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The cops of Gotham city really want to know who the Batman is.
It’s become some kind of obsession since that first time, after the funeral, when he’d come to surrounded by bodies packed in tight and still reeling from the heat of the explosion in his face.
Someone grabs at an ear on his helmet and he flinches and knocks them promptly to the ground, gets himself pushed into a wall by Gordon for his troubles because he’s still concussed and in shock and panicky from how close that hand got to fucking up his life and taking away the one thing that makes him feel even a little bit okay.
Later, just before he punches Gordon in the face, someone - the same person? - snickers, “damn, the freak really likes that helmet.”
And then it just. Keeps going .
A couple weeks later, after the Riddler and the Mayor and all the other stuff, Bruce has to call in backup.
He’s not happy about it, of course, because it means he has to actually talk to people instead of punching them, but the latest baddies of the week are too strong in number for him to just leave the cops to find by themselves, so he pulls out his phone and dials.
He really needs to start carrying some kind of restraints.
“911, what’s your emergency,” the operator drawls, bored.
“45th and 12th,” Bruce says, surveying the unconscious bodies strewn out around him. “It’s the Batman.”
“The Batman?!” She says, suddenly excited.
“Yes,” Bruce says awkwardly.
“That’s - okay. Awesome,” the operator says with glee. “I’ll send my best people out.”
She hangs up and Bruce stares down at his phone, confused.
He shrugs it off and goes to slink in the shadows, listening as the sirens draw closer.
It’s a surprisingly fast response time, even for the Batman.
“Shit,” an officer mutters when she steps out of the car. “Jesus. Anyone ever tell this guy he’s got issues?”
“Every damn time I see him,” her partner replies, exasperated, and his voice is familiar.
Bruce takes a peak and - yes, he wasn’t lying. That is definitely Officer Jakyl, the same cop that tells Bruce he’s “got issues, man” every damn time they see each other.
It’s a little annoying, but Bruce doesn’t really care. Jakyl’s a good cop - a little snarky, a little green, but a good cop nonetheless.
“What the hell even happened here?” The first officer continues, thumbing the radio on her chest. “Officer Daniels here, we’ve got about twenty unconscious. Don’t know if they’re the victims or not yet.”
“They’re not,” Bruce says, stepping forwards.
“Jesus,” Jakyl curses, hand flying to the gun on his belt. It drops just as quickly. “We’re gonna put a fucking bell on you, man.”
Daniels doesn’t even flinch. “What the hell is this, Bats?”
“Drug ring.”
The two officers wait.
Bruce waits back.
“Is that it?” Jakyl asks. “‘Drug ring’? That’s all we get?”
Bruce stands, unsure how to respond to that.
Daniels sighs. “Fuck. Whatever. Come help us tie these assholes up until the paddy wagon gets here.”
Bruce complies, helping drag the drug ring members one by one to a wall on the far side of the alley. He does his best to keep his distance from Daniels and Jakyl, still not a hundred percent sure that they won’t try to arrest him the first chance they get.
“Thanks,” Daniels says grudgingly when they’re finished, dusting her hands off. “Now get out of here.”
Bruce nods once and heads for his car. He has to pass Jakyl to get there but doesn’t think much of it, until suddenly he’s got an arm around his throat and there’s a hand tugging at his helmet. He reacts slowly, flipping Jakyl over his head so the officer lands flat on his back and promptly gets the wind knocked out of him.
Bruce stares down at him, bewildered, and slowly slides his gaze over to Daniels.
“For the record, I told him not to,” she says over the sounds of Jakyl’s wheezing, holding her hands up defensively.
And - well. What the hell does that mean?
Bruce just shoots her a glare to be safe and steps over Jakyl’s prone body to his car, roaring out of the parking lot.
Some of them take a more gentle approach, which he’s thankful for (Alfred says he’s already at risk of early heart disease; he doesn’t need the GCPD officers trying to make it even earlier), but it makes it so much harder to figure out what the hell they actually want.
“Psst.”
Bruce lifts his head, surveying the room of cops trying in vain to appear like they’re actually doing their jobs and ignoring him.
“Psst.”
It comes again, and he swings his gaze around, trying to pick it out.
“On your right,” the voice whispers, and Bruce turns and looks slightly down and is shocked to find a police officer standing next to him.
She’s tiny, at least compared to him, but she’s holding a box of donuts towards him like he’s a skittish, feral dog with too many ribs showing.
He stares at her.
She stares back.
“Do you want a donut?” She asks after an indefinite length of time spent staring.
Bruce looks down at the murder weapon he’s holding. “I’m holding a murder weapon.”
She winks. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Bruce stares some more, baffled. “Are they vegetarian?”
The officer - Officer Wesor, her badge reads - falters a bit. “Are you vegetarian?”
“Yes.”
Wesor’s jaw falls open a bit.
Bruce curses internally. He’s just blown his cover somehow, hasn’t he?
“I will find vegetarian ones,” Wesor promises.
“Okay,” Bruce says, uncomfortable, and as she scurries off he immediately wonders what, exactly, just happened.
“Find anything?” Gordon asks from his other side.
Bruce swings his head around to face him, still a bit befuddled. He shakes his head no.
“Damn,” Gordon sighs. “I was really hoping for one of your uber smart, random chance, instinct-driven clue-solving moments.”
Bruce shakes his head, handing the piece of evidence (a hammer - the Gotham City criminals are getting less and less creative every day) back to Gordon. “Was there anything else?”
Gordon puts the hammer back in a box and pulls out something else in an evidence bag, which is a mess of red blood and hair so thick Bruce can barely see through the plastic.
He wrinkles his nose under the mask. “Is that-?”
“A scalp,” Gordon says jovially. “Our victim’s scalp.”
Bruce tilts his head, turning the bag in his hands. “Why?”
Gordon shrugs. “I was hoping-”
“Here!” Officer Wesor skids to a stop next to him, panting, and holds out a paper napkin with a donut on it. “It’s vegan.”
Bruce stares at her.
She offers it out hopefully.
“This is an active crime scene, Wesor,” Gordon says.
Wesor shrinks. “I know, sir. But - I was - we were-“
She flounders, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Bruce bites down on a smile.
“He looked hungry,” she finishes lamely, eyes flitting between them.
A beat.
“I’m- sorry,” she says, pulling the donut away and cradling it to her chest. “I just- I thought- they said- I don’t know, sorry, I’ll just-”
Something twinges painfully in Bruce’s chest. He reaches out one gloved hand, effectively cutting her off, and gently extracts the donut from her clutches.
She freezes, staring at him with wide, anxious eyes.
“Thank you,” Bruce murmurs.
Officer Wesor leans forward on her toes, staring up at him expectantly.
Bruce leans away, hoping the confusion doesn’t show on his face. He takes a bite, thinks, maybe-
“Good,” he says awkwardly.
Disappointed flits across her face but she hides it quickly with a smile. “Great! You guys, um. Have fun with your… crime scene.”
She backs away, disappearing quickly in the sea of tall, hardened Gotham cops.
Bruce shifts the evidence bag into Gordon’s hand, forcing himself to swallow down the bite of sweet pastry.
It’s- good. It is. Flaky chocolate frosting on a circle of sweet fried dough - good. Delicious, even.
And yet, his stomach revolts against it.
“What the hell was that?”
Bruce gingerly folds the edges of napkin around the pastry.
“I- did she- oh.” Gordon stops, suddenly realizing something. “Oh.”
Bruce tilts his head.
Gordon chuckles, dragging a hand over his face. “Oh, that’s. Heh, that’s great. She thought- oh. Wonderful.”
Bruce frowns. “What?”
“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Gordon says, giggling a bit. “Just. We’re done here, go back to whatever cave you live in. I’ll call you if we find something.”
Bruce turns, marches out of the building, and drives home, brain foggy with confusion the whole way.
“Good morning, sir,” Alfred says when he finds him. “You’re home early.”
“No leads,” Bruce explains, unclasping his cape and pulling his helmet off. He ruffles his hair, letting it fall into his eyes in a sad imitation of the mask.
“What’s that?” Alfred asks.
“What’s- oh.” Bruce looks down, unfolding the donut he still has in his hand. “It’s. One of the officers gave it to me. It’s vegan.”
“Are we telling the Gotham City Police Department personal information about ourselves now, sir?”
“It’s not the most revealing piece of information, Alfred.”
Alfred hums noncommittally. “Why are the police giving you donuts, then, Master Bruce?”
“I… don’t know.” Bruce frowns. “She just offered it to me. But she did seem like she wanted something.”
“Interesting,” Alfred says. “Shall I help you ready for bed, sir.”
It’s less of a question and more of an order, and Bruce feels like he’s thirteen years old and being drug away kicking and screaming from the news on the television, way past his bedtime.
He sighs. “Goodnight, Alfred.”
“Goodnight, sir,” Alfred says.
Bruce goes to bed and tries to sleep.
He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls himself out of bed, pads silently to the kitchen, and stares down at the counter.
The counter, underneath a wrinkled paper napkin, underneath a vegan chocolate-covered donut.
His stomach twists with nausea, but he sits down on a stool, pulls the donut closer, thinks of a tiny cop with a smile as a mask over the fear in her heart, and eats.
~*~*~
“Can I see?”
Bruce turns, taking a nervous step back towards the ledge as he does.
“Your face,” the officer says bravely. “Can I see?”
Bruce’s brows crease together under his mask. “No.”
“Didn’t think so,” he mutters. “It was worth a shot.”
He turns. Leaves.
Bruce is, once again, left confused.
“They’ve been making bets,” Gordon says.
“On what?”
“Who gets the mask off first.”
Bruce shudders and, when Gordon turns his head, steps off the edge.
“It’s a game to them,” he tells Alfred. “Trying to find out who I am.”
“Well, you couldn’t have expected much else, sir,” Alfred says mildly. “They’re not exactly subtle about it. And you are, in fact, a wanted criminal.”
Bruce grunts and shoves a strawberry in his mouth.
~*~*~
“Kid,” Gordon sighs, exasperated. “We really need to know what you know.”
“Fuck you,” Tundra replies viciously. “I don’t work with cops. Not like Mr. Lurking-In-The-Shadows-Like-A-Fucking-Creep over here.”
“I am the shadows,” Bruce says, meaning for it to be a joke, but as always it comes off serious and edgy and self deprecating.
“No, you’re a grown ass man with social anxiety and a personality disorder,” the kid snaps. “Sit your ass down and eat a snickers.”
Bruce blinks in shock, shares a glance with Gordon who’s covering his mouth to hide a smile, and steps back.
He doesn’t have a chair to sit on (or a snickers), but the way he just got absolutely destroyed by a teenager with blue hair makes him wish he did.
She’s eighteen, blue hair short and spiky with gel, dressed in a black jacket covered with patches and black army pants and decked out in silver piercings and chains.
“You stand like a fucking emoji,” Tundra continues. “Like that - that one. The guy in red.” She imitates it, holding her arms by her sides awkwardly and dropping her shoulders.
It’s an unsettlingly accurate imitation of Bruce’s current stance.
“Oh, I know what you’re talking about,” Gordon says. He looks over at Bruce, taking in his stance. “Yeah, my daughter uses it sometimes. He looks just like it, doesn’t he?”
“‘ I’m vengeance’, ” she imitates in a husky, mocking imitation of his voice. “Like shit. You’re in desperate need of therapy, is what you are.”
“Alright, let’s leave the poor guy alone,” Gordon snorts. “We really need your help on this, miss-“
“Mix,” Tundra snaps. “I’m non-binary, you could at least get my fucking pronouns right if you want the information I have.”
Oh. Oops. Guilt flashes hot in Bruce’s chest.
“I- okay,” Gordon says uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, mix. But we really need your help. You’re the only person connected to the victim. You’re the only one who can tell us anything.”
Tundra rolls her eyes. “It’s Gotham City, dipshit. Everyone’s connected to a murder in some way or another. I’m hardly the first, and I’m definitely not the only. You two just need to put your half a brain cell each together and figure it out .”
Bruce really wishes he could scratch the back of his neck right now. “Look, mix-“
The kid’s gaze swings over, hard and cold and calculating.
Bruce shivers.
“ You don’t get to talk,” they growl, leaning forward to poke a finger in his chest. “I know this city thinks you’re some kind of fucking hero, but you’re no better than the assholes you leave paralyzed in comas for the rest of their miserable lives. Death is kinder, Vengeance. Why don’t you take your fucking mask off, huh? Cause try as you might to justify all the shit you do to the bad guys, even you have to admit that at least they were brave enough to show their ugly fucking faces .”
They hiss the last words, eyes blazing as they dig their black-painted fingernail into his chest hard enough that he sways backwards with the force of it.
“The only reason assholes like the Riddler keep coming,” they growl. “Is because you keep fighting . Don’t you see that it’s just a fucking game to them? They take innocent lives, just to see how far they can get, how far they can push you, and you play right into their fucking hands. Gotham was just fine before you, Batman . Drug addicts and muggers, yeah, but not fucking domestic terrorists!”
Shame floods him as the words land. He slides his eyes away, focusing on their pierced eyebrow instead when their stare becomes too much to bare.
“That’s what I thought,” they scoff, jerking away. They turn to Gordon, voice hard and emotionless like stone. “I’ll talk. But I want him gone.”
Gordon glances at him, obviously stunned. “I-“
“Goodnight, mix. Comissioner,” Bruce murmurs, turning.
He’s gone before either of them can reply.
He at least makes it back home before the panic hits him - he stumbles out of his car, already wheezing slightly as he fights to get the suit off.
It’s too heavy, too hot, and it smells like old dried blood and metal and he wants to throw up as he throws it to the ground. He gathers his cloak around himself, holding it like a blanket as he shudders and presses his back into a tight, hidden space between the wall and a box of heavy parts, covered by a flat sheet of stone that took five men to lift. He gasps out a sob, clawing at his skin as it itches and burns with shame.
“Master Wayne?”
Bruce whimpers, presses himself further into the scratchy wooden wall at his back and shoved his face into the cloak to hide it.
There’s a shocked inhale of breath.
Then, “Bruce?”
Bruce doesn’t answer, can’t answer, can’t even get a proper breath, just curls impossibly smaller and digs his fingers into his forearms.
A shadow appears, blocking the dim lighting from the rest of the room. Bruce jerks his head up just enough to see who it is, relief flooding him when he sees that it’s Alfred, but he still can’t breathe.
“Are you hurt?” Alfred asks, voice filled with worry.
Bruce wants to sob. He doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve Alfred’s worry, doesn’t deserve his pity -
“May I come in, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks gently, and it’s such a stark throwback to when Bruce would have panic attacks at the slightest noises just after losing his parents that he really does sob this time.
He nods quickly, listening with half an ear as Alfred shuffles in. He’s sobbing freely now, harsh and painful, combating with his frantic gasps for air until he feels like he’s going to pass out.
“You’re hyperventilating, sir,” Alfred murmurs, slowly wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in to Alfred’s side. “You need to breathe.”
No shit, Bruce thinks hysterically.
“Match mine,” Alfred urges, rubbing a soothing hand over his back. “Match my breathing, sir.”
Bruce tries, shoving his face into Alfred’s chest so he can feel it move. His heart beat is steady, if a little quick with worry, and his breaths are deep and slow and exaggerated.
“There we are, sir,” he says eventually, when Bruce has reduced to sobs and the occasional strangled gasp. “We’re alright. We’re at home, we’re safe.”
Bruce pulls away even as his body screams at him for doing so, wiping at tears. He pulls one arm up to cover his face with the cloak, feeling like Dracula from some stupid vampire cartoon.
“Would you like to share, sir?” Alfred asks, pulling away so there’s an inch or two of space between them.
“No,” Bruce croaks, wincing as his voice comes out cracked and hoarse and pathetic.
“You haven’t had a panic attack that bad in quite a while, Master Wayne,” Alfred presses.
Bruce grits his teeth and says nothing.
“Alright,” Alfred sighs. “If you’re determined. But I must insist that we get you a shower and some hot chocolate, sir.”
Bruce hesitates, unwilling to move or stand or leave his hidey hole, but the firm tone in Alfred’s voice leaves no room to argue. He nods, slowly unraveling. His limbs feel heavy and clumsy, like they might drag him down, down, down to hell if he’s not careful.
“Well done, sir,” Alfred rewards him when he’s standing outside of his hole. “Are you decent under there?”
Bruce stares at him for a long moment before realizing he’s talking about the cape. He forces himself to take stock of his current situation, feeling for the rasp of cotton against leather that will prove he’s wearing clothes.
None comes, except for when he touches his hip and feels soft, expensive fibers.
“Just boxers,” he mutters.
“We’ll get you into some soft pants,” Alfred promises, gently herding him towards the elevator.
“No shirt?”
“Oh, we should be so lucky,” Alfred teases.
Bruce can’t manage to muster a smile. He doesn’t feel like he really exists at the moment.
Alfred starts the shower and gently forces him into it, tutting quietly when Bruce tries to shrink away.
“You need to be warm right now, Master Bruce,” he reminds him. “I don’t know what happened, but I don’t want you going into shock.”
Bruce picks at the soaked fabric of his black boxers. He stares down at his hands, water running in rivulets down them.
Alfred presses a washcloth into his hands. “I’ll bring you some clothes, Master Bruce.”
Bruce barely notices as he leaves, sliding the fogged glass door closed behind him. He curls his fingers into the soft cloth, feeling it grow heavier as it dampens until it feels like a stone in his hand.
Stiffly, mechanically, he cleans the eyeliner from his face. The washcloth turns black and greasy.
He drops it to the floor and it splats loudly, the sound like a gunshot in the acoustics of the bathroom.
He flinches.
Alfred returns, setting a fresh set of clothes on the counter. “I’ll be in the kitchen, Master Bruce.”
Bruce loves the kitchen. His parents didn’t do much cooking, at least with him in there, so it was the only place left unhaunted by their memories after they died.
Instead, it contains only memories of Alfred, of Christmas spice cookies and melted chocolate. Nothing of what was, just what is and will be.
“Thank you,” Bruce mumbles, shutting the water off. He thinks he’s gotten most of the makeup.
He waits until Alfred leaves and steps out, tossing his wet boxers into the shower to deal with later. He reaches for his fluffiest, thickest towel, before hesitating and grabbing the rougher one instead.
It’ll soak up more water, is what he tells himself.
He makes himself dress slowly, unwilling to be so far from Alfred but equally unwilling to be so near him.
“Have you slept recently?”
Bruce’s lips twitch into a frown as he stares down at his hot chocolate. He wraps a hand around it, the heat soaking into his skin like a warm hearth.
He takes his hand away.
“Yes,” he says.
“Mmm,” Alfred says, sipping from his own mug. “When?”
Bruce reaches for an answer.
It takes too long.
“You were not raised to tell lies, Master Wayne.”
“I’m alright, Alfred.”
“You will drink, and then you will sleep,” Alfred says, like Bruce is nine and just woke from a nightmare. “Will you tell me what happened?”
“There was- a kid.”
Alfred waits.
Bruce takes a deep breath. “She. They. We brought them in for information. I- I tried- I tried to help. Get them to talk. But they just- they said it was my fault. The Riddler. The Joker. They said I… caused it. That I was a coward. That they were better than me.”
Alfred inhales a bit too sharply.
Bruce looks up, studies his carefully passive face. “Were they right, Alfred? Am I- am I making things worse?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Alfred says gravely. “I think the Batman is doing what this city needs, even if Bruce Wayne could stand to take a few nights off.”
Bruce sips his cocoa. He sleeps.
~*~*~
“You don’t have to, you know,” Martinez says.
Bruce stares at him. What?
Martinez shifts on his feet where he’s standing at Bruce’s left shoulder. “Take off the mask. You don’t have to. They want you to, but you don’t- you shouldn’t. It should be up to you. The Commissioner doesn’t mind. Or me. Or Mayor Reál. Or anyone else who really matters.”
Bruce turns back to the crime scene, the cops swarming around. A few of them congregate in a corner, heads together, whispering, shooting furtive glances at the Batman.
“Good to know,” he says, holding eye contact with a portly male officer until he turns away, unsettled.
Martinez nods. Awkward. Taps his fingers against his belt. Anxious.
Bruce can sympathize.
~*~*~
Bruce doesn’t like anyone who harms others, but those who hurt children-
Well. They hold a special place in his heart. A place rimmed with spikes and surrounded by land mines and locked up by chains and padlocks and covered in napalm and set on fire.
It’s a special place, but a very bad one.
There’s a child crying. He stops, head turning.
The man who’s throat he has his hand wrapped around coughs, blood gurgling over his lips.
Satisfaction creeps into Bruce’s stomach. He feels sick.
He quickly knocks the man unconscious, dragging him into the light so he’s visible when Gordon comes.
The child sobs. Bruce’s heart twists.
He hesitates, fingers twitching, itching to help but unsure how.
Gordon bursts in, followed by a swarm of trusted officers.
“Jesus,” he whispers, taking in the man on the floor and the blood on Bruce’s gloves and the dirty, dingy, molding walls of the warehouse.
“Dropheads?” He asks.
Bruce shakes his head. Worse. Much worse.
The child, somewhere in the next room, whimpers.
Gordon freezes, the tip of his gun sagging from its aim at the man on the floor. “No.”
Bruce looks away.
Gordon takes a deep breath. “Martinez, Wesor, you’re with me to talk to the kid. Everyone else, do a sweep of the rest of the place and the perimeter. And someone get me an ambulance.”
The three officers walk up to Bruce, Gordon stopping just in front of him.
“What happened?” He asks quietly.
“Sex trafficking ring,” Bruce mumbles, just short of a growl. “Children. Mostly.”
Gordon runs a hand down his face. “Okay. Shit. Alright. You any good with kids, man?”
Bruce glares at him. Obviously not. He’s terrible with kids.
“Figures,” Gordon grumbles. “C’mon.”
They peak around the doorframe. It’s a boy, naked and curled in on himself where he’s shoved his back into the far right corner. He’s rocking slightly, sobbing into his bony knees. Bruises in the shapes of hands and fingers cover his tiny hips and waist. There’s fingernail scratches down his back and shoulders.
Bruce pulls away, covering his mouth with a hand and biting into the thick padding.
“He might be scared of a man,” Wesor says quietly, meeting all of their gazes individually. “I can go in first, boss.”
“I have the most experience with trauma victims, Wesor,” Martinez interjects. “It should be me.”
Wesor bristles. “You work with adult victims, not kids.”
Bruce slides away, stepping unnoticed into the room.
The boy freezes, staring at him.
“Hello,” Bruce says awkwardly. “Do you know who I am?”
“Y-you’re the Batman,” the kid whispers.
Bruce nods. God, he’s really not good with kids.
The boy’s shivering. Bruce unclasps his cloak and crouches down a few feet away, holding it out.
The boy’s gaze flickers between it and him, before cold wins out over fear and he grabs it, pulling it around himself like a blanket.
It’s huge, absolutely swamping him. Bruce tries not to cry.
“I need your help,” he says.
“You hurt people,” the boy whispers, shaking where he presses himself into the corner to get away from him.
Bruce stops, hovering where he is. The back of his neck pricks hot with the gazes of the policemen, who have apparently noticed his absence.
“Bad people,” he says, trying to reassure, but the boy just shivers harder.
“They- they said you were a monster. They said you would hurt me.”
A spark of rage lights up in his belly at the mention of the boy’s rapists, but he pushes it away.
Wrong time. Wrong place.
“I wouldn’t.”
A pause. The cops shift uncomfortably.
“I don’t believe you.”
Bruce stares at the boy’s teary eyes, clenching his jaw.
“I’m not a monster,” he tries instead.
The boy shakes his head, voice barely audible. “You look like one.”
Bruce lets his lungs slowly empty through his nose, turning to shoot a glance at the people on the other side of the door and slowly congregating in the main room.
They stare back, a jumble of confused and angry and scared and empathetic faces.
Bruce turns back to the boy. “I can prove it.”
The boy hugs his knees tighter to his chest. “I don’t believe you .”
Bruce reaches for the glove of his right hand, slowing his movements when the boy flinches. He undoes the buckles and slowly slides it off, setting it on his knee, and lifts his bare palm so it’s facing the boy. He twists it, takes in the way the boy’s eyes track the movement with awe, and wriggles all of his fingers so the veins on the back of it shine dark blue.
“Not a monster,” Bruce insists. “All human.”
The boy reaches out, running his own clammy fingers over Bruce’s. He pulls away again, eyes flitting up to his face.
“You’re really pale,” he says, still unsure.
Bruce hesitates for a moment, tries to tell himself that this is a terrible idea, but eventually the boy’s tear-stained, terrified, blood-spattered face wins out against the more rational side of his brain. In one fluid movement, he pushes the cowl back before he can overthink it any further.
There’s a few shocked murmurs behind him. He ignores them even as the skin on his back goes hot and spikey with the force of their stares.
The boy’s eyes go wide.
“Just a normal guy,” Bruce assures him.
The boy reaches out again, skimming his hand over Bruce’s brow and into the sweaty hair that drips over his face. He forces himself not to flinch.
“You have monster eyes.”
Bruce is confused for a second, before he realizes - “It’s makeup. Eyeliner.”
He touches his own eyelid with his still-bare finger, lifting up the black smudged appendage as proof.
“Okay,” the boy whispers, pulling back. “You’re not going to eat me?”
“I don’t like meat,” Bruce admits, trying for humor as he hastily shoves his cowl back on and checks to make sure there’s no cameras or mirrors in the room that would have shown his face.
“Do you like strawberries?”
“I love strawberries.”
“My momma liked strawberries,” the kid sniffs, eyes welling up once again with tears.
Bruce doesn’t know what to do. His hands are cold.
“Can you come with us?” He pleads, shrinking in on himself as he immediately recognizes it as probably not the right thing to say. He scrambles, trying to save it, and comes up with, “So we can keep you safe? Catch the bad guys who hurt you and your momma?”
The boy’s eyes fix on the officers in the doorway. They’re green, shimmering with tears under brown hair.
“That’s Commissioner Gordon,” Bruce says, pointing. “And Officers Wesor and Martinez. What’s your name?”
The boy stares at him.
“You can call me B, if you want,” Bruce continues, feeling incredibly out of place. “Or Batman. Or Bats. Martinez likes to call me ‘Horns’.”
The boy sniffs. “I’m Jake.”
“Jake,” Bruce repeats, smiling slightly. “That’s a good name.“
“Can I pick you up?” Bruce asks. “I want to take you to a doctor so they can make sure you’re okay.”
Jake hesitates but eventually nods, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet.
Bruce picks him up, hands under his armpits so he can hold him to his chest, being careful to make sure the cape stays covering him.
“This okay?” He murmurs, carefully cradling the back of the boy’s head as he supports him with a forearm under his skinny thighs.
The boy hisses uncomfortably, shifting his butt away from Bruce’s arm. “Yeah.”
Bruce presses his eyes together tightly, a tear slipping free at those implications.
He turns, facing the policemen. He steps towards them, watching them part like the Red Sea to let him through.
The boy tucks his head under Bruce’s chin, hair tickling his throat as he hides his face from prying eyes.
“Ambulance is outside,” Gordon says quietly, staring at him in a bit of shock.
Bruce gives a single nod, walking out. He feels exposed without the protection of his cape covering his back, but he’ll endure if it means the child is safe and wrapped in bulletproof cloth.
He tries to hand Jake off to the EMTs, but he wraps tiny hands around his biceps and clings.
“Please don’t go,” he begs, but there’s not much hope in it. His grip is pretty loose; he thinks Bruce is just going to push him away.
“Okay,” Bruce says instead. He climbs into the ambulance.
The boy sobs, small body shaking against him.
Bruce holds him tighter.
He’s not leaving.
~*~*~
“Never thought you’d be so good with kids,” Gordon comments later.
Bruce stifles a sigh.
No, he’s prepared to say. I am not good with kids. That kid, for some reason, in that moment, just decided to take pity on me.
“Makes me wonder who you really are,” Gordon continues, faux-casual. “You know, there’s a betting pool… I’ve got five hundred dollars with my name on it if you show us before next Friday.”
“Oh, god, not you too,” Bruce groans.
Gordon huffs a laugh. "Nah. Could use five hundred dollars though."
Hmm. Bruce could probably make that happen.