#chemist!reader universe

[chemistasshat]

Friendly Neighborhood Chemist

Part I

Pairing: Batfam/chemist!reader (platonic), Unknown/chemist!reader (romantic) (i am not saying unknown to be mysterious, i am saying unknown because i have not decided)

Wordcount: 1,5k words

Summary: Reader is tired, it is 7AM and they haven't slept, and there are four masked people at their door

Masterlist / Prequel / Part I / Part II / Part III / Part IV

(Four and a half hours later)

The machine beeps, signalling the results are out. You rouse from the microsleep to turn your office chair towards the desk computer displaying said results. You copy them and then paste into the special app you have just for sending things like this. Your mouse hovers over the “send” button, but you decide against it.

You open your laptop and start typing.

WWhite: Alright Timbro I am holding the blood results hostage until you tell me what the fuck did you mean by “remember when I told you about my vigilante-ism”

Timbus: Okay so

Timbus: I am a vigilante

Timbus: A well-known one

WWhite: Please tell me you actually ain’t Batman

Timbus: God no

WWhite: I am guessing you aren’t Nightwing or Red Hood either, your build is a little different. Your suit is pure black but I don’t think that’s your actual suit, just a fake

Timbus: How do you know what my build is?

WWhite: Do you honestly think I wouldn’t wait around the sites you drop samples off at to just see what the hell you look like? Your vibe is a tired, 2nd year university student but you claim to be “one in the night” (your own words), and no goddamn university student I have ever met would have the time to run around at night wearing stretchy kevlar

Timbus: How do you know it’s kevlar?

WWhite: Gotham has so many vigilantes that I have to wonder how you are not getting shot left and right. Turns out, you are, and I found shell casings consistent with those getting stopped by bulletproof materials in an alley where Robin was. Out of all of the ones you could have available, your suit looked most like kevlar

Timbus: WOW

Timbus: Back to the question, how do you know what Nightwing’s build is?

WWhite: A) there are blogs that take pictures of you costumed weirdos, Nightwing included

WWhite: B) Because I have to be awake at yee hours of the night with the samples you keep fucking giving me, I go out at night to 24/7 grocery stores and nearly got robbed once or twice. Once the robbery was nearly successful (I threw a can of cola on the mugger and hit him in the shoulder) and the other time Nightwing beat him up with a stick

Timbus: Damn

Timbus: Good aim

WWhite: Are you kidding? My aim is shit, I was going for hitting him in the head

A knock sounds out from the door. The first time it happens, you ignore it purely because you think it came from one of the machines still turned on from inside the room.

The second knock you don’t ignore. 

You try to think of a person you gave this address to. It isn’t your primary apartment, you don’t live here, but someone could just have the wrong flat. People live to the right and left of you in the hallway. When you hear a third knock, your eyes turn back to the laptop screen and you begin typing again, now with shaky hands.

WWhite: I think there’s someone outside the lab apartment

WWhite: I’m gonna check who it is with a flask of acid in my hand. If I don’t text back in 10 minutes can you please come to my address

Timbus: Do you think I know where you live

WWhite: I know you know. I think I have noticed you following me around on the rooftops sometimes

Timbus: Yeah, fair

Timbus: Please put the flask down, it is me and some… friends behind the door

Unfortunately, you don’t notice the last message, as you take the notebook from your lap and put it on a nearby desk. You weave through the cramped room filled with table analyzers and various machines to reach a table covered with a fume hood, filled to the brim with acidic and toxic solutions. 

You pick out a random flask and hurry to the door.

You press yourself against the wall and muster all of your fleeting courage to speak through the door. “I am not expecting any visitors, and I can’t see you, but I must warn you that I am holding a very dangerous chemical in my hand and I am not afraid to splash it on you.”

A beat of silence passes and then you hear someone burst out laughing.

“Holy SHIT you were not kidding when you said they are strange,” someone says between wheezes.

“I texted them to put the chemical down. Man, this is gold,” you heard a familiar voice say. A voice you have heard over calls, a voice you have heard mutter swears when a certain man with a black mask drops off a plastic evidence bag full of a mysterious grey powder and bumps his foot into a trashcan.

You take a deep breath and reach over for the doorknob, still pressed against the wall next to the door.

“Why the fuck are laughing? What I am holding can kill you,” you say, trying (and probably failing) to sound menacing. You take a glance over the closed flask you are holding and catch the faint “diethylether” written in sharpie on the glass.

“Just open the door, it’s Tim.”

What? “What’s the password then?” you ask, half-hoping he will not catch on the fact that you are bullshiting HARD.

“There is no password, we haven't established one, Walter White.” The last two words are said so sarcastically, you can practically hear the eye roll. The laughter from the other people behind the door renews itself and you faintly catch the sound of someone slapping their skin (knee?).

You run over all of the possible catastrophic scenarios in your head and internally decide “what the hell, why not”.

You press down on the doorknob and let the door crack a little.

Right as you catch a glimpse of blue and black at the other side, the door bursts open and a man in a red suit with a black cowl walks in like he owns the place. Mentally, you run through all of the vigilantes you know about in this godforsaken city, and connect the dots. Red Robin is standing in your hallway.

Behind him, a man in black armour and a long cape creeps in behind him, and before you can stop yourself, your mouth is open.

“No fucking way you are actually friends with the massive Bat.”

For the third time in a few minutes, the laughter from outside the door starts again. You peel yourself off the wall and look into the hallway to see Nightwing - suit and mask included - bent over and holding his stomach. Behind him, a woman in a purple hood with a short cape and a skintight suit is holding a gloved hand to her mask, as if suppressing giggles.

The man in the red kevlar suit looks over at you and zeroes in on the flask you are holding. You glance at it too, and then (with a little shame) hide it behind your back.

His mouth, unobscured by the mask, twitches into a smirk. “Oh, a very dangerous chemical indeed.”

“Oh, it is. It is technically very flammable!” you say, offended. The small smirk turns into a wide smile. Nightwing's laughter turns louder, now joined by the quiet snorts of the purple-hooded woman. (You faintly remember her name on the news. Spoiler?)

“Please, put the glassware down. We need to talk.”

You turn to Batman after he speaks, looking him up and down. After hesitating for a moment, you move over to the table with a fume hood (without taking your eyes off of the four masked vigilantes at your door), open the hood and put the chemical down gently. While you may joke over how deadly the compound is, it still is flammable at room temperature.

“That’s better,” Red Robin says and silently takes off his head covering.

“Tim motherfucking Drake?!” you nearly scream out, and rapidly cover your mouth. Batman’s and Nightwing’s eyes grow to the size of dinnerplates, and Spoiler just continues laughing.

Nightwing looks up and down the hallway, checking to see if the coast is clear, and then rapidly takes Spoiler by the shoulders and scoots her forward into the cramped room, walks in himself and closes the door behind him, “locking” you in here with four masked people.

The person you knew over the specialized chatroom as “Tim” (or Timbus, as you like to call him) is Timothy Jackson Drake, adopted son of Bruce Wayne and a well known heir to his fortune.

Which would mean…

“There is no way on this earth that Bruce Wayne is Batman,” you look between the one unmasked and three masked people. Batman, as if sensing coving further would be impossible, pinches the bridge of his nose through his helmet, deeply sighs, and then removes his helmet too.

Of course you were right.

---

Author's note: I made reader a little analytical weirdo that kinda puts stuff together faster than normal people, because most chemist in my course are like that (analytical chem does that to a person). I am actively trying to not make reader do sherlock-ass explanations but at the same time I don't want this fic to sound like all of the epiphanies are pulled out of my ass

[chemistasshat]

-After introducing Chemist!reader to the Young Justice team (without giving away their identities), reader and Tim are chilling at the tower, looking over a case file-

Tim: So now that you know a lot of Gotham vigilantes and other heroes, who would you say is your hero? Your biggest inspiration

Chemist!reader: Bartholomew Allen

Tim: THE FLASH???? BUT YOU'VE NEVER MET HIM?!

Reader: No dumbass, I mean the chemist!

Tim: ...

Reader: HOLD UP, IS DR. ALLEN THE FUCKING FLASH?

Bart, speeding in: I HEARD MY GRANDFATHER'S NAME?!

Reader: ...what?

Tim: ...

Reader: Tim

Tim:

Reader: TIM YOU BETTER START EXPLAINING

[chemistasshat]

Friendly Neighborhood Chemist

Part IX

Pairing: Batfam/chemist!reader (platonic), Unknown/chemist!reader (romantic) (now I do this to be mysterious, the love interest has been chosen)

Wordcount: 1,4k

Summary: You really need better awareness. Thankfully, those vigilantes really do care if you come home

Masterlist / Prequel / Part I / Part VIII

Living in the Wayne manor meant you had access to their premium kitchen.

Your cooking skills were mediocre as hell. But goddamn did it feel nice to cook in a place where you had more than half a square meter to work with. And to sometimes make homemade cat treats for Wally the kitten, who has nearly doubled in size and fluff since you’ve found him.

When you made yourself snacks and questionable food combinations, you didn’t want to bother Alfred, no matter how many times the butler told you it’s alright. You didn’t grow up with this kind of luxury, so having someone do things as trivial as fixing a plate of peeled apple slices for you felt foreign.

It also makes you feel less like a mooch, even if it’s only the occasional groceries or a chicken salad.

“Timboy, I’m going to the store under my old apartment building, do you want anything?” you yell from your side of the Batcave. 

Well, it’s not really “your” side. It is just a corner space with some equipment, as most of the heavy machines are upstairs in the designated rooms. Two lab tables next to an industrial sink, stocked with top-of-the-line glassware and equipment. A single ergonomic chair on wheels is pushed next to one of the tables, over which hangs your coat.

The coat Barbara has been pushing you to replace, as it is sprinkled with small holes and stains of every colour of the rainbow. But you can’t let go of it, as it is still usable and comfortable.

“Why do you go to that store? Just ask Alfred or the staff to buy the stuff next time he goes to shop for the house,” Tim replies without looking away from the computer screen.

“Because the old couple that runs the store is kind to me and I get the soda on discount ever since the mugging incident,” you explain while walking towards the Batcave elevator. 

The big clock on the wall above it shows 9pm. Today feels like yet another all-nighter for you, because doctor Jonathan Crane has broken out of Arkham and is probably tweaking the fear toxin formula, so instead of sitting on your ass and waiting for an improved batch to hit the streets, you are figuring out where he can even take the blueprint next.

“Get me a diet cola,” Tim yells after you as the elevator arrives and you get in.

You throw a thumbs up as the doors close behind you.

As soon as you leave the grocery store and wave goodbye to the smiling old lady behind the counter, you realize you have made a mistake.

Not because you are out in Gotham after dark without a gun, no.

It’s because the backpack with your groceries is heavy as hell and you have to carry it on foot back to the manor.

The metro still works until 1am. From the last metro station, the buses will take you to the edge of the city, from where you will have to walk for more than twenty minutes all the way to the manor. 

While it’s not particularly cold, hauling several kilos of energy drinks, sodas and a massive loaf of bread isn’t an activity that can keep one warm.

You put your headphones on and turn on noise cancelling. The sun has long set and the night insanity of this city is loud, the kind of loud that makes you roll your eyes in annoyance.

You adjust the straps of your backpack and start the journey back to the manor.

The bass of the music thrums loud enough to drown out the faraway police sirens, the couple loudly fighting with the window open on the ground floor, and (to your misfortune), the footsteps of a mugger following a “respectable” distance behind you.

On the rooftops of the adjacent street, a young boy in bright clothing and cape notices.

He taps the earpiece. “Drake, is your pet scientist currently out and about in Gotham currently?”

A crackle on the other end. ”Yes?” it is more a question than an answer, a prompt for Damian to continue.

“They have been walking for a block without realizing someone is following them,” he says.

A deep sigh echoes over the comm.

“Can you take care of it?”

Damian rolls his eyes. He knows Tim cannot see it, so he allows himself small victories.

“...yes.”

He stalks on the roof, jumping from building to building, grappling hook in hand. You still walk, taking corners and waiting at stoplights, oblivious to potential danger. 

“Lives with several vigilantes, still has zero situational awareness,” the boy grumbles as he watches you look both ways (but not behind you) as you cross the street.

“Do you want me to call them and tell them what’s going on?” Tim asks, still active on the line. Damian grits his teeth and stops on a rooftop to look over the virtual map of Gotham maintained by Oracle, showing hotspots and potential crimes. It shows a relatively low activity, giving him a reprieve.

“I can handle this myself,” he snaps and cuts the comm-line.

Looking over the edge of the roof, he attempts to find you in the streets again.

Ah, the idiot mugger is speeding up his steps right after you, closing the distance, while you are still unaware.

He has to reprimand Tim for letting you be this careless. You’re valuable to the family unharmed, and his brothers would not be pleased if you got hurt outside.

Damian leaps down from the rooftop with the grappling hook firmly in place, allowing him to swing down and land only paces after the man. He knows he will be fast enough to catch him before he gets to you, but a pang of worry for you hits his heart regardless.

He lands nearly soundlessly, but the streetlamps track his caped body as a shadow over the adjacent building. 

You see the shadow move from the corner of your eye.

When you turn around to see what casted it, you just barely see a gloved hand reaching for you, but instead of extending further and actually touching your backpack or shoulder, it does a downward curve. The person behind the arm, a strange man in a beanie and a ratty hoodie, falls face first, unable to put his arms under his torso to catch himself.

By the time you jump back from surprise, the man is faceplanted on the pavement, and you can clearly see a small, bright silhouette, standing over him.

You two stare at each other. Well, you are pretty sure he is staring at you, but with the white coverings of his eyes on the mask make it a little hard to know. Slowly, you reach up to take off your noise-cancelling headphones.

Damian speaks first.

“He has been following you for two blocks.” There is a snarky teenager sort of mocking in his tone, the kind that makes people who don’t know roll their eyes.

You nod. “Thank you for taking care of it.” Your own tone is carefully neutral.

He scoffs, but nods back regardless. “You’re welcome.” 

You continue to stare. A weak, cold breeze moves Damian’s cape and you are faintly aware that this pseudo stand-off would be incomprehensible to anyone outside the Bats.

“You’d make a bad vigilante,” he jabs, with the same snarky voice.

You shrug. The mindfulness of your surroundings isn’t your strong suit, outside of the lab or the Batcave. You haven’t had your instincts honed by Tibetan monks or Batman or the League of Assassins.

You are just a regular person. 

But you have a feeling Damian doesn’t usually interact with those.

“Good thing I am not trying to become a vigilante,” you quip back.

You don’t have to see through the eye coverings to deduce he rolls his eyes.

“Stick to your analysis,” he semi-commands, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

You smile. “Will do.” You turn around to continue walking to the metro station and throw a wave over your shoulder. 

There is a faint noise of a zipline getting shot into the air, and you don’t even have to look up to the top of the building next to you to know he will watch your journey all the way home.

Taglist:

Just chemist!reader works: @k-tsuyuri @aperolspritzzz @vampire-oc-lover @sheep-from-rad @starmaniii @ifera-ilsa @nervousdreamcookiepanda @punksnotdeadbutiam

Everything: @katzline @pixiedustaddictsblog @kiicchii @himelita @yumnumz @yuurisfavblog @literallyrousseau

[chemistasshat]

Friendly Neighborhood Chemist

Part III

Pairing: Batfam/chemist!reader (platonic), Unknown/chemist!reader (romantic) (i am not saying unknown to be mysterious, i am saying unknown because i have not decided)

Wordcount: 1,3k

Summary: Awoken and rested, you meet Tim's sister and see a weird kid

Masterlist / Prequel / Part I / Part II / Part IV

When you wake up again, you don’t know what time it is.

You make a point not to have a clock that gives light, it wakes you up too easily. You reach around for your phone…

…it is in your lab coat in your hallway, uncharged. Shit.

The blinds are closed, the room is nearly pitch black, yet you orient yourself by touch until you find the small lamp on your nightstand.

The light nearly blinds you. A minute later, you stand up, hobbling like a zombie, towards the hallway.

You spot the lighter blob in the darkness, your lab coat. You know which pocket the phone is in, and yet you always reach for the wrong one first by accident.

The phone doesn’t even turn on. Dead.

“Fuck,” you swear softly into the silence of the apartment.

By the time you find your charger, you feel mentally ready to open the blinds and find out if you have slept through the whole day again.

The answer is, unsurprisingly, yes.

It’s a classic, Gotham night outside. Your apartment is far enough off the ground that you can see the sky and the clouds.

And the massive light, shaped in the symbol of a bat, coming from above the GCPD.

Yesterday’s (today’s?) escapades fly through your mind.

Another thing to take care of.

While your phone still regains a little bit of life, you decide to ignore the inevitable issues coming by taking thirty minutes for yourself.

A shower, some coffee, a fresh change of clothes.

You turn on your phone and wait for it to boot up. In the meantime, you open the fridge to find… a bottle of ketchup, a can of blue redbull, and a glass container of kimchi.

You look at your phone and debate which grocery store is the closest.

And then you look at the time.

10PM. Shit.

As notifications start coming in, you notice there has been no contact from Tim’s app. It looks like he is either sleeping, or he has respected your word and waits for you to call him.

You put your fingerprint on the phone and scan your face to open the app. In hindsight, now you see why he gave you these security measures, if he truly is Red Robin.

WWhite: Timothy Jackson Drake Wayne

You smirk to yourself. Using his full government name as a power-play seems funny, even though you know he probably knows yours as well.

WWhite: I have woken up. Had stellar, dreamless 8 hours of sleep. 

WWhite: What the fuck do I do now?

You put the phone down on the kitchen counter and go back to the hallway to rummage in your backpack. You find a stray protein bar (useful when you get hungry in a lab) (and also useful now).

While munching, you start charging your laptop to look over the data from yesterday, but you pause before you even open the file.

Should you? This is classified information from fucking Batman. You don’t even know if you’re gonna be “working for him” in the future at all.

Shit, if Tim “fires” you from being his personal analyst, you will have to give him back all of the expensive machines you use for said analysis. You won’t even have money for the lab apartment anymore, because most of the money you make comes from the daily analyses you make for… the entire bat entourage.

Before you can spiral even further into worst-case scenarios, your phone starts ringing.

Unknown number? You wouldn't put it past Tim or Bruce to somehow find your phone number.

You pick up, somehow unsurprised by the voice on the other end. 

“How soon can you be picked up?” Tim, sounding less tired than before he left this apartment. Dick did actually make good on his word and made him go to sleep.

“If I can charge my phone and laptop at your…” you struggle to find the word “mansion, right now.”

—

The waiting takes all of ten minutes. Which is weird, because you distinctly remember the way from the manor to your flat taking longer this morning.

You try to blame that discrepancy on your delirium and not on the fact that Tim drives like an insane person.

This time, you are allowed in the passenger seat, but you kinda wish you were in the back.

By the time you get out of the car at the mansion, you are very glad you did not have a big breakfast. “Next time, let ANYONE ELSE drive. Jesus Christ Tim!” 

Tim pouts. “But I wanted to pick my friend up.”

You scoff. “You don’t even know if your dad will allow us to STAY friends.”

“Okay, point one, it doesn’t matter what Bruce tells me to do, I will still be your friend. You are funny and I enjoy talking to you even outside of asking you to do analysis,” he says. You are slightly touched, if he did not go on to ruin it in the next sentence.

“And point two, I have done a second check of your background, showed Bruce the results, and he agrees that you are not dangerous.”

“I could be dangerous.”

Tim barks out a laugh. “Throwing a can of cola at a mugger? Nope.”

The door to the mansion automatically opens on a mechanism. You suspect there was a scanner somewhere on the massive porch, a scanner that read Tim’s presence and let you both in.

In the entrance hall, before you even take off your shoes, you are stopped dead by a pair of piercing, dark brown eyes.

The woman in front of you is built slimmer than Tim, but commands a presence of someone who knows how to incapacitate you with one hand without spilling a single drop of coffee they are holding with the other.

You feel studied under her gaze. Like she sees into your soul and reads everything about you in seconds.

You stare at each other for a hot minute, before Tim breaks the silence. “Hi Cass.”

The woman, Cass, glances over and nods at Tim. She is dressed for going out, casual clothes and a jacket.

You expect her to say hi back, but instead Cass signs something to Tim with a raised eyebrow. You look at him, waiting for him to explain, but he avoids eye contact and signs something back.

Ah, a mode of communication that you don’t understand. Real mature.

Cass looks you in the eyes again and nods at you, then walks around you to get to her shoes and leave the house. Tim tugs you along, out of the hall and into the next room.

“Good talk,” you sarcastically say to the girl with your back to her and follow Tim.

“Don’t worry, she approves of you. She’s not deaf, she just doesn’t talk,” he reassures you.

“How do you know she approves of me?”

“She said so. You don’t speak ASL, do you?” he asks. You shake your head.

Tim waves his hand dismissively. “If she didn’t approve, she would be much more hostile. This was practically a glowing review.”

You let out a puff of air and as you walk by the kitchen, you see a small, spiky-haired child sitting next to the kitchen island. His eyes are an unnerving green colour and seem to faintly glow. It kinda makes your skin crawl.

As soon as you step out of the view in the hallway, you shudder openly.

Tim, probably not noticing your momentary heebie jeebies, points down the hallway. “C’mon, Bruce and Duke will be in the Batcave.” 

[chemistasshat]

Friendly Neighborhood Chemist

Part VII

Pairing: Batfam/chemist!reader (platonic), Unknown/chemist!reader (romantic) (I will choose the love interest soon)

Wordcount: 2,1k (I wrote this during breaks between measuring my bachelor's thesis)

Summary: An impromptu run for fast food gets you blessed by the cat distribution system

Masterlist / Prequel / Part I / Part VI / Part VIII

It is 3am and you are in the middle of centrifuging a biochemical sample.

You know the chromatography is gonna take at least 2 more hours after that, meaning you can probably take a look at other samples you have during the wait.

Two-Face, in all his Jekyll and Hyde glory, has switched suppliers for cocaine (after Jason did good on his promise and tracked down the last one). Meaning you now have 4 samples for 3 different batches to test.

Fucking hell.

At least it is Nightwing's week in town. Which means he will inevitably drop in with takeout in the middle of the night.

You like to joke Bludhaven and Gotham are the divorced parents and Dick is the kid stuck in split custody. One week (sometimes two) in Bludhaven, then a couple days in Gotham to help out the family.

On such days, he visits you. Forces you into semi-healthy habits (such as ventilating the lab more) and feeds you quality food (and not cereal/protein bars).

The centrifuge beeps after finishing the program. After gloving up, you take a syringe and suck in precisely enough material from the top of the little glass. The bottom you discard into the biohazard bin.

“Hard at work, I see.”

It's only through self-discipline and numerous months of getting used to this that you don't jump out of your own skin at Richard Grayson sneaking up on you like that.

“You really should not announce yourself like that while I am holding,” you gesture with the filled syringe, “whatever this is.”

Dick waves it off with a grin. “At worst, it shatters.” The nonchalant reply has you shooting him an unimpressed look.

“Cass found this shit in the sewers. God knows what this is.”

The man, still in his suit, cringes.

“Croc?” “If I find out this came from Croc I am asking Bruce to pay me extra.”

Dick nods in solidarity.

You check the machine for air pockets in the column, and after finding none, you inject the dissolved sample in.

One addition to the lab apartment that you got since being the “official” analyst for the Bats is a cupboard with miscellaneous clothes the vigilantes called “civvies”, to change quickly into (mostly for Tim when he stays to keep you company).

Dick, without shame, takes off his suit, leaving him in compression pants and without a shirt. You are only half-turned away, focusing on something else (and now trying furiously not to blush).

You think he doesn't even do it on purpose. This is just how he is.

He puts on a random shirt and sweatpants, giving you pause.

“Isn’t it the middle of your patrol? Are you staying here?”

Dick turns around to you. “Tim told me that you have not had food since eight in the evening, so to force you to eat, we are going to Batburger.”

“Grayson, I just put this to analyze, it will take at least two more hours. And I wanted to get a headstart on the new samples Two-Face flooded the streets with, and there are the- Richard you better stop.” You know he is ragebaiting you when he starts flapping his hand in the shape of a mouth to mock you for speaking so fast.

“Excuses excuses, you workaholic. You are like Tim, except Tim sleeps after the caffeine-filled work,” he waves you off. “You are getting food. Babs can monitor the equipment from the lab, there are cameras in here.”

“I fucking knew you put cameras in here.”

“I didn’t, Bruce did.”

The Batburger is so empty that nobody even notices the prodigal son of Bruce Wayne ordering an unholy amount of fries with a random person. The person at the cash register looks mildly dead inside and takes your order without question.

You end up eating in the crisp air of the parking lot outside, sitting on the curb. Walking through Gotham during the night seems suicidal, but you have to remind yourself you are walking next to a vigilante (who is in sweatpants and a hoodie he stole from you at the lab).

“Just so you know I am judging you for taking mayonnaise out of all of the sauces they had,” you said while pointing at Dick with a fry.

“Hey! I am in the mood for some mayonnaise!” he says, offended.

“Bro who has the mood for mayonnaise? MAYONNAISE?” you say, eating the last fry. The Robin cheeseburger is calling your name from the bag.

“I am not taking shit from someone whose sense of smell is fucked from formaldehyde,” Dick claps back.

“Is formaldehyde the only smelly chemical you could think of? I rarely work with it,” you counter after you finish chewing. Dick throws his hands up in surrender.

Before you two can begin jokingly roast each other again, you hear a distressed yowl from across the parking lot.

Your heads snap to look towards where the noise is coming from, but you see nothing. 

When the next noise of similar nature sounds out, you both immediately stand up, Bat burger wrappers forgotten. It takes Dick no time to locate where it came from (you blame his inner vigilante senses), with you following right behind him.

In the back of the lot, an expensive looking car seems to be the source of the mewls.

Or rather, what’s under it.

You shine your phone flashlight to reveal a tiny, damp kitten, with a tail and fur so puffed up it looks almost comical. The poor thing looks underfed and scared out of its mind.

One look shared between you and Dick confirms it. You aren’t leaving it there.

“You hold the light and I am getting it out,” Dick commands. Somehow, you don’t question it.

He drops to the ground, completely uncaring about staining his hoodie, and slowly crawls under the car, until he is under the chassis up to his waist. Your phone light shows him where the ball of fur is.

The little kitten sits mostly unmoving, the only signs of existence being the pitiful meows it lets out. When Dick gets to within arms reach of the little guy, you hear a yell from the direction of the fast food building.

“What are you dickheads doing with my car?!”

You turn your neck, making sure to still shine your phone so that your "partner in crime” can see. You know if you yell, the kitten might flee, so you wait for the man to get closer to where you are awkwardly squatting.

You try to speak as calmly as possible. “There is a kitten under your car, Richard’s trying to get it.”

When the owner of the car gets close enough, you can smell his rancid breath, mixing with his strong deodorant (it’s nearly four in the morning, you try not to judge). He looks between you, your phone, Dick slowly moving under his car, and back to you.

He sucks in a sharp breath and clenches a hand.

“He better not damage the beauty, it was expensive,” he hisses out between his teeth.

“The beauty?” you ask, confused.

The man rolls his eyes. “The fuckin’ car, bitch.”

You are shooting daggers with your mind into the man’s face with all the energy you can muster, so you don’t notice the meows of distress stopping and Dick slowly sliding out from the car. But you do notice the hand he puts on your shoulder.

Dick, completely ignoring the annoyed man, shows you a little, orange kitten he is holding with a single hand.

And you just melt.

“Oh my god! Hi little guy, hi baby, oh you are so little and so cute. Just a baby boy- wait is he a boy?” your eyes flick over to Dick. 

Dick turns the little kitten towards him and looks him over. “I think so?”

Both of you gush over the little guy, completely forgetting the third person in the parking lot, who has walked around the two of you, squatted down and started suspiciously eyeing the underside of the car.

And so he shatters your bliss.

“If I find out you fucked up my car, I will call the police,” he spits out as he runs a hand over a random part of the vehicle. You aren’t an expert in cars, but you are pretty sure he has no idea what he is doing, but just wants to seem important.

Dick ruins that image by not even bothering to look the man in the eyes as he verbally snubs him. “My dad can pay for it, just call this number,” and he hands you the kitten, takes out his wallet from his pockets, flips it open and takes out a business card that he holds out to the stranger between two of his fingers.

You see in that singular moment, that the owner of the car realizes he is talking to the adoptive son of Bruce Wayne, THE Dick Grayson.

“Right uh-”

But Dick doesn’t pay attention to him and motions for you both to leave the second the business card is out of his hand. 

You fold after one sentence from Dick to not go back to your lab, but to instead go back to your regular apartment. 

“Little guy needs a bath.”

There aren’t even questions to see if you are keeping him. Of course you were.

And so, on the way back, you both animatedly discuss the little guy, who now purrs in your arms, drowning in the soft arms of your hoodie.

“So we need to get him to a vet. The little guy looks so young, probably not even chipped. He need milk, a chip under your name, a check for illnesses and worms,” Dick lists out while reading from his phone.

“Pause. A chip under my name? Your manor is more equipped to take in animals, I spend all of my free time in the lab,” you argue.

Dick is sheepish and apologetic. “Well, I live in two cities, it wouldn’t be fair to the guy.”

“And I spend my time in the lab, which is twenty minutes of walking from my apartment.”

“Not if you live at the manor,” Dick says, with a sudden stroke of genius.

You both fall into a tense silence as you think it over. Tim has been hinting for you to live with them for months. You know they have the space for it, and the safety in the lab would be better. The results would get to the Bats faster, and you would be safer with two vigilantes (and an Alfred) in the manor at all times.

In the end, you see only one downside.

“Won’t Bruce see me as mooching off him?” you say quietly while scratching the kitten’s head between his little ears.

Dick snorts. “Please, he will just see it as repayment for taking a load of work off of Tim, Babs and himself. He would be happy to let you live there.”

“Then I guess I will take that deal,” you reply, and smile down at the little kitten.

You don’t notice Dick furiously texting the entire family groupchat (sans you) with celebratory emojis. You will find that out later, after you get a very excited Tim on your doorstep with packing boxes at 8am.

But now, you are content, walking with the little guy.

You keep calling him “kitten” and “little guy” internally, but you know he needs a name.

“Dick, what should we call him?”

Dick thinks for a moment, closing the groupchat. He looks at the kitten intensely and gets a hilarious idea.

“We have so many ginger friends, we should steal their names. Like Alfred the Cat.”

You burst out laughing, startling the little guy in your arms. The kitten lets out a high-pitched “eep” and goes back to purring.

“Well, I don’t know most of them. The only one I have actually met is Babs, but I have seen pictures of Roy and Kori from Jason,” you suggest.

Dick shakes his head. “This one is too small to be Kori and too thin to be Roy. Both of them have biceps bigger than his entire body.”

“Then I don’t know anyone else.”

Dick starts swiping on his phone and shows you a picture. “The name’s Wally.”

You take one look at the lithe runner’s physique, the wild head of ginger, the freckles, and you know.

“Wally it is.”

Dick shoots a text to his speedster friend, knowing damn well what kind of chaos he will be bringing to your doorstep eventually.

“Alright. Welcome to the family, Wally the Cat.”

You both giggle like pre-teens at recess in a mud pit when you reach your apartment. Dick’s eyes twinkle, and he realizes this one night might have changed your life forever.

But now, he focuses on more pressing issues.

“Okay, after we bathe him, we are going to the vet. We have to get him checked for fleas before he is allowed to sleep with you in your bed.”

“How did you know I would allow him to sleep in my bed.”

“Because of course you would.”

“Yeah.”

Taglist:

Just chemist!reader works:

@k-tsuyuri @aperolspritzzz @vampire-oc-lover @sheep-from-rad @starmaniii @ifera-ilsa

Everything:

@katzline @pixiedustaddictsblog @kiicchii @himelita @yumnumz @yuurisfavblog

An: You might be clocking who is my favourite part of the batfam with the lenght of this mfing fic :DD

[chemistasshat]

Friendly Neighborhood Chemist

Part VI

Pairing: Batfam/chemist!reader (platonic), Unknown/chemist!reader (romantic) (I will choose the love interest soon)

Wordcount: 1,4k

Summary: You get a guest when you are dead on your feet (As "reader ranks the batfamily suits" was voted first on the poll, I made this first)

Masterlist / Prequel / Part I / Part V / Part VII

Your head feels like it’s exploding and imploding at the same time.

There are two trays full of various samples from the Bats due to a new drug hitting the streets. Scarecrow, the massive cunt, tuned up one of his toxins to make the hallucinations also disable adrenaline re-uptake, causing blood pressure spikes and heart rate to go through the roof. 

And to top it all off, a gang war started in Bludhaven. Dick has been giving you bullet casings and blood samples by the bucketload.

You are definitely in over your head, or at least it feels like it. You either need an assistant, a second pair of arms, or a vacation.

The machine beeps and pulls you out of your trance. The monitor right next to it shows a spectrum and you have to blink numerous times just to make sure you aren’t hallucinating.

You open the app for communicating with the vigilantes.

WWhite: WHERE THE HELL DID TWO-FACE GET THIS STUFF? WHAT THE FUCK?  

LegalBlonde: Bruce has been trying to figure that out for weeks. Do you have any idea what it is?

WWhite: The alkaloids in the cocaine you gave me suggests it’s from South America (most probably), mixed with some weird stuff… it was probably smuggled by being dissolved in wine

LegalBlonde: How do you know that?

LegalBlonde: Actually, I don’t want to know

LegalBlonde: Send the report over to the cave pc

WWhite: I don’t even have the report done

WWhite: This app doesn’t have emojis so I cannot possibly write down how tired I am, but like… I still have some things to put into the UHPLC-MS and those things take soooo long

WWhite: I gotta babysit it for the entire time it’s going because of the way this lab is set up

LegalBlonde: You can’t take a nap while the thing chuggs in the background?

WWhite: I definitely shouldn’t

LegalBlonde: Damn

When Stephanie stops responding, you know she hit something on her patrol. Whenever she is free, she texts you back.

You sigh deeply. You could start with the bullet casings, but that would mean opening the database for weapons white the machine still hums away in the background. Just the thought makes you feel overwhelmed.

Fuck it, roof time.

Sometimes when the lab gets too hectic and you need a break, you climb the fire escape and get onto the roof. Next to the window leading out, there is a folding chair leaning against the wall. You take it (and the jacket on the floor next to it) and open the window.

Fresh air does you good. The rooftop is calm at this time of the night and the black of night greets you like a friend.

Not even ten minutes into sitting down, you hear the crunch of boots on the roof to the left of you.

You don’t look over and just keep staring into the abyss that is the Gotham night sky.

“You alright?”

The voice makes the hairs at the back of your neck stand up. Doesn’t matter that you know he’s not a danger to you, something unsettles you every time he starts speaking.

But, over the month or so you have known him, you learnt to school your expressions and get your shudders under control.

You see Jason’s black-red silhouette out of the corner of your eye. He stands a few steps away, guns holstered and mask on.

“I nearly touched something that was eighty percent cocaine with my bare hands because I was so tired, and somehow that is the least worrying of the things I did tonight,” you mumble to answer him.

“Two-face and his desperate grab for the drug market?”

“Unfortunatelly.”

Jason, whenever he “visits”, just drops in and talks. Never gives a sample or wants analysis, just hangs out with you for an hour during his patrol. You know he is doing it to piss off Bruce sometimes, even though they patched their relationship up two weeks ago.

But you appreciate the company. He always strategically chooses days when he knows Tim won’t appear in person at the apartment. You don’t know if he’s doing it to hide his friendship with you from the bats, or to avoid interacting with the family unless he has to.

Ironically enough, he is fine with Tim, even if the occasional “replacement” leaves his mouth. 

“I could take care of it,” Jason offers awkwardly.

You throw your hands up. “Take care of it how? Suddenly make it impossible to smuggle cocaine into the country? Instantly identify his supplier? Kill him?”

He sucks in a breath. “Weeeeeeell…”

“Don’t even think about it,” you fire back.

You lapse into comfortable silence. Jason eventually sits down on the ground next to your chair and looks into the night with you.

A few rooftops over, you catch a glimpse of a black figure, rapidly running across and jumping to the adjacent building.

“There’s Cass,” you point to where you saw her. You know Jason has probably already noticed her. He hums softly.

You think for a few minutes and then toss an opinion into the ether. “You know, out of everybody, I would say I like her costume the best.”

“Even more than mine?” His head turns to you and you can hear the raised eyebrow in his voice.

You shrug. “I don’t know man, there is something about her whole head being covered by the suit, no mouth visible, with the white eye coverings that is just so cool.”

“Who’s your second favourite then?” he probes. 

You turn to look at him questioningly. “Are you asking to have blackmail material?” You imitate his voice in a comical manner, “Cover for me or I will tell Tim that his suit is your least favourite.”

Jason starts snickering. “You also don’t like his suit?”

“NO! It gives him horrible helmet hair after he takes off the cowl. His cape and suit are fine but every time he comes to chat he has to use my hairbrush. It feels like a crime,” you explain and gesture wildly to your own hair. The snickers from Jason turns into laughter.

You point a finger at him, accusingly. However, before you have time to say anything, the laughter becomes contagious and you dissolve into a fit of giggles.

A minute later, after you semi-calm down, you continue. “At least your hair is shorter, it just remains pushed back under the helmet. His fringe gives him a bowlcut.”

“Any other scathing opinions on my family’s suits?” Neither of you comments how he called all of them his family. Baby steps.

“Not a scathing opinion, I just really like Duke’s armoured suit. It’s cool as fuck.”

“Yeah, his powers and the glowing bat symbol give him an unfair advantage,” Jason concedes.

“Yeah. He is the second favourite.”

Still sitting next to you, Jason pokes your leg that's closer to him. “Where am I on this list?”

“There’s no actual list, Red,” you correct him, but he just pokes you again.

“So then make one.”

You throw your hands up in mock defeat. “Okay okay! Let me think.”

You take out your phone and open the notes app to make a list.

Jason watches you type, think, type again, tap your phone to get to a different place in the list, erase, type, and rinse and repeat for a good ten minutes.

“Damn, it cannot be that hard to rank-” “But it is!” you cut him off and go back to typing. Under his helmet, he has to bite his lip to not start laughing.

Ten more minutes of searching for good photos of the costumes online and editing your list later, you shove your phone in Jason’s face.

“Why did you put my Robin costume so low?!”

“Because you were a kid running around without pants! How were you not cold?”

“I was!”

“So then what’s the issue?”

He huffs and scans the upper part of the list.

“You put Grayson above me! He is just in spandex!” 

“I like blue more than red and Dick is nicer to me,” you justify yourself.

“This is about costumes, not about Dick dropping off a batburger at 2AM!” 

“It is to me!”

Jason gives you your phone back, dramatically takes off his helmet and puts his head in his hands. It is so absurd you cannot help but snort.

Suddenly, his head snaps up and his unnaturally bright green eyes look into your own.

“If I stop Two-Face from getting more cocaine into the streets will I go to the top?”

3 reblogs and I will comment my ranking of the suits

Taglist:

Just chemist!reader works:

@k-tsuyuri

@aperolspritzzz

@vampire-oc-lover

@sheep-from-rad

@starmaniii

@ifera-ilsa

Everything:

@katzline

@pixiedustaddictsblog

@kiicchii

@himelita

@yumnumz

@yuurisfavblog

[chemistasshat]

Friendly Neighborhood Chemist

Part V

Pairing: Batfam/chemist!reader (platonic), Unknown/chemist!reader (romantic) (i am not saying unknown to be mysterious, i am saying unknown because i have not decided)

Wordcount: 1,2k words (these all seem to be coming out the same lenght lmao)

Summary: A break in. Or is it?

Masterlist / Prequel / Part I / Part IV / Part VI

You settle in a routine. A weird routine, but a routine nonetheless.

You become a night owl (as if you weren’t already), as your schedule starts aligning with the nightly patrols of most of the Bat family. Granted, you sometimes stay up until lunch when Duke shows up at your lab apartment with a sample or two, but you mostly stick to working the graveyard shift.

You are really glad your lab apartment is on the top floor of the apartment building, as the walk up the fire escape to the roof is brief and leaves nearly no room to trip. The height when you look down through the grate gives you nightmares sometimes, but you have to live with that.

The app Tim developed has gained new members. Each of the vigilantes is saved as a nickname instead of their hero persona or their real name, as per Batman’s rules. 

While he was pleased you ran with the restriction, he was less pleased to be called Community Dad on your phone.

Tim begins talking more over the phone. Sometimes, on days when he doesn’t patrol out in the streets, he and Barbara call you and the three of you talk about anything and everything, while you do analysis and the two of them do vigilante stuff. It even allows you to hear Barbara’s side of the daily comm chatter, much to the dismay of Bruce.

You’re not sure how many half-hearted “it is a liability to let them know so much” the Bat has left in him before he gives up. 

More than once, Tim suggests moving the lab to the manor, so you three can talk to each other, rather than waste your phone data. The more he says it, the more you seriously consider it.

You don’t know most of the Bats that well. Damian is elusive, Cass rarely interacts with you, and Dick moves weekly between Bludhaven and Gotham.

But you do know them well enough to distinguish their suits.

So when you see a flash of red and black on the rooftop of the building next to yours, you just open a window.

“TIM, IF YOU WANT SOMETHING JUST FUCKING COME HERE!” 

You are glad that you live in Gotham just this once, as yelling like this is not only normal, but an hourly occurrence.

You turn away from the window. Every week, sometimes even multiple times a week, Tim drops in wearing a different suit, fresh from the manor. He justifies it with “calling is not enough, I want to see my best friend”. His usual red suit is replaced with a black, non-descript suit, to make it harder to link you to Red Robin.

But sometimes, he just forgets, or he wants to see his friend after a patrol and laugh at cat videos while you wait for the analysis result of the weird liquid he found in an alley.

You thought this was one of those times.

You hear a quiet sound of boots falling on metal and someone stepping into the lab apartment. Still with your back to the window, you sit down next to the MALDI-TOF machine and tap away on your laptop.

“Leave the samples in the tray, I still have a couple from Steph from yesterday I couldn’t get to.”

Tim says nothing, uncharacteristically quiet, and you turn around to ask him if something is wrong.

Only you don’t see Tim, you come face-to-face with Red Hood. 

Anti-hero extraordinaire, sometimes works with the Bats, and most famously, the only real killer of the bunch. Built like a wall of muscle and in possession of two pistols.

You freeze. The white eye-covers of the mask covering his face are unreadable. 

Your eyes flick all around the room, trying to find something to defend yourself with. You don’t know if Batman notified Red Hood of your collaboration with him and his family, so you also consider the fact that he is here to rob you.

Rob you of what? 

“Are you here for the chemicals?” you ask, voice mildly shaking. You know some of the things in your flat can be used to synthesize drugs, and Red Hood was affiliated with drug cartels for a time.

The voice that comes from beneath the mask makes you shiver. “I am here to find why the birds and bats have been circling you like vultures circle corpses.”

His words tug on a part of your skull that you feel only when you get migraines. The graphic, albeit flowery, metaphor does not help either.

Okay, quick thinking. This man knows about the family coming to your place, but not for why. He probably watched while Tim, Steph or even Bruce came and went with samples-

It occurs to you he might even know their identities. Tim removes his mask almost as soon as he closes the window behind him. He can still be seen from the rooftops.

“I do chemical analysis for them. This is a lab,” you gesture to the machines around you, careful not to make any fast movements.

“Bullshit!” Red Hood snarls at you, “You expect me to believe this is a lab? In the middle of an apartment complex?”

“To be fair, the bats didn’t expect it either.”

You stare at him, waiting for a response.

He turns his head and looks around. One would expect a lab to be full of white paint, white tiles and sterile smells. (Which, to be fair, the smell is there.) 

You are aware this lab isn’t up to most safety protocols. Hell, if the police knew how you operate, you would probably face lofty fines. But after getting into debt to finish your master degree, you don’t really care. In Gotham, one must do everything to survive.

His eyes fall to the tray with samples in plastic bags. A bag of white powder labeled “4:08 AM, Batgirl”, a blood-stained piece of cloth labeled “2:35 AM, Robin”, and a bullet casing labeled “early morning, Tim”.

Red Hood picks up the baggie with the bullet and holds it up to you. “You know their names.”

Your heart falls to your stomach. You’re gonna get tortured so he can find out their identities.

“I won’t tell you anything!” you try to defend yourself and take a step back, but get surprised by the quick bark of laughter coming from the man.

“Relax, I know who dear old Brucie and the kids are. I don’t care about that.” He waves a hand in a dismissive manner. “I care more about why they suddenly bother with you. Don’t Oracle and Red Robin do this for them?”

“I have been doing this for Red Robin for the past three years, unofficially. Officially, I’ve only known them for two months.”

The man chuckles. “Of course the replacement had tricks up his sleeve.”

You frown. “Replacement?”

The vigilante goes silent. You look at him from head to toe and connect the dots.

“Ah. Tim told me about you. Hello Jason.”

“He told you about me?”

You purse your lips and suck in a breath. “He told me, and I quote, “Maybe my brother will visit once Bruce gets his head out of his ass and apologizes.””

You imagine that if the man’s face wasn’t obscured by a mask, you would see him blink twice, stunned. Instead, you just hear the silence and then he bends over and bursts out laughing.

Taglist

Just chemist!reader works:

@k-tsuyuri

@aperolspritzzz

@vampire-oc-lover

@sheep-from-rad

@starmaniii

@ifera-ilsa

Everything:

@katzline

@pixiedustaddictsblog

@kiicchii

@himelita

@yumnumz

@yuurisfavblog

[chemistasshat]

Friendly Neighborhood Chemist

Part IV

Pairing: Batfam/chemist!reader (platonic), Unknown/chemist!reader (romantic) (i am not saying unknown to be mysterious, i am saying unknown because i have not decided)

Wordcount: 1,2k words (shorter one today)

Summary: A verdict is reached, and you meet the nicest metahuman on earth.

Masterlist / Prequel / Part I / Part III / Part V

Tim leads you into the library, dodging shelf after shelf, until you both reach the back wall. Between two thick shelves sits a big, seemingly inactive grandfather clock.

He presses on a wooden carving underneath the glass on the face of the clock. The glass slides up and Tim moves the clock hands to a particular time.

“What kinda Scooby Doo shit is this?” you mumble to yourself as the glass slides back down and the hands move back to the previous place. Very surprisingly, the shelf that moves to open a door is completely silent and leaves no skid marks on the wooden floor. 

Tim beckons you to go with him down the stairs and you suddenly have the feeling that you could be murdered and never found.

In for a penny, you suppose, and go down the steps.

“No, Duke, you can’t. They are still a safety risk and can be traced to our public personas.”

As you near the bottom of the steps, you hear Bruce Wayne, the Batman (it still feels strange to say it in your head), arguing with who you assume is one of his adopted vigilante kids.

“Yeah, but I want to know what they have. If they can make anything that can cure my parents from the joker toxin,” comes a lighter voice. 

You come into the batcave from a different angle than this morning. The mass of computer screens is mostly turned off and nobody is sitting behind the desk, so the whole scene is less intimidating. On the benches near the garage-like entrance of the cave, Bruce (without his mask but in costume) sits in front of a standing yellow-clad vigilante.

You looked the entire family up after waking up to try to figure out which adolescent masked people were related to Batman. You conclude this is Signal, probably Duke Thomas.

You realize you have met all of the living adopted kids of Bruce Wayne, and one biological. The phantom you saw just minutes ago was Damian Wayne, his blood son, who now wears the mantle of Robin. Weird kid, but the genetics track, you remark internally.

Tim makes your presence known. “Bruce.” He then nods to the masked man, who nods back.

“Good you are here,” the older man remarks and looks at you. “I am sorry for my behavior this morning. It was unbecoming of me.”

You make a sweeping motion with your hand. “It happens. All of us have been awake all night.” Your eyes pass to the other person in the room, still in his mask. “Hello, I don’t think we’ve met. My name’s (Y/N),” you hold a hand out to shake.

The man looks at Bruce, as if for permission. Bruce nods.

The masked man takes your hand and shakes it. “Nice to meet you, my name’s Duke.” 

It takes you absolutely no time to figure out that Duke Thomas is your new favourite person. 

Because what follows the introduction is a game of 20 questions relating to your work and Duke’s abilities, while completely ignoring the upcoming verdict of the big Bat on whether you will continue to work with him and the other vigilantes.

“Okay but if you have XRay vision, how do you view different chemicals? Like, do you know what a barrel contains by just looking at it with the vision? Can you zoom in really really close and see individual atoms?” you ask. 

Around the second round of rapid-fire questions and answers between the two of you, you moved to sit down on a rogue office chair and Duke started pacing around, gesturing for emphasis.

Duke stops at your question and looks intently at the ground for a couple seconds.

You expectantly look on. Tim is kinda surprised you didn’t take out a notepad.

“It kind of just hurts my eyes. You know when you take a picture and zoom in really close and everything becomes pixellated?” he offers after he shuts his eyes and rubs over them. You nod in solidarity.

“What about the barrel question tho?”

Duke opens his eyes and gives you a toothy grin. “I can test it tomorrow.”

“Hell yeah,” you grin back, “tell me how it goes. I could teach you how to recognize some elements if your Xray vision works like regular XRay.”

Before Duke can plead for it to happen right away, Bruce cuts the conversation short. “You two are getting off topic here. We need to discuss the fact that you,” he points at Tim, “went against my wishes, and you,” he points at you, “are an untrained civilian who can be targeted to get to us.”

The mood instantly drops. From the few hours you have spent talking to the vigilantes, you know what Batman said is taken as law.

One wrong word you might need to look for a new job.

Before you can figure out a way to gracefully talk your way out of this, Tim comes to your rescue.

“Because of them, we have the results of everything you ask me to do in a shorter time. If I had to do it while still patrolling, or instead of maintaining Wayne industries, I would never get a break. The things you ask me and Babs do are complex. Most of the time, we can do it, but sometimes, we need help,” he explains. Somehow, he sounds so tired.

You have a distinct feeling there is a deep exhaustion in his bones, one mirrored in the older man. A wordless conversation goes between them with a staring contest, one you will probably never be privy to.

“Bruce, they are an expert. We need them.”

Bruce takes a deep breath and drags a hand over his face.

Duke, Tim and you all stay silent, as he appears to be thinking it over.

The man lets out a sigh.

You sense he reached a verdict in his mind. 

“Fine. The dead drops can continue. We can keep paying for the machines and the apartment. We will include the place in our patrol routes more.”

You let out a breath you don’t even realize you were holding. 

Tim and Duke share a glance, and then your friend turns to you.

“Welcome to the team, officially.”

Without words, you pull him into a hug.

After you let him go, you look at Bruce. “Thank you for the chance. I hope I won’t disappoint.” The only answer you get is a nod, because he stands up and moves to sit behind the bat computer.

Some of the screens light up and Bruce begins typing. You recognize some of the DNA sequencing results you did the day before. You hope your work is appreciated.

Duke steals your attention back with a tap on your shoulder.

“So, you up to teach me how to recognize elements?”

You practically beam at him as you pelt him with questions. “Does your Xray vision mean your eyes emit Xrays? Do you know what wavelengths and what intensity the radiation is? If you look at a material, do you know if it absorbs the rays?”

Bruce tunes out the conversation happening in the background and smiles to himself. While unconventional, he is glad his son has found a friend who he doesn't have to lie to, and who can fit in into this disaster of a family.