walking disaster.” His mouth thins back out into an unamused line, making you grin despite yourself as you add, “I’m sorry, but between the mask and my ex’s Nirvana shirt, you can see my point.”
Batman glances down at his choice of shirt somewhat self-consciously and then back up at you, head tilting slightly.
“Is there a story there?”
“What, me and Noah?” You shrug. “Not much of one. I got promoted to detective and wanted to come back to my hometown, and he thought I was making a bad decision. Unpleasant words were exchanged - mostly from his side - so I packed up and left.”
“Men are trash,” Batman says in a complete deadpan and you snort with laughter before you can stop yourself.
“Well, maybe not all of them - some go around fighting crime dressed as a giant bat.” You nudge his ankle with your socked toes beneath the table.
“Eat your pasta,” he grumbles, but you don’t miss the small smile that he utterly fails to hide behind a bite of his own food.