The one where Bruce, Harvey and Dinah (posthumously) re-enact Grant Morrison's infamous Scott Summers-Emma Frost-Jean Grey (respectively) moment.
Black Canary has the big sleep, and Bruce and Harvey say the long goodbye.
"But what about us?"
"We'll always have the rooftop. We lost it until you came to this graveyard. We got it back last night.
"When I said I would never leave you—"
"And you never will. But I've got a job to do, too. Where I'm going, you can't follow. What I've got to do, you can't be any part of. I'm no good at being selfish, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of two little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world."
Harvey ran his thumb over sharp thorns, his body numb to the slight pinpricks. They jutted from the rose’s stem like shards of glass along the edges of windows long since broken. The cemetery before him, quiet under the darkness of midnight, beckoned him. He stayed rooted where he was, his body still as he stared into the gaping maw of the graveyard. The pathway was a tongue and the gravemarkers were teeth, threatening to swallow him whole. Departing from his temporary apartment took him hours, his legs like lead as he readied himself. It was a stretch to say that he was ready in any way, shape, or form. His hand tightened around the rose and he took a breath, the cold air stirring in his lungs. She wasn’t here, standing in the cemetery drive like he was. She was in there, in the ground, six feet under with only a gravestone for company. It took close to half an hour past midnight for him to finally move. Hours before, he sent one of his men to scout the area and give him directions to her. The man didn’t ask and Harvey didn’t explain. She had found him before and now it was his turn to find her. Each turn that brought him closer also made his chest feel cold, breath like frost along his teeth as he navigated through the rows of the dead to find one of the few that made Harvey Dent feel alive. His feet stopped and his eye could barely make out the carvings into the marble, but he knew it was hers. Dinah Laurel Lance. Black Canary. Miss Dinah. The rose in his hand felt absurd. A flower for the dead florist. There were plenty of others resting against the marker, what would his matter? What significance did one rose, half-wilted, have compared to the dandelions and lilies? He crouched before the gravestone and set the rose against the grass, some ways away from the other flowers. His scarred fingertips trailed over the indentations of her name, tracing along the year of two-thousand and fourteen. “Hello Dinah,” he said quietly as he unbuttoned the single button of his suit jacket. Even then, his breathing didn’t come easier. “It’s Harvey. It’s me.” He clasped his hands together and averted his eye from the stone. “I wanted to...to thank you. For everything. You woke me up. You didn’t let me drown.” If she could hear him, wherever she was, he didn’t know. “I...I don’t know what to say, Dinah. I miss you. I’ll miss you now and I’ll miss you years from now. You were a hero. A true one and I…” Years ago, he would have written an elaborate speech that highlighted every moment that Dinah shined, but in truth, he hadn’t known her long and each moment she shined was a moment he had grown darker. He tried to speak again, but his eye caught her name in the stone and he was silent. Two-Face couldn’t mourn, but Harvey Dent could.
Batman had been tracking the resurgence of Two-Face's activity for weeks. It wasn't any different from monitoring Scarecrow, or the Penguin's supposed legitimacy. Or being Commissioner Gordon's man in the shadows to reinforce security at Blackgate, or break up the recent attempts to reintroduce venom to the black market or monitor the spike in activity in Blüdhaven. You gave up your friendship. He had done it to save something that should matter more, and now, he had to live with that. He hadn't given up hope that Harvey could remember himself, but he had realised he couldn't give up everything else to try to make that happen. Not even as he watched his—Bruce Wayne's—oldest remaining friend lay a crumpled flower on Black Canary's grave. So why was a billionaire with a cane and a wreath ghosting out of a towncar and not-very-quietly headed towards Two-Face? Why the hell did it sting like a mistake—like poisonous failure—to hear that eulogy?
Harvey stiffened at the shuffle of feet towards him. A familiar sound creeped in between the footfalls. A cane struck the damp earth and the scarred man refused to spare a glance the other man’s way. “Bruce.” He said the name with a painful numbness. His eye stayed on Dinah’s tombstone and he remained crouched, his mind spinning from the dead beneath him to the man behind him who might as well have been gone. Bruce’s stretches of silence felt like death enough. Silent like the night. Harvey’s eye narrowed and he drug a hand across his damp cheek and wet lashes. A glance at the wreath in Bruce’s hands couldn’t compel him to move out of the way and retreated further into himself. The wreath was nicer, flashier than what Harvey had given, and he lowered his gaze from it. He refused to look at Bruce Wayne and instead stared at the burial mound, the fresh cut of the more vivid flowers the object of his attention. “What do you want?” He asked the question to the dirt, but his voice was a quiet burn. Even in his grief, he had the capacity to feel anger. Just the smallest tinge of it made him feel immense guilt. You’ll come to see what’s dead, but not what’s alive. Dinah wouldn’t have wanted Harvey to be angry. She had told him he didn’t have to hurt anymore and yet the object of his pain, the suspected reason for his imprisonment, stood behind him like impending judgment. Harvey was unarmed and at the moment, with Dinah’s gravestone under his still fingertips, he was vulnerable. Dinah didn’t like guns and he didn’t want to disrespect her. “Decided to come say a few words to her? If you even can.” Whoever he was. Maybe it’s easier to talk to the dead.
Batman hated graves. He hated talking to the dead, because they never talked back. You begged and sobbed and bargained but they never gave you the time of day. Bruce Wayne could never afford to say any of that, of course; so much that his money couldn’t buy. He stepped closer to the headstone, grasping Harvey’s shoulder with his free hand ostensibly to brace himself as he bent down to lay the wreath. No expenses spared, not this time, not at the funeral. They were generic lilies: beautiful but meaningless. Appearances had to be maintained. He didn’t let go of Harvey, even as he closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. Find happiness. I promise we’re still carrying on the fight. When he looked at the living again, he feigned surprise at the faint pinpricks on Harvey’s hand. He dropped his own hand only to offer a handkerchief.
The hand on his shoulder unnerved Harvey. The silence of the owner even more so. Bruce wasn’t the type to not throw a word in. He could afford to, with all the money he had and all his infinite charisma. He was quiet and Harvey’s anger mellowed under the chill air. Dinah wouldn’t want anger, even if Harvey wanted to force Bruce to speak. To shove him away, beat his voice back into him even just to hear it just once. No. That’s what Christopher Dent would do. He wasn’t his father. He wasn’t. Even then, Harvey needed to hear it. He needed assurance that the quiet couldn’t give, but the silence was all that was offered. Along with a handkerchief. He looked at it, then looked past the pure white fabric to glance over Bruce’s features. Map out the similarities to the man who had caught him, but his eye blurred under the duress and he took the handkerchief after making Bruce wait. Red blossomed throughout the white as he dabbed it against the minimal pinpricks from the rose’s thorns. “You can ignore me all you want,” he said, hoping for his apathy to cover how much he yearned for the opposite. What he wanted didn’t matter when it went unanswered, just like every question he had directed Bruce’s and Batman’s way. “But just talk to her. Talk to Dinah. I’m not good at this.” He wasn’t. Harvey never had the grave of a loved one or a friend to visit, to speak to and keep up to date on what his life had become. His parents were out of the question and he had no other family to speak of. “Why her?” He asked as he wound the handkerchief tight between his hands. More red dotted the fabric. “She was good. She was a hero. Why does this city kill every damn light that comes its way?” He didn’t expect an answer. He had stopped expecting those. Two-Face was only afterthought, Harvey’s sadness overshadowing anything he might have felt. Harvey’s voice softened until it was only a breath above a whisper and he raked his fingers through his dual-toned hair. He met Bruce’s eyes straight on. “It’s not fair. None of this is.”
Batman nodded, slow and heavy. Fairness felt like a joke when he wore the other suit, the real one. The city picking off good people one by one was the only thing he’d known from a young age, and then he’d met Harvey, who lived that story. You could be a hero too, he wanted to say. You could be a hero the way she was. The way you want to be. Maybe that was less ingenuous. Didn’t matter. He was so used to using a keyboard as a crutch, confident that literacy and wealth and ingenuity could solve all his current language problems, that he forgot what a barrier looked like. He hadn’t seen his family in days. He hadn’t returned to Wayne Manor, living on as Matches Malone who needed surgery for his larynx. Made it easy to forget that some people needed to be told comforting things in order to feel comforted. To hear things that weren’t just in their own head. Harvey had too many voices between his ears already.
Bruce Wayne shifted his grip on the cane to free both hands. He didn’t smile, just buried his apprehension under cement, and signed simply, “You’re good at this. You’re good.”
It didn’t matter that Harvey wouldn’t know what’d he’d said. You weren't dumb if you graduate law school. In fact, you'd need to be completely ignorant of Bruce Wayne to not get it. Everyone always told Batman he put too much faith in Harvey Dent. He knew it was justified.
At least Harvey got some semblance of a response. It was the faintest of acknowledgments and after a month--or was it two?-- of nothing, he faltered in his apathy and misstepped. He tried to focus on what Bruce’s voice sounded like, a system rewrite to cover the one that sneered at him with every thought. Don’t leave. A hospital. He had last heard Bruce’s voice, had last seen him, in a hospital with Cassandra Wayne in critical condition. Bruce had asked him to stay, even after Harvey had selfishly given back a gift. His eye lingered on his friend and he searched his face. He had asked Harvey to stay, but where had he gone? There was a human being next to him, wearing the face of Bruce Wayne, but who was he and where had he been? Harvey had stayed, but Bruce had left. He followed the movements of Bruce’s hands, his brow furrowed as he vaguely recognized sign language. Though the translation wasn’t clear, the intent was. The silence made an attempt at reassurance. He stood up carefully, minding the closeness of the other man. “She saved me,” he said as he smoothed his hands over his jacket, absentmindedly pocketing the bloodied handkerchief. He wavered, his throat tightening. “She saved Harvey. Very few would have. You...” He trailed as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Dinah. Batman.” He retrieved a coin. Not his, not his father’s, but the one Batman had given him. Or was it Bruce? He held it close to his chest. “Dinah will find peace wherever she is, because she managed to bring peace to a place that had forgotten about it.” Or she tried to at least. He opened his palm and showed Bruce the coin. The side of truth, the feather, was visible. Truth. “Y--Batman gave me this.” His eye focused on Bruce, gauging his face as he said it. “Truth and justice. I still know what those mean,” he admitted. “I can’t do much for truth when I have a lie looking me in the face, Bruce.” When I have a lie offering me his handkerchief. “I need to...I have to know.” He cast his gaze to Dinah’s grave and knelt down once more, placing his hand on the cool stone to give her a silent goodbye. He turned away from the grave, away from Bruce, and looked at the coin. “Not here. Not in front of her. Give her some peace.” Before I tear myself apart.
You kept it. Batman’s guard had been up the second he’d walked in there, but Harvey had the coin. He ought to know he had Batman’s support in every iteration. Acutely aware of the bad taste of the situation, he led the way out. The parked car waited patiently for Batman, Alfred invisible behind the tinted windows, but he paused only at the iron gates proclaiming Gotham Cemetery. He stood with his feet apart, cane planted between for bolster. But he held himself straighter, firmer, completely abandoning Bruce Wayne’s slouch and permanently amused-curious-helpless tilt of the head. If he could have spoken, he would have deepened the typical pitch of his voice, the kind that his less loving peers called a tenor. The transformation didn’t make him Batman, but it wasn’t the Bruce who swaggered in and out of Harvey’s life either.
Harvey followed at a distance, his fingers pressing and releasing around the coin as he counted his breaths. He had known, some part of him always had, and when Bruce stopped, he did as well. He maintained his distance and watched carefully as Bruce shed his skin. He stood taller, no longer haggardly slouched on the cane for support. He supported himself. No, not only himself. He supported a city. Bruce supported Harvey, through everything and on two fronts no less, and the former attorney was rendered speechless. His bitterness was blinded by the realisation. He charted Bruce’s face once more. His jaw, his eyes, his mouth. Harvey placed where it all fit under the cowl, under those pointed ears and sharp edges. He held his breath until it hurt and he was forced to take a heavy, shaking breath. “It’s been you,” he finally said as he took a measured step forward. He was almost afraid. Almost afraid of Bruce and who he was. Harvey Dent afraid of Bruce Wayne, just as Bruce Wayne was afraid of Two-Face. “Every fall, every capture, every time those asylum doors shut, it was you.” He wasn’t angry as he said it. He was solemn, but his voice was tense, on the precipice of shaking. Bruce Wayne hadn’t imprisoned Harvey. That wasn’t his intention. He was doing what he always had. He was trying to help Harvey, support him. Be the only friend Harvey knew and the only enemy Two-Face cared about. Harvey rested a scarred hand against his marred face and curled his fingers into the skin. “It was you on the roof,” he continued as his voice found strength. With or without Gordon, with or without Two-Face, it was Bruce. “It was you among the broken glass…” He trailed as he met Bruce’s eyes. It was Bruce that Harvey had gotten close enough to to breathe in his air, to touch him, to heartachingly and foolishly yearn for. “It was you who gave me this, who took my hand.” He focused on the coin of justice and truth and traced the engraving of the feather. Bruce Wayne was Batman. Batman was Bruce Wayne. Harvey traced the scales. His friend was the man who brought what hid inside Harvey to justice. It was Bruce, Batman, that still believed in Harvey Dent even when he saw Two-Face at his worst. He still believed. The scarred man dropped his hand from his face. “Every time.” He braved another step toward Bruce and squared his shoulders, his head tilted ever so slightly. “Every single time. It was you, Bruce. You were there, you have always been there, and I... Do you know what this or what, what you mean to me?” His fear flinched away from the certainty in which he spoke, but still, he wasn’t angry. “Do you?” He asked again, cutting through the silence that had settled between the two shadows.
Batman kept waiting for the penny to fall corroded side up. Harvey should have been angry. Worse. The kind of reaction there was no apology for, the kind you couldn't argue against. The kind of reaction he knew he deserved. But Harvey was asking something else and of course Batman knew the answer. It was a cruel answer, because his complete and fathomless understanding didn't just come from friendship: it came from secretly seeing Harvey at his worst. He knew exactly what Harvey was asking him: if he understood the significance of the brief, thundering silence in the dark office opposite the Central Precinct. If he understood what Harvey had nearly done and why.
He nodded. He hated that this wasn't easy. Hated them both for not being different people. He stepped forward, his left leg unsteady because his body would never forget what Bane had done, and he hesitated. Bruce Wayne would have found this simple. He closed the distance between the two of them, crushing Harvey to him in a hard embrace. He laid his cheek against the burnt side of Harvey's face, and no apology was enough for how much he couldn't stop Harvey from losing.
Harvey glanced away from Bruce, a moment of fear and hesitation forcing him to break eye contact. When had he become so afraid of everything? He used to be braver than this, braver than the man who now lived behind gunfire and the flip of a coin. A man who inspired fear in Gotham was now afraid. Bruce likely understood, or at least Harvey wanted him to. More wants and desires to bury himself under. He looked back in time to catch Bruce’s slow nod. He did understand. Harvey wished he could have felt relief, some breath of serenity, but he couldn’t. He was unable. The distance between them was gone and Bruce drew him painfully close. Harvey didn’t move and stared at the trees straight ahead. The knowledge that Bruce was Batman shouldn’t have made him so apprehensive, at least he thought it shouldn’t have, but it did. That voice trickled in closer, wading through Harvey’s mind to beat against his skull. Cold crept down the back of the scarred man’s spine and his hands flexed at his side. He’s lying to you. Slowly, he raised his hands. His brow knit together and he took in a breath sharply through his nose.
The times before, it had been Bruce that was unreachable and closed, but now he was open. This was unlike him and it rendered Harvey speechless, but Two-Face was seething. He hurt you, Harvey. He’s getting you close, he’s going to put you away again. His heart was slow to bleed and he was slower to move. This man was his friend. He’d see you back in Arkham. He brought his arms around Bruce tentatively. He hates who you are. Harvey didn’t believe that. He couldn’t afford to. He couldn’t let the idea, whether it be true or false, pull him under further. Bruce was here, he was real, and his skin was pressed against Harvey’s monstrosity. The disgust he felt towards himself was often shared with everyone else. He reciprocated Bruce’s embrace, his scarred hand resting on the back of the other man’s neck. Kill Batman. Get rid of him. Judge’s orders. Bruce. His name was Bruce. You hate him, Harvey. You despise him, you loathe him. He didn’t. No matter what he repeated to himself in the cells of Arkham or the blank walls of a borrowed apartment, he didn’t hate Bruce. He couldn’t and that in itself almost inspired more hatred. Bruce was his weakness, a weapon against the burning rage of Two-Face, and it was that weakness that he welcomed against him. With Bruce, he was Harvey Dent. “Bruce, I…There’s just...” Why is he still breathing, Harv? He was the ghost of who he had once been, who he wanted to be, and when his scarred fingers drifted into the hair at the nape of Bruce’s neck, he almost smiled. It wasn’t a smile of victory, far from it. There were never victories between the two. Not with Bruce or Harvey, not with Batman or Two-Face. Their halves couldn’t find victory. Only quiet moments of reprieve that they floundered in until something snapped. Until he snapped. That was their fate. Harvey could lie to himself again. Lie that they could stay like this. His fingers dug into Bruce and he held him close. He was good at lying and it was a lie that he craved. He pulled his face away for brief moment, but didn’t move his arms. His heart rammed against his ribcage violently and he held Bruce’s gaze, his lips parted ever so slightly as though he was about to speak again. His throat tightened and his skin warmed, any words he might have said now somewhere he couldn’t reach them. He looked at Bruce with something that resembled love, something that might have been adoration. If he could remember what those were. His fingers tightened in Bruce’s hair and in the spanse of their breaths, Harvey further closed the space between them with an unsure kiss from a burned man.
Bruce's spine stiffened and then his body went pliant as he leaned into Harvey's kiss. You've lost your mind— What gave you the right to treat him this— He's your friend, you don't push where it's broken— How the hell did one last lie matter? His hands moved up to Harvey's shoulders, holding on to him just as much as he was ready to push him away. But he didn't. He didn't push Harvey away. He never had. No matter what it cost. Because until now, this man was the only person who had seen an adult Bruce worth believing in. This man had been the only one who had seen just Bruce Wayne, shallow and unreliable, and found someone worth his respect and loyalty. The Bruce who had failed him so many times. What difference did one last lie make when for so long, Harvey Dent had been an anchor to the life they should have both led? Kissing Harvey Dent was the last thing he should be doing because he knew his reasons weren't Harvey's reasons. And still it felt good, like something that would have made them happy in another life. A happiness Harvey goddamn deserved.
Bruce's fingers felt leaden as he splayed them against the burn scars, pulling back at last. He met Harvey's eye, but he shook his head. His other hand gripped Harvey's shoulder faintly, not knowing how to convey that he would always be Batman. He couldn't do this. Not when his vow came first and not when he couldn't promise that vow would keep Harvey safe. Not until they turned back time and became the people they used to be. He lowered his hand from Harvey's face, tracing the silhouette of the bat over the left side of his friend's chest.
Harvey’s grip on Bruce tightened, the selfish burn in his chest demanding that he keep him here, keep him with him in a gilded cage they could share. A moment here was a moment Bruce didn’t face monsters, people who shared the same hallway of horrors that Harvey did. A moment here was a moment that Harvey could have a glimpse into who he wanted to be, could play act that he had everything he wanted. This graveyard was a sanctuary in that brief moment of time that they allowed their armors to slip. In the recesses, in the broiling heat of the anger he lived in, he knew that a moment here with him was also a moment that the city cracked further and the longer that the bodies of eighteen mob members went unfound. And the idea thrilled a part of him, a creature in him that had condemned him to a life of blood and insanity. Nothing felt real. Bruce’s, Batman’s, hand against his scars and lips against his own was surreal. More fever dreams, more pain for him to draw anger from when his hand took hold of a gun, even if that very moment was one of a few that inspired even the smallest spark of happiness in him. He knew better and when they parted, Bruce abandoning his scars, he resigned his life even further into an agony that would give a monster sustenance. For now, the other face was quiet, and when his silent friend traced the symbol of Harvey’s undying hatred and his enduring hope into his chest, he smiled faintly. Harvey’s hands dropped slowly from Bruce and he took hold of his friend’s, the one that cut a bat symbol into him, and pulled it off. He thought better of lacing their fingers, one hand scarred and the other insignificantly less so, and dropped it back to Bruce’s side. He missed it already. “I know,” he said finally, with a ragged breath that betrayed the hurt that festered in his flesh. He rested his forehead against the other man’s. “But I’m not really known for my selflessness these days. Quite the opposite really.” Harvey wanted to steal another kiss, but he retreated back, putting distance between the two again. He knew better. This was their fate, destined to pass by like ships in the night no matter how close they were now, how close they had been. Though they shared the same light, they cast different shadows that would never quite fit together. White Knight and the Dark Knight, fated to be on opposite ends of the board.
The truth of it was very simple: Bruce would always love Harvey. But because he was Batman first and foremost, he would never know if he was—or could be—in love with Harvey, or just convince himself that he was because it was what would have made Harvey happy. Like hell you'll ever tell him that. But there was a reason he had come to find Harvey, and it was bigger than this.
A long time ago, he had asked Harvey to meet someone at City Hall District, and the Game Master had taken that away from them. He drew an envelope out of his pocket now, and handed it to Harvey. It had two things: a business card and a letter. A group of ex-cons (former gang members, petty thieves, previously vicious irredeemables) had come together to go straight, and set up a legal aid clinic for people who were victimised by their inability to afford proper legal counsel. The Wayne Foundation secretly poured donations to them, but the group's liaison, a paralegal named Gilda Gold, insisted they needed qualified expertise more. But there were never enough takers. The letter was from Gilda, an invitation for Harvey to be their chairman.
He took the coin from Harvey, let it up to the light. He flipped it and it spun silver, scales of justice and the feather of truth flashing before he snatched it out of the air. It didn't matter on which side the coin landed: for the first time, the game wasn't rigged. It was fair. And there was no losing. There were many things Bruce couldn't give Harvey—but hope and a future would never be one of them.
Harvey took the envelope and opened it carefully. He read over the letter once, twice, three times. She was giving him a chance, she was giving him opportunity. Whoever this woman was, she had faith in him. She was hopeful. She believed in Harvey Dent. The envelope found its way into his pocket and he pocketed his hands. The breath he took in was deep and when he released it, it was anything but shaky. “Alright, Bruce. I can do this. I can try. People believe in me,” he said it with a confidence he thought he had lost. “It isn’t just you anymore.” Mark, Red Arrow, Selina, Cassandra, even Dinah...He had an entire city that still believed he was capable of good, that he was capable of change. Now, he had someone else. Harvey glanced toward the treeline and the faint orange that was beginning to bled over. Gilda Gold. He liked that name.
Wayne Manor after dark. Tatsu has a message to deliver, and Batman really needs a goddamn shower. We all bury our ghosts in different ways. This is hers.
It was six a.m. and Batman reeked of sweat, gunpowder and slime—he’d been railroaded by Solomon Grundy as he chased home invaders through Gotham’s underground. Smearing blood and dirt everywhere in the Batcave, he peeled his suit off to inspect the damage. He was saved from wondering where Alfred was when familiar footsteps descended the stairs.
“Master Bruce, a visitor to see you. A very insistent visitor.”
On any other day, if Alfred had told Tatsu ‘Master Bruce’ wasn’t seeing anyone, that she should come back another time, she would have complied out of respect, worried that something had happened to him and then done her best to pretend she hadn’t whenever they next spoke. But there was no other time, not for what she needed to say. After this she would gather up the last of the material she needed to strip the Soultaker of it’s power and head to the cemetery to meet Zatanna and John, and it was important to her that he knew she was keeping her promise before she went through with it. Maybe he wouldn’t think so, maybe he’d just tell her that informing him personally was completely unnecessary and sent her away. Maybe that would be for the best… Tatsu pushed aside any hesitation, after all, barging into the Batcave wasn’t really something you could go back on, and strode past Alfred. “Koumori, I need to tell you that—“ She sputtered, as she was suddenly hit with an odor that she could only describe as ‘raw sewage.“You stink.”
Batman’s first instinct was to move: dive for the dark uninhabited portion of the cave, slide through the narrow crevice that opened into the gardens and led to the house. He didn’t. He resorted to his second instinct: intimidation. Crossing his grimy arms across his bare chest, he glared at Tatsu. He jerked his head at Alfred and the meaning was clear: Show her out. Now.
Tatsu held Bruce’s gaze determinedly, but didn’t let it turn into a glare. She didn’t come here to be angry with him, or to fall into that weird teasing banter they so often did. She was supposed to thanking him, for the support that helped her realize that it was worth trying to reclaim her own life, and as usual she had already messed it up, as evidenced by the butler trying to politely manhandle her off the premises. “No, wait!” She insisted, brushing Alfred aside as more protestations came in a rush. “I apologize for the timing… and for what I just said, although it’s not exactly untrue—Right. Not important, but the fact that I’m going through with it, that I’m going to the destroy M—my sword is.”
“Master Bruce, if I may— the young lady has a point. Might I interest you both in some early breakfast? A selection of Earl Grey, scones, clotted cream and Aramis is the order of the day.”
Batman’s face was thunderous as the disappointingly unfazed Alfred trotted back upstairs. He hauled himself on the nearest table, liberally pouring antiseptic onto a clean cloth. Wiping himself down, he pointedly ignored Tatsu. The part of him that wasn’t obsessed with burying every reminder of his humanity, regretted it. She was doing it: the final step. She hadn’t come to him to be dissuaded. And here he was, already cutting off support (let alone friendship) at the door.
Tatsu knew when she was being ignored, had grown used to it after so many months of being the ‘crazy’ woman who heard voices coming from a glorified, oversized kitchen knife. But she wasn’t used to being ignored by Batman. If he wanted her gone he would have said something final and authoritative, with no trace of a question mark. Something was wrong, but she didn’t want to push for it when she’d already crossed so many boundaries to get where she was. “You’re not going to say anything?” She queried instead, but didn’t leave room for an answer. “That’s fine, you don’t need to. But if it weren’t for you, I don’t think I’d be doing this, so I just wanted you to know. And to say thank you, Bruce, for everything” She hated long silences like this, she always made a fool of herself trying to fill them. “I’ve, uh, completed both objectives,” She concluded, shuffling her feet vaguely in the direction of the exit. “I suppose I’ll just… go now.”
Damn it. And now he’d made her uncomfortable. How was Batman expected to respond? He immediately decided against going within three feet of Tatsu (after all, she didn’t have a gas mask), but he shifted on the table, shoving aside the medical equipment for a notepad and pen. He scrawled off a message and chucked the whole pad at Tatsu. It bore only one recrimination:
If you’re doing this because you were told to, you’ll remain unhappy.
Tatsu caught the pad reflexively, arching a bemused brow. Foul-smelling, semi-nude, and now throwing things at her head, It was hard to believe that this was the same man she had put on a pedestal for so long, but the words scrawled on the page reminded her why he was. “Do you honestly still believe I’d do anything you ask of me?” She questioned, but didn’t pass the pad back, preferring not to hear the reply. “It’s not about that, it’s about choice, about feeling like I deserve to have one. Before Gotham, I didn’t believe I was worthy of choosing my own fate, or having my own family again. Now that’s changed. Jaime, your children, you, all of you changed that, but I wouldn’t be where I am, literally, without your offer.” She drummed her fingers against the pad, deliberating handing it. “If you’re going to be rude I’d rather not give this back.” She warned, but stepped close enough to Bruce hold it out for him, respectfully not making any more faces about the stench. “Am I right in assuming this mute business has been going on for a long time?” She added, trying to sound casual but knowing she had automatically failed by asking.
Batman blinked, then his body relaxed. Tatsu knew, end of story. (She didn’t need to know that medical help was low on his priorities, or that what he believed of her was confused by how much he saw himself in her.) What she said of her life nearly sounded like his own past, so he should know how this story went. She shouldn’t surprise him anymore. He leapt off the table, snatching the notepad back. (His own sense of smell had started to wither.) Since Nightwing, he wrote, and he crossed it out because it was irrelevant to the ‘conversation’. My meeting you would have changed nothing, he wrote below that. Not if there wasn’t something responsive in you to begin with. That means even if we hadn’t met, you would have come this far—farther, better, than he had predicted—on your own. A pause, then: Don’t discredit yourself.
“You truly believe that?” Tatsu asked, a small smile forming on her face even as her throat clenched from the combined effects of fumes and remembered despair. If that capacity had been within her before she found her ‘destiny’, then it certainly had been buried deep. Deep enough that the road ahead had seemed so dark and hopeless that there was nothing left to do but throw her life away. She had needed that light, the certainty of his mission, just for a little while, so she could find her own way back to herself. But if he thought she had that light within her, well, that was a more than mildly passable feeling, to say the least. “If you do, then that’s the greatest gift you’ve ever given me. Much, much, better than some ridiculous building.”
Batman backed away from her smile, skirting the table and fishing out surgical thread. His stitches had ripped open earlier thanks to a zombie. Obviously, tending to that was more important, even if he couldn’t entirely ignore the pleased rush that came from her comment. He only hoped that she felt the same thing, amplified hundredfold. She was losing her crutch—the sword was that to her, but he wasn’t cruel enough to say so because he understood why. He wrote, Take me with you, on a loose sheet of paper that became a crumpled ball tossed at her. He threaded the surgical needle, wishing this was a good time to get Alfred downstairs.
Tatsu caught and unfurled the paper, letting the message sink in for a moment before she gave her retort. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to discredit myself. I can do this on my own.” She assured him, but it was clear it was more for her benefit, an affirmation that she could get by completely on her own. She didn’t have to, there were people in her life who cared for her now, people who were alive, but if she needed to, she could. “You don’t have to be there.” She continued, reminded of Bruce’s less than perfect condition as he began going through the motions of stitching his wound. “I don’t precisely know what’s going to happen, 14th century sorcerers are unhelpfully vague about the consequences of their rituals, but I think we can count on it being absurdly dangerous.”
Batman raised his head just long enough to flash a smile. The kind of smile that fit nicely on a stone gargoyle. It became a scowl at once, and he shook his head. Whether or not she caught his drift, he was going with her. He wouldn’t let her do this alone. To signal that he considered the matter closed, he gingerly used the thread and needle to close the gaping gash in his side. His ensuing growl of... frustration, it was frustration, thank you very much, scared a few nesting bats away.
Tatsu rolled her eyes at Bruce’s stubbornness. “Right, no question mark.” She conceded, glancing down at the sheet of paper clutched in her hand. “As you wish, Koumori.” She did her best to suppress another smile, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that it wasn’t exactly the worst request to give in to. “It’s fortunate you’re extremely gross and off-putting right now, and I don’t want to go anywhere near you, or I might have done something annoyingly sentimental.” She added in a deadpan. There was no point trying to pass it off as a joke; he knew her better than that. “Speaking of which, you should probably reduce the ick factor, if I’m going to be introducing you to my ex.”
Who knew being odiferous could be weaponised? Batman spared an unimpressed grimace to let Tatsu know exactly what he thought of being called ‘gross’ (middle fingers were very inappropriate.) If a genie offered him three wishes, he’d ask for a shower, Alfred (to fix the injuries), and world peace—in that order. Since he was out of paper, he wrote across a roll of bandages: You don’t want me bonding with him. We might compare notes about you.
Tatsu tried not to let the comment get to her, but she couldn’t help but be reminded of the fact that Maseo didn’t have long left to do anything, let lengthy amount of time it took to ‘bond’ with Batman. She couldn’t be sure whether destroying the Soultaker’s power would result in his soul reaching where it was intended to go upon his death, or if it would simply cease to exist, but Maseo had never asked for any assurances in that respect, he simply wanted to be free. Whatever she personally hoped for him was irrelevant. “I’m not worried.” She replied at last. “His notes are highly extensive. I doubt you’d make it through the first page before we finish the ritual. Which is why I suggest you clean yourself up, please. I’m expected at St Peter’s cemetery soon.”
Batman had been thinking it just as certainly as Tatsu was, that he was better off leaving flippancy to Robin. He gritted his teeth and ran the needle and thread through the wound, silently comparing his own clumsy handiwork to Alfred’s usual precision.estimated how much time his post-patrol routine would take. If he traded sleep and half his workout for a bath... Soon. It was morning and Batman refused to be seen before eleven at night. The self-imposed rules existed for a reason, but did the rules of duty still apply to sacrifice? He grabbed a clean shirt and trousers, tossing aside his boots and cape. Bruce Wayne would leave the Manor with Tatsu Yamashiro, and he'd answer the question on his way. He came near Tatsu long enough to pluck the notepad away from her. Make yourself at home for an hour, he wrote. A upstairs. C & D be around soon. Join you shortly.
***
Home, Tatsu was supposed to be making herself at home, at that was surprisingly easy when the people who lived there were a large part of what made Gotham home to her. It was strange to think of the first time she’d set foot in Wayne Manor, and how she couldn’t have been more eager to leave. Now the idea of leaving filled her with a mixture of dread and anticipation that prompted her to decline Alfred’s kind offer to make her something for breakfast while she waited. Once she left the property, that meant this was really happening, that she would no longer be bound to the dangerous sword or the man she had loved within it, and after that, what happened next was an admittedly nerve-wracking mystery. Or maybe it wasn’t so mysterious after all, she thought, looking up at a significantly less off-putting Bruce as he entered the room. “Let’s do this.” She declared, rising swiftly from table with a nod towards the door. With him beside her she could be sure of one thing; she still had her destiny, if she chose to embrace it.
Harley vaguely wondered if she could buy one of those grapnel guns on eBay. Not a Bat-themed one, of course, but a cool one she could use in her everyday life. She certainly didn’t scale Arkham Asylum every single day, often opting to enter using the front door, but if she did, she’d just love one. Maybe Bats would let her have his as a gift? He’d owe her after this, naturally, but she didn’t think he’d give her anything that would aid her in committing crimes. That is, if he didn’t toss her in a cell when he was finished with her. This was the perfect opportunity to bust out her puddin’: Batman, too concerned with rounding up all the miscreants in Arkham, would completely forget about her Joker. Of course, Mister J hadn’t said he wanted to be busted out, but it was the thought that counted. He’d be so proud when he found out that Harley had outsmarted Bats.
She cracked her knuckles and clamored onto his back, arms wrapping around his neck tightly. If they were going to do this, she certainly didn’t want to fall off and die. It was like hugging a teddy bear, or getting ready to strangle someone from behind. One would be surprised at how similar the two were, really. Her legs soon followed, circling his waist and squeezing tightly. Jeez, Batman was buff. Good thing she hated that sort of thing on a man. Lots of muscles were distracting, and she preferred her men (Mister J) a little thinner (but still manly as ever). Harley didn’t need lots of muscles—just one big one. Harley squealed, and wished she could tell Bats that joke and he would laugh.
Batman tightened his grip around her wrists, earning a grimace from Harley. “Ow,” she whined, and she squeezed his neck with her arms. Harley was strong, no doubt about it, and it had to hurt at least a little. Maybe she could kill him like this. It wouldn’t be the death she dreamed of giving him, but no Batman was better than waiting for Batman to be dead. Mister J, of course, would disagree.
Anyway, if she tried to kill him while he climbed up the side of a building, she might fall and die, too. You couldn’t get married and have lots and lots of babies if you were dead. That was just a fact. She’d just have to wait, she assumed. Harley held in a sigh.
Resting her head on Batman’s shoulder as they slowly ascended the front of Arkham, Harley’s eyes searched the perimeter, looking for something to do or to concentrate on. This wasn’t as fun as she anticipated, but then again, nothing with Bats ever was. He was such a bore. Couldn’t he at least talk to her during this? It’d make the whole thing a lot more interesting, even though he was such a spoil sport. Honestly, Harley would have rather heard him try to berate her or something than listen to the eerie silence hanging out with Bats provided.
"Oi! It’s the Gatman. You putz, you lettin’ the Gatman bet the drop on us!"
Harley’s head perked up. That was not Bats, unless he learned how to perfect throwing his voice and how to perfectly imitate—
Stupid, ugly puppet! Harley’s brow furrowed and her mouth formed a frown, irritated by this annoyance. She couldn’t yell at him, for there was no reasoning with a man who let a puppet dictate his life. Plus, it wasn’t like she could sit him down in her office and request that the doctors give him a sedative. She truly hoped Batman wouldn’t engage with him, not like this, not with his hand on the end of the wire, just waiting to be ejected. “He’ll die?” Hello! Didn’t they see her, too? Was she wearing an invisibility cloak? This was her life, too! She had no time to voice her concerns as the line was snapped, and they were sent tumbling toward the cold, hard ground. Harley squeezed her eyes shut, preparing for the impact. And she’d be the one breaking the fall. Great.
A scream left her mouth as they fell toward the ground, but was cut short as they stopped. Harley’s eyes snapped open, looking around frantically at the scene. Batman had saved her! Harley realized she should have thanked him, but she was more concerned with her racing heartbeat. “Holy guacamole, Bats. That was—” Harley paused to breathe, “—awesome.”
She unlooped her arms and legs from around his body and pushed herself up and onto his shoulders, balancing easily. There was a small platform not too far up ahead, and she made a note to remember that, just in case. It probably led to the attic, and she did not want to go in there. Nuh-uh. Too spooky for even her. Harley used Batman’s head as a step and hoisted herself onto the platform. They weren’t that far from the top, and she could climb the rest of the way all by herself. She began to do just that. “Let’s go, slowpoke. Ain’t got all day, y’know. Got a Judge Judy marathon later on. You know how it is.”
They made their way to the top of the building and down the other side. It was easier this way, without Batman cramping her style, and she was able to climb down the other side of Arkham with little difficulty. Her slipper got stuck once, but it didn’t deter her. She was one step closer to Mister J. They soon reached the entrance that Harley prided herself on finding all by herself—it was hidden behind some shrubbery that covered a stretch of rocks, the kind that surrounded the perimeter. She smiled sheepishly, like she was presenting him with a personal gift she was slightly embarrassed of. “Ta-da!”
The tunnel was long, dark, and damp. Mister J had complained about it when she busted him out, and then laughed when a rat crawled over her foot. Eugh. She was not looking forward to it. “Okie dokie, here we are. Batmen first,” she said, waiting patiently by the entrance. Boy, was she gonna hurt him big time. Mister J would be so happy to have a knocked out Batman at his disposal.
There were certain opportunities that Zatanna knew were too good to let pass by. The chance to get flown in on Bruce Wayne’s helicopter was definitely one of them. The billionaire was offering to transport her around in style, and if it meant making a house call for a ghost that may or may not exist, so be it. But Wayne Manor was old, considerably old, so there was no discounting the very real possibility of a paranormal presence. The house might be full of them. The older the place, the more restless spirits that tended to congee agree there. Or it could be Bruce Wayne couldn’t tell a poltergeist from a creaking cabinet. She’d know soon enough.
The call had come during the middle of a nap. Chas trilled loudly along at the phone’s insistent ringing as Zatanna had buried her head beneath the couch cushion with a groan. Damn it. Eventually she had roused herself, and had answered with a less than enthusiastic greeting. Her tone changed, however, when it was made clear who the call was from.
"Oh, probably the chopper-" she had answered, as casual-sounding as possible "-the roads are just so torn up right now, I’m not sure how much luck you’d have with driving."
Of course she had agreed. Bruce Wayne was a celebrity client, exorcising a spirit from the home of the famous billionaire was sure to be good press. Not to mention it wouldn’t do to leave a potentially dangerous ghost floating around. She was by no means an exorcist for hire, but she, like her father, had never turned down supernatural aid to anyone who needed it. There were too may frauds and inexperienced, over-eager mundanes not to.
Leaning back again on the couch Zatanna winced as Chas’ paw sunk into her abdomen. She shot the cat a warning glare, who merely maintained eye contact as he managed to walk across her middle as slowly as possible before choosing to settle on her chest. Cats were assholes. This one in particular seemed to think her breasts were an ideal spot for a nap. “Yeah, your owner likes them too” Zatanna said dryly, smiling slightly when Chas began to purr. She shooed him off to change. This was for work, not pleasure, so the fishnets and coat were coming on. As flashy as it was, it was a uniform of sorts. A tribute to her father and a recognizable way to distinguish herself. Slipping into her heels, she considered leaving leaving a note for John. He probably wouldn’t be ecstatic about this job. She opted for something short and sweet, knowing the hate-filled history he had with the man. But work was work. And Bruce Wayne would behave himself.
You couldn’t tell Gotham was under siege from this height, Zatanna thought to herself from inside the helicopter. There was a noticeable lack of cars to be seen down below, but the city still looked familiar, still as grim and sprawling as it always did. The view was incredible. One day, the magician would have a helicopter of her own to summon for a ride whenever the whim struck her. And a private plane. And a yacht. Teleporting was quicker, sure, but helicopters and yachts let you enjoy the ride. And show off.
As dramatic an arrival they provided, the chopper’s impossibly loud whirring and the strong wind gusts it created were enough to dampen Zatanna’s interest in them. Landing wasn’t nearly as fun as taking off. Having to duck and run towards the weathered grey stone of the manor all that enjoyable. Nearly messed her hair up too.
The grounds were breathtaking. Vast, immaculately cared for expanses of lawn and massive trees surrounded the old manor. She eyed it all with no small degree of appreciation. It reminded her of Shadowcrest, in some ways. She felt a pang of sadness at the thought of her childhood home, but her attention was soon elsewhere when she spotted the manor’s owner coming to greet her.
“Hello, Mister Wayne.” Zatanna greeted brightly. “Been having trouble with an uninvited guest in the kitchen, have we? And with your voice? From what I was told on he phone?”
[pm] [d: How do I look after a teenager] [d: How do I protec-] [d: How do I help her hea-] [d: How did you look after traumatized ki-] [d: Do I really want to follow your advice on this?] [Message unsent]
[pm] I prioritised a city over her. She deserves better. I wish I can’t bring her back just like I couldn’t with I will never be anything but sorry that our my lapse in judgment cost us a brave, compassionate hero.
[pm] No. It was somehow more important that my family stay safe when she wasn't You couldn't have. That's the difference between you and me. Jason Todd doesn't get a second shot at dying
[pm] I prioritised a city over her. She deserves better. I wish I can't bring her back just like I couldn't with I will never be anything but sorry that our my lapse in judgment cost us a brave, compassionate hero.
ibelieve-ingothamcity replied to your post:[pm] [deleted: I don’t have good news Jason, I wish this could be done in person She’s in Coventry] We’ve lost Black Canary.
[pm] Gradually eviscerated.
[pm] Gradually eviscerated? And we couldn’t save her?? How gradually are we talking, because generally speaking, if it takes that fucking long to be considered gradual, the world’s greatest detective might have found her before she was eviscerated.
[pm] Bane needs to be transported to a secure facility, and there's the question of his army of accomplices. Black Canary Funerals have to be arranged, and just because Bane is done doesn't mean the residual chaos is as well. Food, transport and medicine channels have to be restored, and so does some kind of restoration for the bridges. These are only the immediate problems related to Bane. And Black Canary is dead, and I don't know the state of Bristol, my children are in four corners of this fucking city, and Tim is Tim made a sacrifice. I'm ensuring it was worth it. Is that good enough for you, Batgirl, or would you like to tell me how to get simple things done?
