Chapter Text
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fukGbiPuBjU
Bruce Wayne| The Dark Knight
The streets of Gotham were a blur of neon and chaos as the Joker and Harley Quinn tore through the city in their signature ride—a dark purple vehicle streaked with white and lime green highlights. Laughter echoed through the night, Harley's excited shouts ringing out from the passenger window while Joker's blood-red grin stretched wide, mirroring the wicked smile painted on the car's grill.
Traffic screeched to a halt as the manic duo careened through intersections, running red lights without a second thought, causing drivers to swerve or slam on their brakes.
Then came the hunter in the darkness. A sleek black batcycle cut through the chaos, weaving through the abandoned lanes with unrelenting precision. Gotham's silent guardian was in pursuit, his cape billowing behind him as he closed in on his prey.
The Joker's emerald eyes, matching the wild green of his hair, gleamed with delight as he caught sight of the Dark Knight closing in. With a sharp crackle, he slammed his foot on the gas, the engine roaring as the car surged forward. Twisting the steering wheel with manic enthusiasm, he veered wildly through the streets.
"Well, well, lookie here! Batsy decided to come out and play!" he purred, his voice dripping with amusement. Another laugh rumbled from his lips as he ran yet another red light before yanking the wheel, sending the car screeching into a narrow path lined with startled pedestrians. The Joker always did love an audience.
"Should I throw some of the toy puddin'?" Harley chirped, already reaching beneath her seat. Her fingers closed around an assortment of explosive playthings—chattering teeth, toy bears, and wind-up soldiers rigged to detonate on impact. Holding up a pair of oversized teeth, she grinned as they clacked together, emitting a soft hiss. "They're just dying to take a bite outta of batsy!" She grins, ready to unfold the chaos.
The Caped Crusader stayed locked in pursuit; his sharp gaze fixed on the fleeing vehicle as he pushed the batcycle to gain ground. His grip tightened around the handlebars, knuckles flexing beneath his gloves. When Joker took another sharp turn, Batman followed in sync, maneuvering the bike with practical ease as the chase spilled onto a sidewalk crowded with startled pedestrians.
From his vantage point, he caught sight of Harley reaching beneath her seat. Weapons.
Just as he surged forwards to close the gap, an abrupt blast of music erupted from the batcycle's speakers, nearly making him skid to a halt. His jaw clenched as he quickly regained control, expertly steering through the chaos.
The damn radio.
Ever since Jason had crashed the bike two months ago, the radio had developed a mind of its own, blaring at random intervals. Bruce had tried fixing it himself, then sent it to Lucius Fox for repairs. The verdict? A delicate system barely held together—one that would act up if he applied too much pressure to the handlebars.
As of right now, with the chase intensifying, that was exactly what he was doing.
"I wanna be your vacuum cleaner
Breathing in your dust
I wanna be your Ford Cortina
I will never rust...
If you like your coffee hot
Let me be your coffee pot
You call the shots, babe
I just wanna be yours...,"
The song blared through the batcycle's speakers, the lyrics obnoxiously cutting through the roar of the chase. Batman grits his teeth, pushing the bike faster as he closed in the Joker's vehicle. From ahead, he could hear their muffled laughter, no doubt amused by the relentless pursuit—and now, the unexpected soundtrack accompanying it.
Bruce forced himself to ignore it, his jaw tightened. Some yearning love song he'd heard in passing, but not one he had patience for—especially not when it was blaring at full volume and unable to turn it off.
His gaze flickered briefly towards the sidewalk, where the thick crowd of Gotham residents had gathered, eyes wide with morbid fascination. They weren't Just watching the joker and his chaos.
They were watching him.
"If you like your coffee hot
Let me be your coffee pot
You call the shots, babe
I just wanna be yours...
Secrets I have held in my heart
Are harder to hide than I thought
Maybe I just wanna be yours
I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours...,"
Bruce pushed the batcycle harder, the engine roaring as he prepared to make his move. His muscles coiled, ready to leap upon the Joker's moving vehicle. Just before launching himself forwards, his gaze flickered one last time to the swelling crowd—another sea of faces enthralled by the spectacle.
Then, everything seemed to slow.
Behind the cowl, Bruce blinked. And in that fraction of a second, his eyes locked with a pair of [E/C] ones, standing out from the admits of the crowd.
Time stretched, the sounds of sirens and screeching tires fading into the background. His sharp mind instinctively memorized every detail—his [S/C] skin, the way the man's face is perfectly framed by his hair, the quiet intensity in their quiet gaze. But it was the expression that held him still. There was no morbid curiosity or thrill, no detached amusement, none of the usual Gotham fascination usually found in its civilians who would watch like some twisted primetime drama.
Instead, there was something raw. Something unspoken.
Curiosity.
And—Awe.
Not for the chaos. Not for the Joker theatrics.
For him.
"Wanna be yours
Wanna be yours
Wanna be yours,"
He should be focusing—on the chase, on the jump, on stopping the Joker before more chaos erupted. Yet for a fleeting moment, his mind lingered elsewhere. With a reluctant inhale, Bruce tore his gaze away, forcing himself back to the present. His muscles tensed, his focus sharping as he prepared to leap onto the Joker's speeding vehicle.
But the feeling remained the same.
A shiver, subtle yet undeniable, traced down his spine. The kind he'd felt before—when Selina's fingers ghosted over his skin, when desire curled unbidden in the depths of his chest.
But this time it, it hadn't come from a woman.
It had come from a man.
The realization was swift, electric, sinking into him even as he pushed it aside.
Bruce refocused. Steeled himself.
And without another thought, he leaped.
Richard Grayson| Nightwing
Penguin's goons had chosen the port of Blüdhaven for their operation, using the city's commercial docks as a discreet smuggling route. Weapons loaded, they drove in formation, engines growling as they pressed the gas, weaving through the dimly lit streets. Gotham's watchful eyes—Batman and the GCPD—would take longer to pick up the trail if they started across city lines. And for now, the streets of Blüdhaven were quiet, almost too quiet.
Then came the low, unmistakable hum of a pursuing engine.
The Nightcycle.
The roar of the bike cut through the silence like a blade, gaining on the truck with relentless precision. The moment they realized they were being followed, gunfire erupted in the darkness of Blüdhaven streets. Flashes flared from the back of the lead truck of Penguin's men leaned out, aiming at the dark figure tailing them.
Nightwing gritted his teeth, his grip firm as he weaved through the hail of bullets, his body moving instinctively with the bike. A hard turn here, a quick swerve there—fluid, untouchable. The city lights-streaked past in a blur, his focus locked on the truck.
He flicked his thumb over the button on the handlebar. A sharp metallic clank followed, then the hiss of tension.
The Nightcycle's grappling hook shot forward, embedding itself into the truck's rear. The line pulled, stabilizing the bike as Nightwing readied himself.
This chase is about to end.
Another button pressed as the bike is put into autopilot as Nightwing leaps onto the truck easily, pulling himself up onto the top as he stabled himself as he walked on the roof of the truck. He could feel the vibrations of the vehicle moving, between the wind and the sound of the tires crunching on the blacktop, he could hear muffled talking until the window in front rolled down.
Music? in a car chase?
"Let me be your leccy meter
And I'll never run out
Let me be the portable heater
That you'll get cold without..."
What kind of cheesy song is this?
Dick wasn't exactly the best judge when it came to music—his own taste was questionable at best—but this? This was something else. A quick smirk tugged at his lips as he considered sending it to the family group chat just to see who would complain first.
Later.
Right now, he had bigger problems—like the goon leaning out of the passenger window, gun aimed right at him.
Dick barely had time to react before the first shot rang out. He flattened himself against the truck's roof, feeling the air shift as bullets whizzed past his face. Too close.
Then—the truck jerked into a sharp right turn.
"Great," He muttered as gravity took over.
His body slides dangerously towards the edge, but at the last second, he twisted, grabbing the truck's side with one hand. His back slammed against the metal, the impact knocking the breath out of him. Gritting his teeth, he adjusted his grip, his chest and stomach now pressed against the side of the truck. His free hand reached up, gripping the edge of the roof as he began to inch his way forwards, tensed for any sudden movement.
In the truck's side mirror, he caught a glimpse of himself—messy hair, narrowed eyes, the usual battle-ready expression.
Man, this used to be a lot easier back in Gotham. No wonder Bruce is a grouch most of the time.
The truck lurched again, veering onto a busier street—one lined with neon signs, storefronts, and Blüdhaven's nightlife in full swing. Pedestrians paused mid-step, eyes widening as they caught sight of the chase unfolding before them. Some gasped, others scrambled out of the way, and—because it was Blüdhaven—more than a few pulled out their phones, snapping photos and recording videos.
Dick gritted his teeth, still clinging to the truck's side.
At this speed, the highway towards Gotham was at least fifty minutes away, but with the way the driver was pushing the gas, they might shave time off that and possibly crash into cars or civilians. The roar of the engine echoed down the street, drowning out the muted hum of music playing from inside the truck, barely audible beneath the barking of orders from the driver.
He didn't have time to focus on that.
"I wanna be your setting lotion (wanna be)
Hold your hair in deep devotion (How deep?)
At least as deep as the Pacific Ocean
Now I wanna be yours..."
With an exhale, Dick prepared himself to ram himself through the driver side door, take control and end this. Adrenaline surged through his veins; every muscle primed for action. The city blurred around him, fading into the background noise of honking cars, muffled orders and the damn cheesy song.
For some reason he looked.
The truck roared past the Cinema, its marquee glowing brightly, flashing "COMING SOON" and "NOW PLAYING" in shifting bright colors. Beneath the overhang, a crowd had gathered, watching the chase unfold like it was a part of the evening's entertainment. Most faces in the crowd blurred together—gawking, recording, waiting for either a crash or a victory.
But one face stood out the most.
A man.
Not watching with morbid fascination or detached analysis. Not waiting for Nightwing to fail or for him to deal some brutal justice beatdown on the criminals.
Just watching.
Curiosity
Awe
Amazement
Their eyes locked and everything around Dick seem to blur for a moment or time slowed down.
For a fraction of a second, Dick forgot about the chase. Forgot the wind whipping past him, forgot the danger, forgot everything except the way his stomach twisted and flipped. A rush of something warm and dizzying shot through him, making his grip falter slightly. His hands clammy, his mouth suddenly dry.
A man gave him these tingles.
Holy Pride Month Batman.
What the hell was that?!
Dick's lips parted; heart thumping harder than before and not from the adrenaline.
He didn't know what felt more dangerous right now. The speeding truck.
Or this.
It was the same fluttering spark he'd felt before—the one Kori gave him, the one Barbara gave him, the one that had flickered with other women throughout his life. Passing flames. Moments of connection, of chemistry, of something real yet fleeting.
But this...?
This was different.
A man gave him these tingles.
And it felt good.
But right now, he can't afford to feel good, right now Dick should be smashing himself through the window of the truck.
Which he does, feet first then knees into the gun's chin.
Jason Todd| Red Hood
Jason had his own way of dealing with goons, lapdogs, and every scumbag in between. Tonight was no different. Perched on one of Gotham's many rooftops, he loomed over a handful of Black Mask's men. He hadn't been paying much attention to why they were here—stealing, plotting a heist, planning a hit—did it really matter? A bunch of lowlifes gathered in the dead of night never meant anything good.
Besides, this started with Bruce getting on his nerves. Another lecture, another argument, another reason Jason had to walk away, before he put his fist through the wall.
So here he was, taking it out on people.
"There he is!" One idiot shouted; gun already raised. "Get him!"
Jason exhales through his mask as a smirk grows on his lips.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Jason barely had to move as Black Mask's opened fire. He shifted his head just to avoid the worst of it, then darted towards the side of the building. In a single leap, he landed on the edge where the goons were, ducking behind an old, rusted A/C unit for cover.
He checked his ammo quickly, hands fumbled slightly as he saw the glaring problem.
Rubber bullets.
He let out a curse under his breath, barely holding back a growl of frustration. Jason had used rubber bullets before, usually as a compromise for Bruce and the others—but never on his own damn gun. This wasn't a training session. This wasn't a sparring match. It was basically a cheat day with bullets. He needed the real deal.
Goddamnit, fucking Bruce.
Jason did a double take, glaring at the rounds as if he could will them into real bullets. He'd used rubber rounds before—mostly to keep the old man and the rest of the Bats off his back—but this gun? His gun? This one was always locked and loaded with the real thing.
Another round of gunfire slammed into the A/C unit, forcing Jason to move. Gritting his teeth, he adjusted his grip on the gun.
Fine. Guess he has to get creative.
Jason adjusted his aim, the white glow of his helmet eyes narrowing as he fired off rubber rounds, each shot finding its mark. The satisfying sound of pained groans cut through the chaos, bodies staggering back from the force of his bullets.
A thug lunched at him—bad move. Jason twisted, slamming the butt of his pistol into the guy's jaw, the impact sending a sharp jolt through his arm. Another came at him, fist swinging. He pivoted smoothly, bringing his knee up in a brutal collision with the goon's chin. A sickening crack followed, and Jason wasted no time, using his shoulder to shove the dazed man into another who was rushing in.
Gunfire erupted again, forcing Jason into a roll. He used the dented A/C unit as a springboard, launching himself upward, twin pistols drawn. Mid-air, he lined up his shots—two, three, four—and each found its target with precision.
He landed hard, knuckles meeting another thug's face in a swift bone-rattling punch. Another crack. Another body dropping.
Rubber bullets or not, Jason still hits like a freight train.
Within moments, the henchmen were either groaning on the ground or lying motionless on the other side of the rooftop, some had taken the express route on the pavement below. If they thought sneaking up on Jason Todd was a good idea, they were paying for it now.
"Fuck you bastard!" One of the remaining goons spat, his nose still crooked from where Jason had rammed his shoulder into it earlier.
Jason barely had time to react after slamming his boot into another goon's stomach, feeling a harsh push from behind, turning as he falls off the building instinctively.
Shit
The world tilted, gravity yanking him down off the rooftop. He barely had time to react, to curse even before his back collided with the roof of a parked car.
CRASH
Pain shot through his spine like a live wire, his breath leaving him in a muffled groan through his helmet. His vision swam, static crackling at the edges of his mind as the car alarm sounded off, wailing in protest beneath him. Around him, civilians murmured, some watching in concern and others shaking their heads.
"Great, Red Hood's wrecking the city again."
"Think insurance covers falling vigilantes?"
Jason lays there sprawled on the crushed car, the distant hum of voices blending with the shrill wail of the alarm. His back throbbed, the impact rattling his bones, but it wasn't enough to keep him down. Not yet.
The radio inside crackled to life, cutting through the chaos with a low, smooth melody—
"Secrets I have held in my heart
Are harder to hide than I thought
Maybe I just wanna be yours
I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours...
He exhaled sharply, the song grounding him for a moment as he rolled off the ruined roof. His boots crunched against the shattered glass as he landed, straightening with a slight wince. Jason leaned against the car, his gloved fingers gripping the dented metal while he collected himself. Each inhale burned, his ribs protesting but the pain was familiar—manageable.
He pushed off the car, intent on climbing back up and finishing the job when something—or rather, someone—stopped him in his tracks.
Through the sea of bystanders, Jason's gaze landed on a man.
A normal man.
Not a masked thug, not another vigilante or some high-profile criminal, just—some guy. He stood at the edge of the crowd, seemingly on his way home from work or heading somewhere in the late Gotham night. There was nothing remarkable about him, nothing that should have caught Jason's attention.
And yet, Jason's heart stuttered.
A strange, unfamiliar tightness settled in his chest, spreading like a slow burn through his veins. His hands, used to griping triggers and throwing punches, suddenly felt unsteady. The world around him blurred, fading into the background noise of car alarms and distant mummers.
Jason wasn't sure why he couldn't look away.
Maybe it was the way the streetlights cast a soft glow on the man's face, or how his expression held something that wasn't fear or judgment—just quiet curiosity. Maybe it was something deeper, something Jason didn't have the words for.
All he knew was that, for the first time, something felt different.
And it terrified him.
"Wanna be yours
Wanna be yours
Wanna be yours
Wanna be yours..."
It's stupid, that's what it is. His heart shouldn't be stammering in his chest over some random civilian—some guy who has no business making him feel like a goddamn teenager. The rush of adrenaline from the fight should be dying down, but instead, his stomach is flipping in a way that has nothing to do with the fall he just took.
Jason's standing there, still aching from impact, but he barely feels it anymore.
Instead, he feels warm, an unfamiliar heat creeping up his neck beneath his helmet. It's ridiculous. It's unsettling.
It's nice.
The man noticed the stare that Jason was giving him, that Red Hood was giving him and blinks. He stared back curious and eyebrows raised on his face as Jason's heartbeat thundered under his ribs and made him lick his lower lip. But then the sound of shuffling above distracted Jason, snapping his head towards the sound to see the only henchmen left attempting to flee down the fire escape of the building that Jason was on.
Mask thug now, probably an ulcer exploding in his stomach that hopefully causing his behavior later.
Jason moved through the crowd, into the alleyway and after the last thug.
Tim Drake| Red Robin
Gotham is the city that never sleeps. Sleeping makes you vulnerable, and in this city, vulnerability gets you killed. Unless you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, real rest is a luxury few can afford. Tim used to have that luxury. Now, under Bruce Wayne's roof, living in the grandeur of Wayne Manor, he should feel safe. But safety is an illusion, and when sleep finally comes, his dreams twist into something darker—something clawing at the edges of his mind like a parasite.
Because once, Tim Drake wasn't just himself.
Once, he was JJ. Joker Junior.
He remembers the shocks, the way Harley Quinn twisted psychology into a weapon against him, playing doctor while the Joker laughed and laughed. He remembers being strapped down to cold metal, electricity screaming through his veins, stripping away who he was piece by piece. The desperation that Bruce would come save him, get him out of that hell that he catches glimpses of sometimes in nightmares, back on that metal slab.
Sometimes, in the mirror, he sees him.
A flash of green hair. Paper-white skin. A grin too wide, too manic, stretching across red-painted lips. And those eyes—wild, unhinged, looking right back at him.
It's been years since he clawed his way back to himself, since Bruce saved him, since he buried JJ deep inside where he couldn't crawl back out. But the memories still haunt him, lurking just beneath the surface. And instead of seeking therapy—Joker victim therapy, if that even existed—Tim does what he does best.
He drowns it out.
After several caffeinated drinks from the last hour preventing him from sleeping, Tim went on patrol. Caffeine in his veins, leaping across Gotham's roofs and where Crime alley swallows light. He moves on autopilot, every motion practiced, precise—until a scream slice through the night, sharp and raw.
Like that, he's awake.
Perched at the edge of Crime Alley, Tim peers down through his Red Robin mask, his gaze sharp and calculating. Below, shadows stretched long under the flickering streetlights, casting jagged shapes across the alley walls.
Two-face's men.
He spots them immediately, their split-colored attire unmistakable. A few of them clutch weapons—knives, bats, the usual tools of intimidation. The boyfriend, or maybe just some poor guy in the wrong place at the wrong time, is already down, clutching his face, groaning in pain. But it's the way the thugs leer at the woman beside him that makes Tim's stomach twist in disgust. He knows that look.
Predatory.
He moves before he can think, boots hitting the top of a rusted dumpster with a sharp clang that echoes through the alley. The sound is enough to snap their attention toward him, their grips tightening on their weapons, eyes narrowing.
Tim tilts his head slightly, voice even but edged. "What, bar close early tonight?"
Not his wittiest or snarkiest, but it doesn't matter. He's already moving.
Tim doesn't hesitate. The moment his boots connects with the thug's chin, then the sharp crack—bone meeting brutal collision. The man crumples instantly, metal pipe clattering on the pavement as he groans in pain.
Tim lands smoothly on the sidewalk, his presence now the only thing standing between the remaining thugs and their intended victims. The woman grips the stunned man's arm, dragging him back, away from the fight. Smart move.
They don't need to be told twice—just one glance at the Red Robin and they're bolting out of the alley, disappearing into the Gotham night.
Good. That just leaves just the scumbags.
Tim rolled his shoulders, his masked gaze sweeping over the remaining goons, sizing them up in seconds. Three left. One cracking his knuckles like that would scare him. Another gripping his switchblade, flicking it open with a lazy smirk. The last one, the biggest of the bunch, grins as he steps forward, metal bat within his grip and lips curling around yellowed teeth.
"We should skin the bird." One of them sneers.
Tim exhales, shifting into a ready stance, his expression unreadable beneath the mask.
"Try it," he challenges, already moving.
Tim moves like a shadow, quick and precise. The switchblade comes for him first, the thug slashing in a wild arc. Tim raises his forearm deflecting the attack effortlessly before twisting his wrist, knocking the knife clean from the man's grip. It skids across the pavement with a sharp scrape of metal against concrete. He barely has a second before the next attack comes—a metal bat swinging straight for his skull. Tim ducks, and the bat whiffs past him, continuing its trajectory—right into the knife thug's head with a sickening clang. The unlucky bastard crumples instantly, groaning as he hits the ground.
Tim doesn't waste the opportunity. His leg snaps up in a brutal kick to the bat-wielding thug's stomach. The impact sends the guy stumbling back, choking on air as he doubles over, the bat slipping from his grasp as he clutches his gut in pain.
Then comes the last one. The cocky one, the idiot who cracked his knuckles like that was supposed to intimidate him.
The scumbag throws the first punch.
Left. right. Duck. right. left.
Tim dodges every strike with practiced ease, weaving through the attacks like water slipping through fingers. Then, in one smooth motion, he shifts beside the man and delivers a devastating punch to his ribs, then right into the kidneys. The thug wheezes, stumbling from the impact—just in time for Tim to grab him by the collar and slam him back-first into the rusted chain-link fence.
The metal rattles violently as the man slumps against it, groaning in pain.
Tim exhale, straighten as he takes in the scene—the scattered, groaning bodies of Two-Face's men littering the alley.
"Yeah," he mutters, dusting off his gloves. "Didn't think so."
Tim crouched down, securing the thug against the rusted fence with a zip tie, ensuring he'd be an easy pickup for Gotham P.D. But just as he tightened the restraint, something flickered at the edge of his vision.
His breath hitched.
Slowly, he turned his head, almost unwillingly, like his body knew better than his mind.
There—at the far end of the alley.
A child.
No. Not just a child.
Tim's stomach twisted. His blood ran cold.
JJ
Himself
The ghost of his past stood in the dim glow of a flickering streetlight, paper-white skin stretched over sharp features, wide, glassy eyes staring back at him, and that grin—too wide, too red, too familiar. He was dressed just like he had been back then, a miniature version of the Joker's signature purple suit, down to the garish shorts and the little bow tie that sat crooked against his throat.
Tim's breath became shallow. His pulse thundered in his ears.
His hands trembled.
No. No, no, no—
His whole body locked up, caught between the instinct to run or attack.
But before Tim could move, a sudden loud crack rang out, the impact of a bat slamming into the back of his head sending a sharp, splintering pain through his skull.
He let out a pained yelp, stumbling forward as his vision blurred. He barely registered the thug—the one he'd thought was down for good—dropping the bat and taking off in a sprint, vanishing into the thinning crowds of Burnley District.
Civilians were still out on the sidewalks, going about their night, unaware. Tim's breath shuddered. His body swayed slightly as he steadied himself.
He turned back toward the alley's end—But JJ was gone.
Tim's eyes locked onto the retreating figure of the thug, his patience and restraint already fraying at the edges. The rooftops be damned—he was too pissed, too drained, too done with tonight to waste time climbing. His head throbbed, his vision still swimming slightly from the bat's impact, but the burning frustration inside him shoved the pain aside. He just wanted this over with.
Without hesitation, he pushed forward, weaving through the throng of civilians crowding Burnley's busy streets. His muttered apologies barely registered as he bumped into confused pedestrians, but he didn't slow down.
Ahead, the thug zig-zagged through the crowd, shoving people aside with reckless abandon.
Tim gritted his teeth.
The laughter buzzed in his skull—Joker's cackle, JJ's unsettling giggles, curling around his thoughts like a noose. The echoes of the past refused to stay buried, clawing their way back up just when he thought he'd forced them down for good.
Enough.
With a sharp inhale, he surged forward and lunged, tackling the thug mid-stride. The force sent both of them crashing against the hood of a car that had just begun to pull out of its parking space.
The impact was hard and jarring, but Tim didn't let up. His hands fisted the thug's collar, slamming him against the vehicle, holding him in place.
The driver—a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and the expression of someone done with Gotham's bullshit—rolled down his window, his voice cutting through the radio's muffled melodies.
"What the heck, man?!" the driver barked, a string of colorful curses following suit.
Tim barely processed it. His mind was caught somewhere between reality and the ghostly remnants of laughter still echoing in his ears. The lyrics spilling from the car's radio mixed with the distant hum of the crowd gathering around them, their murmurs blending into a distorted mess.
He tightened his grip on the thug's jacket, his pulse still hammering, his breaths uneven.
Tim needed to breathe. He needed to focus.
But damn it, all he wanted was to go home.
"I wanna be your vacuum cleaner
Breathing in your dust
I wanna be your Ford Cortina
I will never rust
If you like your coffee hot
Let me be your coffee pot
You call the shots, babe
I just wanna be yours.."
Tim yanked the thug upright with a rough pull, already envisioning the moment he'd haul this piece of trash straight to Gotham P.D.'s doorstep. He turned, pivoting sharply with the weight of his captive, but something—someone—made him freeze.
His grip tightened unconsciously around the thug's wrist as his breath hitched in his throat.
The voices in his head—JJ's eerie giggles, Joker's maddening cackles—vanished in an instant, as if snuffed out by some unseen force. The suffocating weight pressing against his chest lightened, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the static in his mind quieted.
Everything else—the distant murmur of the crowd, the blaring car radio, the occasional honk from impatient drivers—blurred into irrelevance as his world narrowed down to one person.
A man.
Just some regular guy standing among the spectators.
Tim's sharp, tactical mind automatically scanned for details, but there was nothing outwardly striking about him. No expensive suit, no obvious criminal intent, no sign of someone who belonged to Gotham's usual brand of chaos. He wasn't watching like a vulture, waiting for the next juicy headline about Red Robin losing his grip. He wasn't sneering in judgment over Tim's reckless handling of the situation.
No.
His gaze was steady—curious, even. Observant in a way that sent an unexpected, unshakable sensation crawling up Tim's spine.
Not cold. Not prying. Just... watching.
And for some reason, that undivided attention made Tim feel more exposed than any villain ever had.
"Secrets I have held in my heart
Are harder to hide than I thought
Maybe I just wanna be yours
I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours..."
Those lyrics hit hard, but the Thug's head that bangs into Tim's nose hits harder.
Duke Thomas| Signal
Crime in Gotham was a relentless cycle, a never-ending game of cat and mouse where the villains never truly stayed behind bars. One would be locked away, only for another to rise and take their place, like some twisted assembly line of chaos. Day or night, crime didn't stop—it simply adapted. Maybe it was the shift change in security, or maybe it was all about the aesthetic. Who really knew?
What mattered was that Gotham never slept.
For Duke, that meant pulling the morning shift. His metahuman abilities—light and darkness—made him a unique asset to the Bat-family, allowing him to navigate both ends of the spectrum. He was more comfortable with light, but he wasn't afraid to embrace the shadows when necessary.
His patrol had been relatively quiet until the sharp buzz of an alarm went off in his earpiece. Barbara's voice crackled through the comms, feeding him the details.
Robbery at a Gotham jewelry store nearby.
Duke reached the scene in record time, perching on the rooftop across the street as he activated his X-ray vision. His eyes cut through the walls like glass, scanning the situation inside.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Four robbers. Two carried machine guns—bad news. One had a pistol, and the last was smashing display cases with a crowbar. Civilians were huddled low by the windows, trying to stay out of sight. The distant wail of sirens grew closer, but Duke knew he had to act fast before anyone got hurt.
He reached for his grappling hook, locking onto an off-street lamp before swinging into position. As he descended, he focused on the energy buzzing beneath his skin, channeling light into his palm until it hummed with power.
With a flick of his wrist, Duke sent a concentrated flashbang of pure light into the store. The explosion of brightness was enough to disorient the robbers—maybe even startle a few of the civilians huddled inside. A little necessary evil. The deafening boom reverberated through the space as Duke made his move, slipping through the entrance while Gotham P.D. blocked off the street, their eyes trained on the jewelry store, waiting for Signal to emerge with the situation under control.
"What the hell?!" one of the robbers shouted, staggering back as he struggled to adjust to the sudden burst of light. He swung his gun wildly, his finger twitching over the trigger as he tried to locate the source of the attack.
"I can't see or hear shit!" The one with the crowbar hissed, his voice thick with panic. Blinking rapidly, he stumbled backward, accidentally slamming into another display case, sending shards of glass scattering across the floor.
Duke smirked beneath his mask. Perfect.
Duke moved with fluid precision, closing the distance between him and the first machine gun-wielding thug in a blink. His elbow snapped upward, cracking against the man's chin with a sharp thud. Quick, controlled jabs followed—one to the chest, another to the gut—before Duke finished him off with a powerful slam to the ground.
The second gunman reacted fast, firing off rounds in desperation. The hostages gasped, some letting out startled cries as the shots rang through the store. But Duke was faster. He raised his forearm, the reinforced yellow armor of his suit deflecting the bullets before they could reach him—or worse, the civilians.
He surged forward in a blur of motion, driving the gunman back with sheer force. The impact sent the thug crashing into the wall with enough force to crack the plaster. He slumped against a nearby stereo system, accidentally triggering it. The store's speakers flared to life, blaring a song that felt almost absurdly fitting, given the romantic displays of engagement rings and delicate jewelry.
Like how there's fans over restaurants in expensive amusement parks, for the smell of the food to waft out in the open, to draw attention and make the people think about food.
Same idea, different font.
"If you like your coffee hot
Let me be your coffee pot
You call the shots, babe
I just wanna be yours
Secrets I have held in my heart
Are harder to hide than I thought
Maybe I just wanna be yours
I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours...,"
Duke exhaled sharply, shaking off the distraction as the lyrics filled the space. The fight wasn't over yet. He shifted his focus to the remaining robbers, dodging a wild swing from the one with the crowbar, already preparing his next move. Duke's eyes flickered beneath his visor as the pistol-wielding thug took aim, firing off a shot. The bullet ricocheted off his helmet with a sharp ping, but Duke didn't slow. Instead, he sprinted forward, using one of the glass counters as leverage. With a powerful leap, he launched himself into the air, his body twisting mid-motion before his leg came crashing down against the man's head.
The impact sent the thug reeling, his skull bouncing off the tiled floor before his body crumpled backward. Without missing a beat, Duke grabbed him by the collar, flipped him over with practiced ease, and sent him hurtling straight through the jewelry store window. Glass shattered, sparkling shards catching the light as the robber crashed onto the pavement outside.
The murmurs of the hostages inside mixed with the hushed gasps of the gathered crowd beyond the police barriers, their eyes wide as they took in the scene. The officers remained stationed, holding the line, but their focus was on Signal—on the effortless way he handled Gotham's chaos.
Duke exhaled as the last shards of glass tumbled from the window frame, scattering onto the pavement. From the corner of his eye, he caught movement—the last thug, the one with the crowbar, making a run for it with a chunky bag of stolen jewelry slung over his shoulder. With a slow breath through his nose, Duke reached into his belt, fingers wrapping around the Bolawrap launcher. Aimed. Fired.
The thin cord shot out, unfurling mid-air before snapping tightly around the mugger's legs and waist. The man barely had time to yelp before his momentum betrayed him, sending him stumbling forward, face-first into the cold Gotham streets.
The situation was handled. Hostages hurried out of the store, rushing into the waiting arms of friends, family, or just the simple relief of freedom.
Duke stepped through the shattered doors, the soft crunch of glass beneath his boots drowned out by the rhythmic beat of the song still playing inside. Gotham P.D. moved in, securing the unconscious robbers and cuffing the one Duke had thrown through the window. With practiced ease, Duke approached the last mugger, gripping the scruff of his dark jacket and hoisting him up. His muscles tensed—not from effort, but from caution, ensuring he didn't throw out his back.
Behind him, the music continued to hum through the jewelry store speakers, the ironic romance of the lyrics contrasting with the scene.
"Wanna be yours
Wanna be yours
Wanna be yours.."
As Duke turned to hand the robber off to the waiting officers, his eyes flickered toward the gathered crowd—and for a split second, his breath hitched. His grip on the thug tightened, nearly stumbling before catching himself with a sharp inhale.
Among the sea of onlookers, one person stood out.
He wasn't anything extraordinary at first glance—just an average guy, clean-cut, slightly professional in a gray-white button-up. But his [E/C] eyes met Duke's, tilting his head slightly as if noticing the way Duke faltered. There was something about the way he watched—curious, observant, not like the others who gawked for gossip or spectacle.
Duke barely registered, passing the robber into the fumbling hands of a clumsy officer. His pulse pounded in his ears; skin clammy yet warm all at once. Butterflies stirred in his stomach—a ridiculous feeling, like some kind of school crush, something he would've normally scoffed at. But now? Now it made him feel... light.
Too light.
His powers pulsed. The streetlamps lining the sidewalk flickered violently before bursting in a chain reaction, sending sparks showering onto the pavement.
...Oops.
Damian Wayne| Robin
Damian was old enough to drive the Batmobile.
Old enough to vote in the United States.
Hell, old enough to be a father himself if he were careless or a complete manwhore.
And yet, despite all that, his father still thought he could ground him. Ground him. At the manor. Like some disobedient child. Worse still, Bruce had suspended him from patrol—again. As if that had ever stopped him before.
So here he was, slipping into his Robin suit, taking the collapsible staff—the only weapon he had access to since his father had locked the rest away tight this time. No comms, no backup, no Barbara nagging him over the line. Just him, the streets, and the night.
He knew exactly where to go.
Crime Alley would have been the obvious choice, considering his father and the others were patrolling there tonight. But Damian had his own plans. He took to the rooftops, weaving through the wealthier districts, where Gotham's high-end boutiques and fashion houses stood tall.
And that's when he found himself here—mid-air, grappling over the rooftops—when something massive slammed into him.
For a fleeting second, he thought it might be his father, Tim, or even Cass intercepting him.
No.
It was something far worse.
A beast with leathery wings, beady eyes, and a screech that rattled his very bones.
Man-Bat. Kirk Langstrom.
Just his damn luck.
It appeared that Kirk either left Arkam Asylum or just escaped, honestly this was more of his father's foe than his own. Still a foe at that and a bad one because of his bat antics, his monstrous ones that are used to terrify Gotham citizens, then it would sound the alarm that Man-Bat had seen Damian and going to attack him.
Like now.
Man-Bat's razor-sharp claws dug into Damian's suit, the weight of the creature's grip pressing down on him as they soared through the Gotham night. The screech that tore through the air was enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck rise, but Damian only scowled, craning his head up to glare at the monstrous bat.
He took quick stock of his surroundings, eyes flicking to the closest building. Without hesitation, he wrenched a batarang from his belt and drove it straight into Man-Bat's leg. The beast howled in pain, its grip loosening just enough for Damian to twist free. He fell fast, but his reflexes were faster—his grappling hook shot out, latching onto the side of a nearby building. The wire went taut, jerking him mid-air before he swung himself onto the rooftop, landing in a crouch.
Another ear-piercing screech split the night.
Damian looked up just in time to see Man-Bat twisting in the air, eyes locked on him, wings flapping furiously as it dove toward him at breakneck speed.
Good
Damian's fingers curled around the compact shape in his pocket, flicking the switch on his collapsible staff. The weapon extended with a sharp click, its weight familiar in his grip. He counted the seconds, measuring the distance—
But then—
A flash of red.
The glow bathed Man-Bat's leathery form, halting the creature in its tracks. It let out a low, guttural growl, turning its head toward the source of the light, its wings still flapping in place. Damian, brows furrowed, followed its gaze.
And there, far in the distance—
Bright neon lights.
An amusement park.
Damian's eyes narrowed, his mind already working through the implications. There, beneath the red glow, were flickers of neon purple and green. Joker's colors. But the overwhelming crimson drowned them out.
Man-Bat let out another chittering groan, its teeth clicking, before pivoting mid-air and flying straight for the lights.
Damian cursed under his breath.
He should've known—bats were drawn to red light.
Jaw clenched, he yanked his grappling hook free, swapped out the claw attachment, and fired. The line shot forward, wrapping around Man-Bat's waist. The creature barely reacted, still fixated on the ominous glow in the distance.
If the Joker was making a move, that meant his father and the others would be investigating soon.
And Damian had just found himself a front-row seat.
Man-Bat shrieked at the unexpected weight dragging behind it, its wings faltering as it dipped lower, weaving between Gotham's skyline. Damian grits his teeth, gripping both his staff and the grappling gun as he was yanked along, feet barely skimming the rooftops. The creature veered wildly, dodging semi-trucks and neon-lit signs, forcing Damian to adapt on the fly.
He kicked off the roofs of parked cars, scrambled across the top of a moving semi-truck, and ducked under hanging streetlights as he worked his way up the line. The city blurred around him, flashes of headlights and streaks of neon bouncing off his suit as he climbed, determined to gain control over the chaotic ride.
His eyes darted ahead, searching for something—anything—to slam Man-Bat into, but before he could act, the creature screeched and suddenly twisted mid-air, shooting upwards in a sharp arc.
It had noticed him.
The added weight must have thrown off its flight pattern, and now it was trying to shake him off.
Damian braced himself, gripping the line tighter and shimmying up, but then—darkness.
A tunnel.
Man-Bat had found the trains.
Damian hissed through his teeth as the creature dove into the tunnel, dragging him along. His shoulder clipped the rough stone wall, pain flaring up his arm, but he barely grunted, keeping his grip. The tunnel lights flickered past in bursts of yellow and white, illuminating the scene just long enough for the people on the station platform to catch a glimpse.
Gasps and shouts filled the underground stop, a chaotic mix of awe and alarm as civilians pointed—Man-Bat, screeching through the tunnel, and a Robin clinging to the line behind it.
Somewhere, above all the noise, the speakers blared cheerful music, a poor attempt at brightening Gotham's ever-present gloom. It was artificial, hollow, and entirely beneath him—more suited to Grayson's taste than his own.
But Damian had bigger concerns than bad music. He had to end this.
Now
"I wanna be your setting lotion (wanna be)
Hold your hair in deep devotion (How deep?)
At least as deep as the Pacific Ocean
Now I wanna be yours
Secrets I have held in my heart
Are harder to hide than I thought
Maybe I just wanna be yours
I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours..."
The echoes of screeching metal and panicked gasps chased Damian through the tunnel, blending with the rhythmic hum of the approaching train. Flashing lights flickered ahead, the harsh glow momentarily blinding him as he turned his head—just in time to see the train barreling toward them.
Man-Bat shrieked, wings beating furiously as he pressed forward, straight into its path. The train's brakes screeched in protest, sparks flying as it tried to slow, but it was too late—the creature wasn't stopping.
Damian moved fast.
He shimmied up the line with urgency, dropping his staff without hesitation. He could replace it. Or, more likely, force Drake to do it. Right now, survival is the priority.
With a sharp inhale, he lunged.
His hands found purchase around Man-Bat's thick, furred neck as he landed squarely on its back. The creature hissed in fury, wings spasming as it instinctively veered upward, narrowly missing the speeding train by mere inches. The force of the near collision sent a rush of wind slamming into Damian's back as they soared over the moving cars, the tunnel walls mere blurs in his peripheral vision.
Then—open air.
They shot out of the tunnel and into the glittering skyline of Gotham's wealthiest district. Skyscrapers loomed in the distance, their polished exteriors reflecting the city's neon glow. This was the heart of high society—the kind of place that hosted extravagant galas, lavish charity events, and whatever else the elite did to feign generosity.
There shouldn't be a gala tonight.
Damian's eyes narrowed.
With a sharp movement, he tightened his grip around Man-Bat's neck. A low hum buzzed from his gauntlet before electricity crackled to life. Man-Bat screeched, the high-pitched wail piercing the night as his body spasmed violently.
Damian held on, unwavering.
The creature's wings faltered, spasming mid-flight before they lost all control. Their descent was rapid, a chaotic tumble through the sky as they spiraled downward—straight through a glass ceiling.
The crash was deafening.
Shattered glass rained down like jagged confetti as their bodies slammed into something solid—and wet. Damian barely registered the impact before liquid splashed over him, soaking into his suit.
Groaning, he pushed himself upright, shaking shards from his hair as his senses recalibrated.
Not blood.
The scent hit him first—rich, sweet, and undeniably familiar. He swiped a hand across his face, feeling the thick substance smear against his glove before a drop trickled onto his lip. Instinctively, he licked it.
Chocolate?
His gaze finally lifted, scanning the room.
Rows of round tables, elegantly dressed guests, extravagant decor—a gala.
And not just any gala.
A charity gala.
Damian blinked, emerald green eyes locking onto the sea of stunned faces staring back at him. A mixture of horror, disbelief, and barely restrained laughter danced across the expressions of Gotham's elite.
Then—familiar faces.
Civilian clothes. Suits and dresses.
His family.
Bruce. Dick. Jason. Tim. Cass.
All standing in the crowd, watching him and a twitching, unconscious Man-Bat lying in the middle of what he now realized was an enormous chocolate fondue fountain.
Damian let out a slow breath.
"...Tt."
Of course.
"...Man, I rented this suit, too..."
The muttered complaint barely cut through the stunned silence, but it was enough to snap Damian's attention toward the speaker. His mouth parted, ready to deliver a sharp retort, but the words died before they could form.
The man stood among the sea of Gotham's elite, entirely distinct in a burgundy suit, paired with a black button-up and polished shoes. It was a bold choice, a deliberate contrast to the typical monotony of tuxedos and evening wear. But it wasn't the suit that made Damian falter.
It was the eyes.
Emerald met [E/C], and Damian bit down on his lower lip, a sharp but grounding sensation. His domino mask concealed his eyes, but it did nothing to hide the shift in his expression.
He had never cared for labels—sexuality, attraction, all of it was fluid, ever-changing, a freedom many could not afford. But this—this was something else.
The way the man looked at him was different. It wasn't shock, nor the usual disdain Gotham's elite reserved for him. It wasn't even fascinating.
It was rooting him in place.
For a moment, everything else became muted. The murmur of the crowd, the weight of the gazes, even the sticky warmth of chocolate clinging to his suit—all of it blurred, insignificant in the presence of this stranger.
Damian forced himself to move, attempting to stand, only to nearly trip over the ruined fondue fountain. His body felt overheated, his heart hammering louder than the distant chatter. He had been trained since birth, a disciplined assassin, the son of Batman himself—And yet, he was slipping.
In front of a random man in a rented tux.
The stumble happened before he could catch himself, but the man's hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Damian's arm with steady, unshaken ease.
The contact made him flinch. Tt— a stupid reaction. He mentally scolded himself for it.
"You okay there?"
Damian stared. His mouth opened, then closed. His thoughts tangled in an incoherent mess.
"...Hello?"
The sound of approaching footsteps barely registered, but he knew them well. Heavy, calculated—his father was closing in. Either to get him out of this mess or to unleash the ever-infuriating "Brucie" persona to divert attention.
Somewhere in the background, the musicians resumed playing, string instruments weaving a familiar melody into the air.
"Wanna be yours
Wanna be yours
Wanna be yours
Wanna be yours
Wanna be yours..."
The words hummed in his ears, sinking into the moment like a slow burn. And Damian, still half-dazed, still completely off balance, blurted out the first thing that surfaced in his scrambled mind:
"Your genetic profile would make wonders for possible heirs."
...Silence.
A beat passed.
Then another.
And Damian immediately regretted every decision that led him to this point.