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Nobody really knows how it begins, only that it’s an ongoing dilemma.
A battle of the highest stakes, their most challenging to date—whoever gives in first will surely be deemed weakest. Their prerogative: to maintain a straight face in the wake of your… fan behavior. No matter how targeted your attacks are.
Somehow, in the home office of Bruce Wayne, the father of some of your closest friends, the conversation circles around to Batman of all people. Maybe it’s not so surprising when you’re a long-time resident of Gotham, but still—as much as you may respect Bruce, you can’t respect this kind of blasphemy.
“The media isn’t necessarily exaggerating,” he says, regarding the newest article being both blasted and supported in nearly equal numbers. “Though harsh, Batman is quite the brute—”
“Batman is not a brute, what the hell, man?” You stare at him in bewilderment. Any reluctance you had toward arguing with Bruce Wayne is out the window the second Batman’s honor is threatened. “He’s literally the total opposite of a brute. The dude is a powerhouse with strict, if questionable, morals, sure,” you agree. “He’s capable of doing so much damage—of being a brute—but the whole point is that he doesn’t. He doesn’t kill, even if he can or, sue me, wants to.” And that’s the crux of it all: Batman is a choice. A human one, maybe, but one ultimately made with justice in mind.
Bruce looks like he wants to interject, his hand raising as though to cut in, but you barrel on.
“There was that time when he went around hospitalizing petty criminals and, yeah, that was terrifying, without a doubt.” You remember the rumors circulating about how Gotham was going to fall; the barely-tolerable city that it is, right on its way to becoming utterly hopeless. “Yet he actively chose, and keeps choosing, to become better. To not wallow in his mistakes and leave Gotham to defend itself—instead, he continuously strives to protect its citizens from crime and himself.”
His eyes are wide. It’s an unfamiliar look on Bruce, this unrestrained surprise. Or, not quite just surprise; you think you might even be getting through to him.
“So, maybe I don't want to see the day when he puts down the mantle, whatever the reason—because that’s not just the loss of our Dark Knight, but of the very idea that no one is too far gone to still become, I don’t know, good?” Well, to a degree. You maintain the right to despise and refuse the belief that rehabilitation is possible for certain irredeemable criminals. Even if everyone can be redeemed, that doesn’t mean they will, either for lack of opportunity or effort on their part.
Bruce is—his eyes are shining. He looks to be on the verge of tears. This stone-faced man, unbothered by even the most deliberate attempts to crack his perfect exterior, has wavered under the ceaseless blow of your words. Then, you remember that this man is also the same child who lost his parents to Gotham’s most infamous crime. You begin to think that you may have overstepped.
“Thank you,” he says, strangled. “I needed to hear that.”
Oh. Phew. You can scrap the draft of your will you were mentally writing.
“Of course, no problem,” you say, unable to figure out what the right response to that is. “I’m just—a huge fan, you know?” His laugh at that is sincere—it’s the deep, comforting sort that is undeniably that of a father. This man has way too many kids.
“I’m starting to catch onto that, yes,” he agrees, clapping one heavy hand on your shoulder. It’s a nice weight, though. A welcome one. You grin.
Dick is looking at a tweet of Nightwing, you discover, peeking around him as you sneak a glance at his screen. It’s one of the clearest, most incredible shots you’ve seen to date. The quality, and even more so, the concept behind the photo, is stunning. The photographer must’ve been waiting in that specific, hard-to-reach spot for some time in order to manage that angle—especially since it appears that Nightwing was free-falling at the time.
You make sure you’re right next to his ear, or as close to it as you can get, before dropping the bomb: “Are you a Nightwing stan?”
Dick startles so hard that he nearly throws his phone in the air. You begin to cackle, first at this, and then at his face when he turns to half-heartedly glare at you—aggrieved, a touch exasperated—until your stomach cramps and he’s rolling his eyes at your antics. Ow, ow, ow.
By the time you catch your breath and are no longer dramatically rolling on the floor, you wipe your tears away and ask him the question once more. “So? Nightwing stan? Yes? No?”
“What?” He flounders, clearly guilty. “No—I mean—maybe?” His brow furrows. “What’s a stan, again?” You refrain from commenting on his age. It is a Herculean task, but you are nothing if not magnanimous. You tap your finger to your chin.
“Me. I’m a Nightwing stan.” You nod, crossing your arms over your chest. He raises one eyebrow as if to say, Go on. So, you let loose.
“Nightwing is awesome,” you gush. “I love his suit—the colors fit him perfectly, I mean, he looked great in red, but blue? It just matches his vibes for some reason. Maybe it’s the acrobatics? The dramatic flair? The dependability? He just embodies the whole,” you wave your hand, “aura of Nightwing. I don’t know how he came up with the name, or if someone else did, but it’s one hundred percent him. Gotta love that man.” You sigh dreamily to drive the point home.
His entire face is covered in a piping-hot blush. You never realized that Dick was so easily flustered, especially about this sort of stuff. You learn more every day.
“You’re—You have a crush on Nightwing??” He somehow manages to combine a screech with a whisper. You’re very impressed.
But also: “What? No. I mean, I guess you call it a squish if you want to revive old terms for the sake of posterity. Hah, posterity—more like, posterior. Never mind that, though—much more importantly, he’d probably give good hugs.” You hurriedly backtrack. “But not as good as you! I promise you’re still at the top of my list.” Finger guns and a cheeky grin. Dick still looks horribly lost.
“And a squish is…?”
“Oh, I am more than prepared to regale you with this tale. Once upon a time, there was this ancient, lawless society known as Tumblr…”
“I know what Tumblr is, I’m not that old—!”
Torturing Dick is just a friendly pastime of yours. No harm, no foul—and if you store the knowledge (cough, blackmail material) that Dick can be flustered by questioning him about Nightwing, then you promise to only use that dangerous power in the name of good fun.
(You have so many plans to tease him in front of his siblings.)
Hanging out with Barbara is always a riot. She understands you like no one else.
“Did you read the most recent update for—”
“Yes.” Absolutely. The second you saw the email notification, you were gone. The next few hours of your life, gone. “SHF should not be that good. Superhero fanfiction should not be this—this—”
“Amazing? Incredible? Jaw-droppingly hot?”
“I was going to say something along the lines of sinful because I feel like I’m being enticed by a snake into eating an apple. How did you find this?”
“It’s like, the most popular work in the fandom. You’re normally on top of that, so I was actually surprised—no, appalled—to hear that you didn’t know what it was when I mentioned it.”
“I know,” you whine. “I’m like, so desperate at this point. I feel starved. Raving. I’ll open up the site and just glare at the fandom tag, my cursor hovering over it… I think, now that I’ve tasted the forbidden fruit, I can’t go back—not to the old me, that innocent yet oh-so-deprived soul.”
“...Overlooking most of that—seriously, you’re waxing poetic again, control yourself—why not? Why avoid it if you know you’ll enjoy it?”
You give her a look of grand disappointment, shaking your head.
“Barb. Babs. Bestie. Love of my life. I’m terrified of Oracle. She’ll know. She’ll know immediately. Intimately. Nothing is sacred nor spared from her all-knowing gaze. If I start reading hero fanfiction, Bat fics, or, dare I even say it aloud—? Write about the Bats…? I couldn’t, in good conscience, live with the shadow of her judgment looming over me. Not even with my own minuscule, deeply repressed pride.”
Her jaw is hanging open. You cannot cut corners when it comes to Oracle; she could be listening even now, this very moment—therefore you can only refer to her with the utmost respect (and terror) she deserves.
“Is it… really that bad? To think that she might know?” Barb says, nervously rubbing her hands together. Perhaps you conveyed the seriousness of this situation well enough to get through to her. May Oracle forgive your doomed soul for converting yet another to the enlightened; her reign of power is eternal. “You would be one of thousands—no, way more than that, millions—who write, or at the very least, read SHF. I know Dick does for a fact.”
“Dick? Of all people? I expected as much from Jason, maybe…” But Dick? Easily flustered at the mention of Nightwing, Dick? Maybe that’s why he got so embarrassed: he is a fan! “But yeah,” you continue, “I guess it wouldn’t be that bad, but—I just respect her so much, you know?” You wave your hand, frustrated. “Like, she’s THE goal. The semi-achievable standard for us civilians.” You pause. “Sort of. Kinda? Let me start over: Oracle is the backbone of the Bats, and what she does is something we could all strive to do—or, at least, a small portion of it.”
All of the civilian tips that have gone into making cases possible to solve run through your mind. It’s not quite the same, but it’s the idea: helping from behind the scenes, doing your duty, choosing to help in whatever way is possible for you, no matter how inconsequential it may seem.
“Just by reporting what we see for the Bats to handle, we’re doing our part. Yeah, she does so much more than that—really, she should have multiple partners to spread her workload across—but it’s the idea of fighting crime without being… the epitome of physical grace and athleticism, I guess.” You start to flounder, feeling as though you simply cannot do her justice with your sad excuse for a rant. “Big brain activities. Women in STEM, am I right?”
Barb bursts into tears.
“Oh no, oh god, you told me to stop earlier I’m so sorry—”
“No, no…” She wipes at her face with her sleeve, and you rush to find her some tissues. She accepts them gratefully. “It’s not… Thank you. I didn’t mean what I said. Wax poetic as much as you want if it’s going to be something as—as—”
“Silly?” You crack a wry smile.
“Beautiful as that. Now, sit down.” She nudges you toward her computer, opening up an empty doc. “You’re going to write superhero fanfiction right this second or I am going to lock all of your accounts until you do.”
“You wouldn’t,” you whisper, scandalized. Betrayed. A teensy bit glad that she cares enough to do this for you.
“You bet I am,” she smirks, her phone already pulled out.
You start typing like there’s a fire lit under you.
You think you might relate to Jason on a spiritual level. He doesn’t quite feel the same way about you, but that’s fine. What isn’t fine, however, is the terrible misconception he seems to have about your beliefs.
“I hear you’ve been talking ‘bout Batman,” he says in an attempt at casual. But you know better. This is Jason: Batman hater numero uno. It’s something you’ve never really talked with him about; he’s entitled to his own opinions, and you’re well aware that an argument—even in the name of friendly banter—would not be suitable for the type of hatred he holds.
Or, you think it’s hatred. Sometimes you get these mixed signals from him, like there’s a hidden story beneath it all. If he ever wants to tell you, then you’ll be waiting for that day with an open ear and mind—but otherwise, you’ll lay your curiosity to rest.
And yet. You can’t help but want to clear the air, to let him know that you won’t judge him for this despite your stance on Batman and all Bat-related topics.
“Yeah,” you say, a little nervous in response to his tense posture. You try to relax but it’s futile: you’ll just have to plow through it, as usual. “As much as I admire Batman’s strict moral code,” is how you start off, and Jason only tenses further, “I can’t personally ascribe to it fully.” There.
He looks intrigued. “Yeah?” You nod. “Color me surprised. I thought you were one of them goody-two-shoes, Bat-thumping—”
“Don’t ever combine those two words in my presence again.”
“—Yeah, okay, that was a pretty bad one. But you get the gist of what I was sayin’, the whole, Batman is never wrong, type.” It looks like it physically pains him to say as much.
“I can be a fan and have my own opinions,” you retort, rolling your eyes. “Red Hood, on the other hand—” and at the sudden name drop, Jason practically jolts. “Him? Now that I can get behind.” You waggle your eyebrows suggestively. His eyes go comically wide. “Kidding, kidding,” you wave off. Only slightly, you think. But nevertheless, you forge on, returning to more serious subjects.
“I can support the idea that he’s chasing,” you explain. “It’s one of those things that sounds nice in theory but is much more complicated in practice.” Jason shuffles a bit, rolling his shoulders back. He’s a pretty—emphasis on pretty—buff guy with an even more intimidating aura to match.
“If you know, without a shred of a doubt, that someone’s a—a rapist, or a pedo, or whatever you consider irredeemable—then yeah, vengeance for the victim is paramount. It should be mandatory. I don’t like to play judge, jury, and executioner, and I’ll never know if what I believe is right, but it’s something. It’s doing something.” You’re half convincing yourself at this point. “There’s no irrefutably correct way to go about this sort of thing, only the lesser of two evils. The system has been made and remade an immense number of times, and yet it’s still not enough. It will never be enough, not as society keeps changing and growing.” Jason seems to agree with this at least, if the intent way he is nodding along says anything.
“So many people get away with shit that they shouldn’t, or victims just don’t get that closure. I’m not going to stand between him and them. Really, the only problem with all that prior violence he’s infamous for is that people couldn’t know for certain if he would stick to that code.” There’s consideration on Jason’s face; he’s following your train of thought. “He’s just a person, in the end—even a perfect track record can be broken, and his was…” You both cringe. “I mean, he made a lot of concerning choices during those first few years. The rubber bullets upgrade has been a much-welcomed one, I think. So really, the only truly scary thing about him is the size of his thighs. I think my head would pop like a watermelon if he—”
Jason splutters, bending over to start violently coughing. “Jay?? You good, man?”
“No? Why the ever-loving hell would you think that’s an appropriate follow-up to everything you just said?” His voice is hoarse, probably from all the hacking and coughing.
“Sorry, I can’t stay in serious mode for too long before the chaos gremlin in me gets antsy,” you defend, a little hot in the face. Jason isn’t much better off: his ears are burning. “Geez, fine. You’re as bad as Dick is about Nightwing,” you say, and for some reason, this just sets him off even worse than before. You think he might be laughing, but painfully.
You grin, and it’s an evil, evil thing. “Hey, you wanna hear my theories about how the Red Hood is actually the vengeful revenant of the second Robin?” Barb said to only use this secret attack when the picking is ripe, and it’s now or never: Jason keels over, wheezing, and you crow victory.
“Tim. Buddy. Honey. Sweetheart. Love of my life—”
“Why are you calling me pet names,” he groans, draping one arm over his eyes as he leans back in his big fancy office chair. So what if you showed up at his work to bug him? He won’t take a break if you don’t barge your way in and force it on him.
“Because it’s funny,” you say. “And it confuses people. Which is very much my brand of humor.” He heaves a sigh. “Fine, I’ll satiate my chaos cravings with something else—oh, you like Bat-watching, have you seen the newest fan shots of Red Robin?”
“Why is this my life?” he pleads to the ceiling.
“Fine, I won’t pull up my hour-long presentation on why he needs a bigger following,” you sigh woefully. Tim radiates sheer relief. That won’t do. “Instead, let’s debate Robins.”
“Not this again. Please, not this. Is some higher power trying to tell me to stop avoiding my paperwork? Because I’ll do the paperwork. I’m sorry, Bruce. I know this is your doing. I’m plotting my revenge—I’m already at step five of twenty.”
“Oh, come on, you never play along with this. Every one of your siblings has given me their tier list. You just shut me down or distract me with food.”
“It’s a very simple and quick fix that you never seem to disagree with despite being fully aware that it’s a distraction.”
“Doesn’t it become a bribe at that point?” you counter.
“Your words, not mine.”
Then: “You’re distracting me again!” You cross your arms. Widen your eyes. Bite your lip. (Steph recommended adding that to the mix, for some reason.) “Please?” His eyes also widen but in terror.
“You—” He closes his eyes. “Fine.”
Score! Tim brings a hand to his face, weary. Oh, you said that out loud. Whatever. You’re going to need to buy Steph a gift basket for this.
“So, first off, or rather third—the third Robin. He’s my favorite. Top-tier. Original goods are great and all, seriously, you can’t beat the first—and the second was a total sweetheart cutie-pie—” Tim is starting to look nauseous. “But the third Robin was my Robin. I was just the right age to appreciate his Robin run. Actually, we might’ve been around the same age, or close enough? But he was so small, so maybe not—”
You swear Tim is trying very, very hard not to argue with you about some part of what you just word-vomited.
“Nobody likes the third Robin,” he says, throwing out that common internet rumor that you are determined to disprove. “He was forgettable.”
“The third Robin was not forgettable, you take that back right now—! He was THE Robin. The one that could keep up with Batman’s smarts, keep him from going off the deep end—the Robin that finally added pants to the suit. He balanced all of the Robin qualities perfectly.”
You’re bringing out the fifty-slide presentation.
And Steph is getting two gift baskets for the sole reason that you had a legitimate excuse to break out your Third-Robin-is-Best-Robin PowerPoint.
(Tim even sat through the whole thing, which no one has ever done for you before. Even if it looked like he was experiencing the worst torture of his life, what with the way he kept having to hide his face in different, faux-natural ways so you wouldn’t see how annoyed he was. He was practically turning red with frustration. It’s too bad that your Red Robin theory PowerPoint isn’t finished yet; maybe you’ll show him the draft later.)
“Cass. Ca—ss. Cassie. Cassandra. Cassiopeia. Catty-Cat.”
“Beloved,” she returns. “Sweet… heart?”
“Yep,” you nod. “Sweetheart, sweetie, sweetie-pie… Really, you can use anything that’s a dessert as a pet name. The more uncommon, the more likely it is to be for a romantic partner than a friend. I think. I’m mostly just making this up on the spot. It sounds right, though, which means it probably is.”
“Why not stick with nicknames?” she asks. “Easier.”
“It makes people feel more special. Like you put effort into picking something that suits them in particular. It shows care and attention to detail. A lot of the more extreme ones are considered cheesy, though, so if you’re using them, it’s either for irony or because you’re really just that comfortable with someone. It’s all about personal preferences.”
“I…” Her face darkens with concentration. Cass scared you a little when you first met her, especially with how she always seemed to know how you felt even when you weren’t projecting it, but that fear practically vanished on the spot once you got to know her. She’s a real sweetheart for all that she looks like she could tear you apart limb by limb.
“I like sweetheart,” she decides, nodding to herself. Your surprise must be evident—and really, you weren’t even trying to hide it. She honestly startled you with how she managed to echo your thoughts. “Surprising?” Her lips twitch, almost turning down. A sad Cass is illegal in your books.
“I was just thinking that one fits you perfectly,” you admit, a little bashful. It’s entirely worth it for the way she lights up. “Sweetheart. Cutie-patootie.” She grimaces.
“No.”
“Oh, come on—”
“No.”
You try to hold back your grin and fail. She grins back.
“Hey, how do you feel about Bat-themed endearments? Apparently, they’re really popular right now.”
“Bat-themed?”
“Yeah, as in the Bats. Like how calling someone your Superman was a fad for a while.” She looks confused, not quite understanding the sentiment.
“But why? They’re not Superman.”
“It’s the idea that you consider them your hero, or the person whom you can depend on in a crisis. It’s—well, whatever you want to make of it, I guess.”
She hums, thoughtful. “Robin?” Your brain shuts off, overwhelmed by the sheer embarrassment. There would be a dopey smile on your face if you just weren’t so flustered.
“That’s a very, very popular one,” you nod fervently, liking it quite a bit yourself. You couldn’t see yourself being called Robin, but you would love to find yourself someone who could wear the name well.
When she seems to be struggling to come up with more, you help her along. “I like Black Bat,” you pipe up, enjoying the way she perks with interest. “It flows off the tongue really well, which is kind of a staple for a good pet name—short and sweet, cute symbolism. Black Bat herself is very graceful and controlled in her fighting style, so it would be good for someone that’s gentle.” Her eyes are incredibly wide, practically enraptured. So you keep going. “And she’s the cool, silent type! You’re both pretty alike in that way, actually. When you weigh your words before speaking, it shows how much care you put into what you say, and it makes hearing them even more of a joy to receive.”
You realize you slipped into complimenting her instead and flush. “Ah,” you stutter, more than accustomed to giving your friends compliments, but normally, it’s on purpose. This just spilled out.
She pokes your chest, just over where your heart is. “Catwoman,” she says, solemn.
“Huh?
Her eyes meet yours. They sparkle with mischief. “Because you steal hearts.”
Dick is not the casanova of the family. That title clearly belongs to Cass.
“Hey, can I borrow your—”
“Shh!” You bring your phone closer to your face, unable to look away. The grainy video of Spoiler thoroughly kicking this guy’s ass—totally deserved—keeps playing at full volume to pick up the sounds of the fight and her perfectly-timed taunts. You pump your fist in the air, shouting, “Yes, you go girl!” when she lands a spinning hook kick.
“What are you watching?” Steph whispers, climbing onto your bed to join you. “Wait, isn’t that—” she cuts herself off, but you’re hardly paying attention as Spoiler deflects a second guy’s surprise attack. “—Spoiler’s fight?” she finishes, stumbling a little over Spoiler’s name.
“Do you know about her? I know she doesn’t get as much coverage, but damn can she kick ass. Total bad-bitch energy she’s got going on.” You swoon. “I bet you could catch her doing patrols popping bubblegum and wielding a baseball bat full of nails.” The video cuts off and you turn toward her. She’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head. “Wait, seriously? Is this your first time seeing her?”
“What? No, of course not,” she defends, but for no reason you can discern, the fight drains out of her. “I mean—I know of her. Yeah.”
“Well, this is your chance to get to know her better. Allow me to educate you on the importance of knowing your local female vigilantes.” You pause. “Wait, is that correct? Woman vigilantes? Vigilantes of the feminine sort?”
She snorts, then throws her head back in riotous laughter. “That’s—oh, wow, this is so good. Please keep going. I’m begging you.”
“I get the sense that I’m being made fun of. But for you, my most amazing, incredible, lovely best friend who gives the greatest of advice, I will forgive you. Moving on: Spoiler appeared during the third Robin’s reign, of which you are well-informed of my plentiful knowledge pertaining to…”
You surprisingly manage to stay on topic the whole time. Spoiler was a delightful addition to the Bats, in your opinion. She was your patron of chaos and anarchy, the right amount of disobeying Batman to keep him from getting too big of a head.
“…and that’s why the introduction of Batgirl paved the way for more female representation in the Bats, and how that led to the girl Robin who would become the Spoiler we love and support today,” you conclude, nearly out of breath.
You could’ve hung the stars for all that Steph is gaping at you, thoroughly caught up in your storytelling. Not really so much of a story than just part of your thesis. It certainly came off as more of a tale of wonder and woe when you rehearsed it aloud to an adoring audience, however.
Steph slowly, painstakingly, brings her hands together in a slow clap. You sketch a bow, and she starts clapping in earnest, whistling and cheering.
“That was the single best thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life. I’m so glad I recorded that—!”
“Wait, you were recording the whole time??”
The audio file is just under twenty minutes long, and no matter how pitifully you beg, Steph refuses to delete it. Instead, she uploads it to the cloud several times over on separate accounts. Just in case.
“Man, Robin is so cool,” you say, seemingly out of nowhere. Damian glances up from his sketchbook, but you’re staring at your phone screen with a stupid grin on your face. He goes back to putting the last touches on his portrait.
“That’s right,” he says, half participating in the conversation, more focused on getting the shading just right for this particular detail. “You were part of the original Robin’s generation, were you not? Or the second’s, perhaps?”
“Huh? Oh—yeah. The first Robin was my childhood, but I remember the second and third more clearly. I wasn’t talking about them, though. The newest Robin is like, insanely cool. He has a katana, man, a sword!”
Damian’s pencil stops moving. “Is… Is that so?” he says, hesitant. You would say that it’s unlike him, but he does, rarely, get like this for very few things—things that he secretly cares about and doesn’t want anyone to know he’s emotionally invested in.
You will have to step carefully around this. “Yeah,” you breathe, an honest smile gracing your face. “Every Robin has had their own spark—has added their own signature achievement or definition to the name.”
“And what had this one done to earn his title? To be worthy of—being considered… cool?”
“Well,” you begin, steepling your fingers. “This Robin has been known to be especially kind to animals. Not a single Robin has ever been mean to animals, nor, God forbid, hurt them—but he’s said to have a unique understanding that makes them love him just as much in return. If anything is a testament to his character, then I would say that is the most telling.”
Damian, an animal lover himself, will not be able to disregard this fact. You pat yourself on the back for the way he’s all but abandoned his drawing to listen to you speak about Robin. You could talk about Robin—any of them, all of them—for hours on end.
His face shutters closed. “That doesn’t make him—cool,” he says with a pinched, sour look. You’re going to ask Barb to hack the cameras at his school and find out just who made him insecure about this.
“It absolutely does,” you say, firm. “There is nothing cooler than being kind. Forget injuries; never forget kindness.”
“Confucius,” he answers promptly. You nod in acknowledgment.
“Robin is the light of Gotham. It is a difficult job, certainly, to be a vigilante—but the role of Robin is as easy as breathing. Why else do you think everyone wants to be Robin? It’s joy. It’s love. And this Robin has love in spades.”
You maybe can’t help yourself with wordplay at the end. Damian doesn’t seem to mind, though, if the starstruck look he’s giving you is anything to go by. You’re really on a roll with impressing everyone, recently. Maybe you’ll make fans of them yet.
Unable to help yourself, you continue: “And it helps that he’s also such a cutie—a precious kid with a heart of gold underneath all that spiciness.” You wink. Damian turns back to his portrait to start very intensely drawing, and you almost worry that he’s going to snap his pencil lead at the rate he’s going.
(Spoiler alert: he does.)
“Hey, would you be willing to draw fanart if I commissioned you for some of the Bats—?”
Snap.
Getting boba with Duke is practically a ritual at this point.
While you got your usual, he hesitated, clearly interested in their newest special—the Signal-themed drink—so you goaded him into giving in and ordering it. It was, according to him, surprisingly delicious. All of the Bat-themed drinks at that shop were to die for, really.
So, in the face of his tentative admission to liking The Signal—because who doesn’t?—you gleefully step onto your soapbox and do what you do best: rant.
“The Signal is probably the most admirable of the Bats,” you say, swirling your drink. “I mean, he’s not only working the daylight hours by himself—by himself!—but he’s also, like, carrying the representation. A POC hero—vigilante,” you correct yourself, “who’s also a meta? In Gotham? Props to him. And his powers?” You clench your fist, closing your eyes. “What I would give to grill him with questions… To see him up close…” With a sigh, you shake your head, sipping from your drink. Then, an afterthought, but no less your truth: “He’s definitely the bravest of the Bats if anything.”
This seems to snap Duke out of his daze. That’s not an uncommon response to your rants, to be fair, but…
“Maybe he’s not brave,” is what he says, a strange sort of pensiveness to his voice, almost sad, but not quite. A kind of—familiarity, and perhaps no small amount of understanding on his part. “Maybe he’s just doing what is right because he can, and therefore should do.”
“Can, should, could. I could become a vigilante,” you boast, to which he chokes on his drink. “Yeah, yeah—cough it up, buddy. Tell me just what you think of that idea, I promise I won’t get mad.” Duke waves his hands—boba sloshing around in his cup—as he struggles to stop hacking. “I wasn’t being serious,” you say, taking pity on him.
But not enough pity to save him from your tirade.
“I was making a point,” you begin, the tone of your voice slipping back into lecture mode. “Anyone could be considered to,” cue air quotes, “have the power, the call to duty.” What a ridiculous notion. “There will always be people with something unique to give to the world. But the keyword here is give. It’s a choice. An expectation, sure,” you shrug, “but how you choose to do it? That’s all on you. The Signal could’ve chosen to be a hero in a different city with better meta rep. He could’ve chosen to remain out of sight, working from the shadows, as ironic as that would be. No, he chooses to show the world exactly who can be, and is, a hero.” A lengthy pause. “Vigilante, hero, same difference. I’m totally not disregarding the law or anything, no sirree.”
You deserve a long sip of your boba, so you do that. The straw is especially noisy.
“Woah,” he finally says, drink long forgotten. “That was—do you normally get this passionate about vigilantes?” His eyes are wide, a little bit of a jerk to his movements that betrays his surprise.
“Just the Bats,” you admit.
“Does The Signal even count as one of the Bats?” he asks, almost shyly.
“Was that ever even in question?” Duke’s practically glowing at that, which you pat yourself on the back for. A fellow Signal fan deserves to hear the truth. “He may not be nocturnal, but he’s no doubt part of the family. If he isn’t, then I’ll forge the adoption papers myself.”
His shoulders are shaking. You nudge him, and he gives you a wobbly smile, the crease around his eyes extra prominent. He’s definitely a Signal fan, but you think this might be more about his own place in the Wayne family than anything.
“Let’s toss these in the trash and head back, yeah?”
You trust the Waynes—them and all their “totally not adopted by Bruce” friends. So, when their butler—love you, Mister Pennyworth, sir, your food keeps me sustained—leads you to their grandfather clock, turns the hands, and opens it to a secret staircase? You think to yourself: Wow, I’m getting the full rich-person experience.
When the staircase opens up into a literal bat cave—a, dare you think it, Bat Cave—and you see every single one of the Bats just… awkwardly standing around, with Barbara, for some reason, in their midst wearing a mask of her own, you are understandably Confused, capital C.
“So, was this cave always here? No, wait: priorities. Am I in big trouble?”
Oh god, Barb was wrong. Oracle did find out. You’re doomed.
“I swear I didn’t mean to—” you start, shrill with fear—
“You’re not in trouble,” Batman says, cutting you off. The Batman. He’s even more terrifying in person. And Dad-shaped, for some reason. Maybe it’s because Robin looks so tiny next to him.
“I’m not?” It definitely doesn’t come out as a squeak.
“No,” says Nightwing—Nightwing! Here! Talking to you! “We thought it would best to get this conversation out of the way as a team,” he says as if that explains anything.
“This conversation…?”
Red Hood’s voice is filtered through his helmet, an autotuned jumble. Fine, you might be exaggerating there. It’s definitely unrecognizable in tone, though, for all that he sounds vaguely familiar. “Yeah,” he grumbles. “Y’know, the whole, psychological torture schtick you’ve got going on?”
“…What?”
Barbara sighs, pressing two fingers to her temple. “What Jason means is that your thinly-veiled attempts at telling us you know who we are—through making things as awkward as possible, congrats—have succeeded. So, we’re coming clean.”
Your brain shortcircuits. “Jason?” you echo. “What are you talking about? Barb, why are you wearing a mask, or better yet… Why are you down here? Why do I get the feeling you know what’s going on while I’m being left in the dark?” You cast your gaze over each of them. “Is this a new interrogation tactic?”
She looks shocked but also entirely unsurprised, somehow. Somehow. There’s disappointment in her voice. “Of course you don’t know. Of course it was a coincidence.” She clicks her tongue. “Paranoid bastards.”
The Bats all stand as if waiting for something, or are perhaps just unable to figure out where to go from here, until Red Hood begins to fiddle with his helmet. It unlatches, and he removes it. He removes his helmet.
“So, are we just gonna tell ‘em, or what…?”
That’s Jason’s voice. Coming from Jason’s face.
The puzzle pieces slot together pretty fast after that, as masks are peeled off.
“So, you really didn’t know…?” You don’t care who asks it. Panic is all you can process currently.
“I did not, in fact, know!” you shout, clutching your head as if the world is falling apart. Your world is, at the very least. “Those were not—hints, or whatever you thought I was doing—I was just…” You cast a long, long look at the cave floor. A haunted look. A forlorn one. “Please tell me you have a mind-wiping device. A memory eraser. Literally, anything that will make me forget this so I can keep my sanity.”
“I could hit you over the head with a tire iron?” Jason offers helpfully. The Red Hood helmet tucked under his arm tells you that his offer might even be genuine.
“Do it. Do it right now.”
“There will be no concussions—” Dick, fucking Nightwing, says. Holy crap. You—to their faces—
This is worse than what you feared with Oracle knowing. They know. Oh god, she knew the whole time. Barb is Oracle.
You gushed to their faces.
You point at him, prepared to deflect like nobody’s business. Let’s see how embarrassment suits them.
“I thought you had a crush on Nightwing!” you accuse. Dick looks flabbergasted.
You swivel your finger around to aim at Jason. “I trusted you! I made dirty jokes with you! At your expense! How could you let me do that?” Everyone turns toward him with varying degrees of disbelief or judgment on their faces; you would leave him to the wolves, but you’re on a warpath.
Tim is your next victim. Low, insidious, you shake your finger at him, scarily damp-eyed. “I—I don’t even know where to start with you.” His hands fly up in surrender. “We will be having a talk later. Don’t even bother with trying to escape. I will find you. I will hunt you down.”
You wave your arm around, losing momentum. “I am frankly so embarrassed and out of my mind with disbelief right now that I think I am about to crash. Is there anyone I didn’t gush to their face about their secret identity?”
“Aunt Kate is—”
“Uncle Clark—”
“Did you ever meet…?”
You cut them off. “Actually, I don’t want to know. I’m hereby resigning from my role as agent of chaos; this is too much even for me.”
“But your fanfiction was just starting to get good,” Barb has the gall to say.
Dick hooks onto this like a shark scenting blood. “You were writing fanfiction of us? Oh, can I please, please read it? I promise not to be weird about it.”
“You’re already being weird about it,” you counter.
Jason raises his hand. “I’d like to as well.”
Tim shuffles suspiciously. You glare at him with the force of a thousand suns. He doesn’t say anything.
The sheer number of hopeful or interested faces has you anxious, sure, but unwavering in your refusal. Of course, luck is simply not meant to be in your favor, literally ever.
“Babe, I’m already on that shit,” Steph says, holding up her accursed phone for all to see. The link to your fanfiction is open. You throw yourself at her with a battle cry.
You might not be able to keep up with the Bats, but you sure as hell put up the fight of your life. Your pride is on the line, after all.