DC SLOP

[detective-comics-slop]

“Clark.”

Bruce’s tone was flat when he spoke, hands steepled with his calloused fingertips pressing together atop his mahogany desk. “You’re forty five years old. What do you mean you don’t have a birth certificate?” His brow furrowed disapprovingly, and his mouth was set in an even flatter line than usual.

“Well.” Clark chuckled nervously, leaning back in— and nearly falling out of— the chair opposite Bruce’s desk. He looked around like everything in Bruce’s study was suddenly a thousand times more interesting and more important than this conversation. “I mean, I wasn’t born on this planet. My ma and my pa never really… Thought it was important for me to have one. I mean- growing up in Smallville, there wasn’t really a reason to bother with it.” His words were more defensive than he would’ve liked them to be, but this was a subject that Lois had already scolded him on a million times before.

“You didn’t think that it was… I don’t know, relevant to get one when you moved to Metropolis?” Bruce scoffed, looking Clark up and down. It was difficult to associate his mental image of the Man of Steel— always so strong, so smart, and so untouchable— with this blubbering idiot. “How did you get your passport?”

“About that,” Clark hesitated, a nervous chuckle escaping him.

“You don’t have your passport.” Bruce squinted, nose scrunching up slightly. Clark cringed at the sight. He had never seen Bruce make such an offensive face at the worst criminals before, and it felt like an attack to be under such harsh scrutiny.

“I can fly. Why would I need a passport?” Clark’s cheeks felt hot.

“In case you, I don’t know, get arrested overseas? Or god forbid, get questioned- because how is a reporter who legally doesn’t exist reporting live from Africa?”

“Look, Bruce, I never thought that far ahead!” Clark protested. “Are you gonna help me apply for one or what? Because if you’re just going to mock me, I’ll ask someone else.” Though, he knew very well that nobody else would be any more helpful.

A long moment of silence fell between them as Bruce weighed his options and silently judged his best friend. Eventually, though, he spoke.

“Fine, fine. Do you have the paperwork?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Clark took a thick stack of papers out of his briefcase and plopped them onto Bruce’s already cluttered desk. Even though Bruce could be positively insufferable, he was grateful to have someone to help. He had always found paperwork like this boring enough to put him to sleep, which, was probably the reason he had put off filing for his birth certificate for so long.

[detective-comics-slop]

Without Batman, the Justice League would be nothing.

Everyone knows it. Batman’s seemingly bottomless untraceable bank accounts, his flawless organizational and engineering skills… Neither the League’s Watchtower nor the Hall of Justice would’ve ever been constructed without his direct (and intense) supervision.

So, when he’s temporarily out of commission (something becoming more and more common as he slightly slows down with age), they all know they’re fucked.

Servers go down. It’s not that nobody else can fix them, it’s more so that nobody else has high enough security clearance to do so. One of the Robins- usually Tim- has to be dispatched to lend a hand.

Without the Bat’s presence, villains get bolder too. Lex Luthor tries to kill Superman twice in a week. Scarecrow releases fear toxin into a crowd at the opening of a medieval torture device museum. Gorilla Grodd tries to take over the world. It’s a mess.

When he returns, Superman clings to him like a lifeline. All of the Justice Leaguers do, really.

But behind closed doors, they all sniffle to themselves. They toss and turn nervously at the disturbing thought ringing through their heads.

When’s it gonna be permanent?

They all know Batman is aging. It’s not exactly a secret. Of course, he’s still extremely competent, but the way that he groans quietly when he stands (only when he thinks that nobody else is near enough to hear) and the way that he’s started relying more and more on the assistance of his flock to control Gotham’s criminals keeps all of the other heroes awake at night.

When’s Batman gonna be gone for good?

They don’t know, but they all pray it won’t be any time soon.

[detective-comics-slop]

Most Gothamites assume that the Bat and his flock are fearless.

They see the swift, sharp blows being thrown by the vigilantes. The see the lack of hesitation when Robin sprints into a burning building to pull civilians out. They watch in both awe and horror as the Red Hood puts down drug lords in the streets, and their jaws drop when they watch a visiting Nightwing jump and dive between rooftops- like that’s where he was born to be.

But, they’re wrong.

The fact of the matter is that they’re not fearless.

They’re just determined- no, desperate- enough to see a positive change in Gotham that they’ve learned to ignore the anxiety that pounds through their heads and brings nausea to their bellies. They’re kept up all night, not only by the caffeine that they guzzle, but also by the nightmares that plague their unconscious hours.

They train and they train and they train, just so they can destroy themselves some more.

The first night that Clark slept over at the Manor, he was horrified. Lying in Bruce’s bed, curled around his lover with his face between Bruce’s shoulder blades and his hands resting on his belly, his super hearing let him pick up the sounds of the Manor.

The sound of Tim mumbling about an investigation to himself. The sound of Jason (who was reluctantly visiting for the week while he healed from some wounds) pacing downstairs, half conscious and anxious. The sound of Alfred in the kitchen, preparing tea to soothe Jason’s insomnia, adding a sprinkle of crushed up sleeping pills. He could hear Cass and Damian in the Batcave’s gym, training intensely.

The only one sleeping soundly was Bruce, his heart rate slow and pleasant- but Clark was highly aware of the fact that Bruce’s peaceful state was only because of his presence.

Needless to say, Clark didn’t sleep that night. He spent the hours until morning just holding Bruce, grateful to provide some temporary relief.

He only wished that the rest of them could feel the same comfort.

[detective-comics-slop]

Dick Grayson has an odd habit.

On the nights when he can’t get sleep— whether it’s because of the never ending flow of worried words flowing through his mind or the aches lingering down to his very bones from the fights he got himself into during the day— he slips out of bed, and he steps into his slippers. He tugs on his favorite sweater over his pajama t-shirt. He walks out into the kitchen of his cramped Blüdhaven apartment, and he opens up his pantry.

Inside, the walls are lined with almost entirely healthy foods. Bags of veggies, large jars of granola, protein bars, and big boxes of fruit leathers are scattered across every shelf. On the floor, though, there’s a giant five gallon bucket with the torn remains of what used to be a colorful label stuck to the top. He pops the lid off, and the sticky residue clings to his thumbs. It’s gross, but he doesn’t mind it.

The bucket is full of gummies. They’re a guilty pleasure. Bruce sends him a bucket like this every month or two, and he devours them. Since he knows he won’t be sleeping anytime soon anyways, he grabs a big handful of them and returns the lid to its place.

Then, he grabs a can of the diet Mountain Dew stashed in the back of the pantry. He really isn’t a big fan of the taste, but they remind him of the few things that he actually liked about Gotham. The harsh acidity and sweetness always reminds him of the way that the smog filled air would sting his cheeks as he ran across rooftops. It was nauseating and liberating all at the same time, and the soda gives him a similar sort of feeling. They remind him of Tim, too.

He tucks the can under his arm (the one holding the gummies) and leaves the pantry, using his foot to close the door behind him. Heading down the hallway, he returns to his bedroom. With his free hand, he pulls the window open.

Then, with as much grace as his sleep deprived body can manage, he climbs out. His slipper-wearing feet connect carefully on the fire escape, and he sits down on the grated metal. He can feel the cold night air seeping into his skin, even through his fleece pajamas and his sweater. He lets his legs slip through the gaps between the railing’s bars— dangling, his slippers barely staying on—, and he sets his can of soda beside himself. He pops the tab.

The rest of his night is spent— instead of sleeping— with gummy candy and diet mountain dew. As he indulges himself, he feels like he’s back in Gotham. He feels like he’s back in the Manor.

He feels better.

[detective-comics-slop]

Bruce Wayne is a manwhore.

Or, at least, that’s how the general public perceives him. He’s made sure that that’s how they perceive him. He crafts scandals, paying massive sums to whoever can put the most dirt on his name. Whatever will keep “Bruce Wayne is Batman?!” conspiracy theorists out of the headlines.

But, really, he shivers as Clark’s hand lazily skims over his hip, pushing up the thin fabric of his white pajama t-shirt. His hands clench slightly into fists as his lover’s callused fingers glide over his scarred ribs. His breath catches when he feels Clark’s chest against his back, even if they’re both still clothed. It’s been a long, long since he’s actually been with anyone, and even then, most of the intimacy that Bruce has experienced has been fast and lusty. This is… slower. It’s so pure and so unfamiliar in a way that just makes Bruce’s chest ache.

“Are you okay?” Clark senses Bruce’s hesitance- his sensitivity- and murmurs the question against Clark’s shoulder. He places kisses over the cold skin, his own flesh warm in comparison.

“I am.” Bruce replies quietly, but there’s a slight pause before his words. A pause that tells Clark everything he needs to know.

“What are you thinking about?” Clark presses. He’s a reporter, so he usually has no trouble reading people- but Bruce is an entirely different story. There’s no hint of what’s going on in the man’s head, and his heart beat is so controlled that even Clark can’t tell when he’s lying.

“Just…” Bruce trails off. He wants to be honest, wants to tell Clark that he’s never felt this safe or calm before. But he doesn’t. “Just enjoying this.”

The answer, though not entirely accurate- Clark can tell that much- satisfies Clark. He returns to kissing Bruce’s shoulder and rubbing his sides. “Well, we…. can do it more often.” He proposes quietly. “We can just cuddle like this. That’d be okay.”

A long period of silence follows, but eventually Bruce finds the words.

“That sounds nice.”

[detective-comics-slop]

Self-Care Day

Leaning over the cracked counter of his motel room’s bathroom, Jason stares at himself in the smudged mirror. He has deep bags underneath his eyes- bags that he’s sure weren’t always there, but he can’t picture himself without them- and he’s pale. Paler than the average Gothamite, which really is saying something. His skin is marred with gross scars that make his chest ache with traumatic memories, and he’s definitely lost weight. Gained muscle, but he’s lost the little softness that his frame used to carry. Opening his mouth, he moves in closer to the glass surface to look at his teeth. They’re yellowed, and he’s lost two in the back. He’s not sure when that happened, but between punches and crowbars, it could’ve been any time in the past two years.

Hygiene hasn’t been his top priority since his revival, and nobody could really blame him. He’s been up to more important things. Now that he’s found himself unable to fight thanks to a gunshot in his right thigh- it had barely missed the artery, these thugs are getting better- though, he’s got time to take care of himself. His hands move down to the hem of his badly stained gray t-shirt, and he pulls it up over his head. Tossing it onto the tile, his belt soon follows. His jeans fall without him even having to push them.

As he undresses, he catches a glimpse of his own body in the full length mirror. His back, specifically. The scars make him shudder unpleasantly, and he has to close his eyes to calm down. The faint sound of his own bones crunching under crowbar strikes rings harshly in the back of his mind, a phantom pain like feeling of repeated blunt force trauma making him ache. He shakes his head, and opens his eyes, avoiding looking at the mirror again. He doesn’t want to think about it.

Tugging his boxer briefs down, he kicks them off and half limps into the small shower. It’s extremely cramped. He feels like he might just suffocate if he closes the door, so he leaves it open. It’s not like he plans to stick around long enough that he’ll need to worry about water damage. His right hand finds the faucet, and he turns it on cold. The water running over his flesh distracts him from the awful memories plaguing his too-busy mind, and a relieved sigh escapes him.

“Thank fuck.” He mumbles to himself, grabbing the bottle of 3-in-1 body wash, shampoo, and conditioner from the ledge. He squeezes a generous blob of the chemically scented goop into his hand, and he starts to clean himself. He had used all of the rags provided by the motel when he had to stop the gunshot on his leg from bleeding, and he couldn’t be bothered to ask the old lady at the front counter for more. She stunk of cigarettes and mothballs.

As the funk and grime that coated his skin in a thick, semi-permanent layer was scrubbed away, Jason felt as if something else was scrubbed away, too. Something nasty, something mean, and for the first time in a very very long time, Jason Todd felt calm.

Maybe, just maybe, he could be okay again.