Title: No Dawn, No Day: Part Two
Fandom: DC Comics
Author:
quipquipquipPairing: eventual Damian Wayne/Stephanie Brown
Rating: R
Word Count: ~7000 words
Disclaimer: All characters belong to DC comics and are used without permission. No profit was made from this work. Non-beta'd, so all sleep-related errors are mine.
Warnings: Language, violence, character death. Chicken-related crimes.
Previous Parts:
Part One ALSO,
gabzilla-z drew me
fanart LOOKLOOKLOOKLOOKLOOK AND TELL HER HOW AMAZING SHE ISSSSSSS.
The new suit was, in a word, gorgeous. She could hardly believe that he'd designed and fabricated the entire thing in just three days. She'd always suspected that he didn't sleep like a sane person, but this pretty much cemented it as fact. She could tell just by eyeballing it that the suit would be a perfect fit---and she did not want to know how Damian had figured her measurements out---and it was so her she was flabbergasted. It was mostly black, an inky material that seemed to suck in light rather than reflect it. It was lighter than her previous one, and not nearly as stiff or bulky. The bat symbol across the chest wasn't the usual yellow, though.
It was purple. Her shade of purple. She traced its wingspan with her fingertips.
"The material is something new. Technically experimental," Damian explained, misinterpreting her reverent silence. He was frowning, looking at her searchingly. "It absorbs and redistributes kinetic energy to a ridiculous degree. You throw yourself into situations and...admittedly excel at punching your problems, so this uniform is tailored more to your needs. It will not rip, so you won't need to repair it." He paused. "It's...acceptable, isn't it?"
Steph couldn't keep the smile off her face. She grinned so hard, her cheeks hurt.
"This is just---it's---" Words failed her. She arched up on her toes and caught him in a one-armed hug, clutching the new suit to her chest. Damian expertly ducked out of her hug-slash-chokehold with a "Tt."
"It's beautiful," she gushed, still smiling. "Thank you."
"I told you," he drawled, rolling his eyes. "I'm simply making you more presentable. You act like you've never been given a gift before."
That statement hung awkwardly. Not one to let any silence settle for long, she held the suit up again and continued to beam.
"It has a hood," she observed, touching the violet fabric that lined it. It was different than the fabric of the rest of the suit---soft and warm, like fleece.
"Your old costume---that hideous Spoiler number---had one," he said, which both proved that he had taken the time to look it up and that he had cared enough to incorporate the details. Sensing that he'd been caught doing something thoughtful, he added, "It's only practical. You insist on having your hair free, so the hood can cover it. You won't draw as much attention to yourself and will be far more successful when you have to blend with the shadows. Unfortunately, I couldn't design anything that will shut you up for that long."
She refused to let her mood be dampened. "Do you miss yours?"
"My hood? Don't be ridiculous. I don't carry attachments to the silly costumes that my father put into tradition. If given a choice, I would wear something more practical. A trench coat, maybe."
Steph snorted at the idea.
"That's awful. Like it or not, the capes and pointy ears are part of the legacy. People need the Batman, so you have to play the part."
She regretted saying it as soon as the words left her mouth, because Damian's face was suddenly expressionless. It was a controlled look, a remote one. It was only an absence because he couldn't allow himself to show how he was feeling. It held all the expressiveness of a clock face, the right arrangement of features and nothing else.
"I know," Damian said curtly. "Believe me, I am acutely aware of my obligations."
"D, I didn't mean---"
"No. You're right. I am my father's heir, after all."
There'd been a moment there where he'd looked like and acted like a real person. The suit that she held in her hands was proof that he had put time, thought, and energy into making her something special. He might have done it just as a nice gesture, or he might have done it because he felt he owed it to her for the save with Ivy. Either way, he'd shown more expressiveness in the last eight minutes than she'd seen in the last eight years. She hated that she'd stuck her foot in her mouth and made all those invisible walls of his go right back up.
"Thank you," Steph repeated, with feeling. "This means a lot to me."
Damian harrumphed, sprawling in the console chair and adopting his signature frown-sneer once again. It was a welcome alternative to nothing at all.
"And you not gallivanting around in the same thing that you wore when you were eight years younger and twenty pounds lighter means a lot to me, Fatwoman."
Stephanie smacked the back of his head, hard.
*
Their first team-ups were not coordinated or planned for, or even expressly agreed upon. They were assumed, because both had realized that they were safer and more effective when they worked together. Despite their differences---and their arguments---they covered each others' blind spots almost seamlessly. They were no Batman and Robin, but Steph personally thought that they were something a little bit better. Neither of them had to take up the role of the sidekick, which was good, since they'd both outgrown it.
They were equals, at least roughly so, and that was good enough for her.
Not every night was full of harrowing adventure and crime-busting, of course. There were slow nights, nights where the police scanner in the Batmobile only picked up the banal infractions that existed below the line of the things they showed up for. Mild domestic disputes, bar fights, speeding---there were some things that Batman didn't need to justice up. The Commissioner didn't light up the Batsignal as often as her father had, so they had to rely on the scanner chatter to keep tabs on things.
Damian wanted to answer nine out of ten calls. He didn't trust the police to do anything right, and he could power through hours and hours of constant patrolling. He was a machine. Steph, on the other hand, had her limits. She drew the line, because he seemed incapable of doing so himself. Batman had no place screaming "USE THE CROSSWALK!" at some poor jaywalker.
"---we have a 311 at 5th and Morrison, over---"
Damian reached for the parking break, and she gave him a look.
"A 311 is indecent exposure," she said.
"I know," he said.
"Some guy running around doing meatspin."
"I. Know."
"No," Steph said firmly.
"If it's worth calling in, it's worth our attention.
"No."
"You don't make the rules, Batwoman," he growled sullenly.
Steph pinched the bridge of her nose. "Punching a flasher in front of the Gotham Gazette? I'm sure that'll go over so well. I can see the headline now: BATMAN BASHES BALLSY BOOR. Can you see that headline? How about CAPED CRUSADER CRUSHES CRIMINAL'S CROTCH?"
Damian leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Tt.
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
After a long moment, he said, "Meatspin?"
Steph had to smother a grin. "I'll tell you when you're older, D."
The scanner chose that moment to crackle back to life. The voice of the officer was high, his words rapid. He was scared.
"---23110! I repeat, a 23110, on---"
Damian arched an eyebrow at her.
"Does this call pass muster?"
"A 23110 is someone throwing things at cars. I don't really think that's---"
"---DISPATCH, HE'S THROWING VEHICLES, OVER! HE'S---"
"---okay, fine, someone's throwing cars at other cars and now we can go," Steph said quickly, buckling her seatbelt.
"Yes," he said, sounding more smug than she thought any one person could be. "That's what I thought."
*
The Great White Shark hadn't ever been one of Gotham's rampagers, but times were changing and everyone was trying out new things. Old acts were rebooting, reinventing themselves in order to be fresh and new. Their target audience---Mr. Dark, Tall, and Batty---hadn't made it to any of their performances, so they were taking the chance to experiment.
For White, 'experimentation' was a physical, literal thing. He'd doubled in size at the very least, his entire body bulging with ropy veins and thick slabs of muscle. His neck alone had to be as big around as Steph's waist, and she wasn't exactly a size 2. His face had widened and flattened, pulling his atrophied facial muscles into a constant leer of a toothy grin.
And boy, did he ever have a set of chompers on him.
"Holy crap, he's turned himself into a Street Shark," Steph breathed as they stood on the edge of a tower of metal shipping crates and surveyed the carnage in the yard directly below them. "Jawesome."
Since Damian lacked the rich pop culture upbringing of a child of the 90s, the reference sailed right over his pointy-eared head.
"What is that?"
"Jawesome," she repeated. "It's---"
"A portmanteau word of Jaws and awesome," he said, and she could tell from his voice alone that he was rolling his eyes. "I know what you said. I was referring to what he's holding."
"Oh, uh." She turned the focus on her cowl up 150%, zooming in. Her stomach lurched at what she saw, acid burning the back of her throat. "I'm...mostly sure that that's a leg. Uh---yeah, I see toes. He's eating a leg. Definitely, definitely eating a leg."
"Cannibalism," Damian murmured thoughtfully. "That's new. I believe that he has dosed himself with a Venom derivative. I don't see a constant flow apparatus on him, so it might be a long-acting formula. But, it has side effects." His lips pulled back from his teeth in a disgusted grimace. "Clearly."
"That's gross."
"Give me twenty seconds," he said to her in an undertone. "He has crossed a line. I won't even need a weapon. I can finish this before it starts."
A realization hit her, as bright and jarring as a burst bulb.
Damian was asking her permission. He was waiting for her to give him a yes or no, an order. He'd had some kind of handler all of his life---his various sensei, his mother, his father, Dick---so he surrendered control to an older partner without even consciously realizing what he was doing.
He'd put his metaphorical leash in her hands and was making it her call whether or not she let him off his chokechain.
The realization turned her insides to ice.
"No," she said, and it took everything in her to keep the quiver out of her voice. "Leg-munching or not, we do this by the book."
He scowled, but he listened.
"Then what, pray tell, shall we do?"
"Jump."
"What?"
"We're going to jump the shark. If we can hit his nose or eyes, we have a good chance of immobilizing him. We can---"
The Shark's head jerked up, swiveling toward their hiding spot in the shadows. There was no way that he could have heard them or seen them, but with the way the ugly pits he called nostrils were flaring, she had a good idea of what had given them away.
"So...TMI..." Steph whispered, taking a step back. "And this is probably a bad time to mention this, but...I'm kinda on my period..."
Damian sighed loudly. "The element of surprise, ruined by your bleeding vagina. Wonderful."
She could feel her cheeks burn. "Just shut up and jump already," she snapped.
"As the mad cow wishes," he said, and dove with zero hesitation.
Steph hated to admit it---which is why she'd never do it aloud---but Damian was beautiful in action. Watching him fight was like watching a special on the Discovery Channel---like seeing a wild animal in its natural habitat. Every possible hunting simile popped up; he himself was a shark, a tiger, a wolf. He was something that had fangs and claws, something that was just born dangerous.
He hadn't told her to stay on the crates, but she did anyway. She could tell just by watching that the fight wouldn't take long, and she'd be more of a hindrance to him than a help. There wasn't any shame in it, honestly. Fighting was what Damian did, and she didn't have to meet him on that level in order to be his equal. She had her own specialties. Stephcialties.
When he jumped, he folded his arms to his sides and dropped as straight and swiftly as a bullet. He spread his arms---and his cape---at the very last second, and the Shark got a good taste of Bat boot tread. There was a crunch, but it wasn't the kind of crunch that meant everything in him was broken.
It said a lot about her life that she could differentiate between the breaks that killed someone instantly and the breaks that crippled someone from sound alone. Fisting her hands in her cape, she glided down. The brief moment of freefall, of almost-flight, was wonderful.
She'd always been a little bit of an adrenaline junkie. All of them were.
"Cartilage," Damian explained, toeing his massive body disinterestedly. "He has gone full-out shark gimmick. Embarrassing, really."
"Someone cooked up the goop that turned him into that," she pointed out, crouching beside him and patting down his vest. He smelled like blood and rot and saltwater. It was enough to make her gag, despite herself. "Someone who might be cooking up all kinds of goops for all kinds of crazies. Even if it is an extended release formula, he's got to have a close relationship with his dealer. I'll bet he---aha!" Steph fished a slim silver cigarette case out of his breast pocket. Instead of being filled with a neat row of cigarettes, it held business cards. "Jackpot. My superior detectiving skills have turned up a clue."
"Detectiving is not a word," Damian informed her loftily. "You are what is wrong with the English language."
"Ignoring you," she told him, thumbing through the cards. "Because I figured out before you did that a guy without lips can't smoke cigarettes. This makes me the Greater Detective."
"Tt."
One of the cards was gummy, the edges worn. There was a waterspot that made the ink lettering blur and bloom.
"Volper," she read. "And it has a number and an address. This is probably the cluingest clue that we have to go off of."
"The---?" Damian groaned aloud, face in his hands. "Please. Please, stop talking."
"Get White secured, then we'll pay this Mr. Volper a visit. My detective senses are tingling, Batman."
*
The business card led them to the office of a shell company, which led them to a dealer, which led them to an opium den of all things, which led them to a warehouse full of stolen aircraft parts and missing city council members held in rigged, ornate cages. These cages were dangling precariously above pits. Logistically, the pits couldn't have been bottomless, but they were deep enough to spell city council pancakes if the cages were dropped into them.
"And you said that tonight would be slow," Damian said as they laid side by side on a narrow outcropping above the as-bottomless-as-necessary pits.
"Yeah, and I take it back. Good ol' Gotham. Never a dull moment. Oh---head's up. We've got movement."
Sure enough, a man in a black business suit and mask entered the room. He had mechanical wings anchored to his sleeves, covered in a fringe of long black feathers.
"Wow, I can't believe someone let him leave his house like that," Steph whispered. "Those wings are terrible. Just. Terrible. Who in their right mind would wear wings like that?"
Damian, his patience spent, clamped a hand over her mouth. She would have bitten him, but she knew that he wouldn't feel it through his glove.
"That's the Vulture. First the Shark, then the Vulture. Two-thirds of the Terrible Trio." His lip curled. "C-Listers. Trash."
She did bite him, then. She wasn't exactly loyal to the memory of dear old Daddy Cluemaster, but she didn't like the implication that she had sprung from the loins of trash.
He let go of her, giving her a warning look.
"This will be easy," he said.
And it was, too. Damian repeated the boots-to-the-face trick from earlier, Steph disabled the cages, and for the second time that night, the day was saved. This level of productivity was nearly unheard of, and she wondered if this was a sign of how it'd be from now on. Batwoman and Batman, the pair of caped crusaders capable of cleaning up their city. It certainly had a ring to it.
The city council people that they saved were one part relieved, one part reverent. Damian played his role to the hilt, Bruce Wayne speaking through him whenever he opened his mouth. It was so eerie, it made her skin crawl a little bit. If she hadn't known who was really under the cowl, she would have thought that Bruce was back from the grave.
She wondered how it made him feel, to use his father's voice. Not good, she bet. Not with his welter of daddy issues.
They herded the victims out of the warehouse, but didn't wait around for the GCPD to come and shake their hands. They strayed far enough to hide, but close enough that they could make sure everything was wrapped up neatly by the police. Steph had to take a breather, checking her watch.
"3:42," she said, though he hadn't asked the time. "We've been going for seven hours without a break. Think we can turn in now? It's been a long night."
"I won't stop you," he said, eyes fixed on the murky, pre-dawn skyline.
"Buuut you're not done," she surmised.
"We've been following the Terrible Trio, Batwoman. Not the Terrible Duo. The Fox is still active, and if we drop the trail now it will go cold. That's unacceptable."
"And if we keep going like crazies, we'll drop."
"Maybe you will. I won't."
"This is not going to turn into an anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better."
"Why not?" Damian asked, canting his head to look at her. "I can do anything better than you."
"Why, you little---"
"Batwoman!"
He went ramrod straight, shoulders squared as he tried to pinpoint where that faint, warbling cry had come from.
"Did you hear that?"
"Yeah," she sad, tone uncertain. "But who'd...?"
"Batwoman!"
This time, it was louder. Closer.
Recognizable. She had to squelch the urge to punch something, hard.
"Batwoman! Gotham's evening and morning star! I'm here, my love!"
"Oh, for crying out loud," Stephanie muttered, mostly to herself. "Not now."
"I have come to save you, my exquisite angel of the night!"
"Who is this?" Damian demanded, hands curling into fists as a smeary gray figure bobbed into view. "Drake?"
And from a distance, his gray and black uniform did kind of look like Tim's original incarnation of Red Robin, which itself looked like the product of a drunken bender with Dr. Mid-Nite's tailor. She hadn't really made the connection before. Now that she had, she'd never unsee it.
"I wish. No, he calls himself the Grey Ghost."
"Who?"
"A pain in my ass," Steph basically growled. They watched as he cut the distance across the rooftop, running while yodeling something poetic about her flaxen hair. "He's been stalking me for years. I busted him when he tried to hijack a train, and apparently a swift butt-kicking was the key to winning his heart. As soon as he got out of jail, he got himself some sophisticated tracking equipment and a dumb costume and has been trying to win me over ever since. He's, uh. Not playing with a full deck of cards, if you know what I mean."
"I see." Damian paused for a beat, then said, "I can take care of him."
"No," she said, raising both hands. "No, no, no. None of your taking care of. He's harmless. Stupid, but harmless."
"He's a nuisance."
"And while I agree with you on that one hundred percent, that's not a good enough reason to break his face."
"I don't see why not," he said flatly, frowning.
"Of course you don't. Seriously, take five. I've got this."
She met the Grey Ghost halfway, before Damian could argue with her. Touching his shoulder, she turned him around and started walking him in the opposite direction.
"Clancy. Hi. I know that it's Tuesday, which you've arbitrarily decided is our date night, though, as I've told you at least fifty times, it's not. But anyway, I'm kind of busy? I mean, you see Bats standing over there, right?"
Clancy bristled. "I do. Who does he think he is, taking my spot by your side?"
"He thinks he's the boss of everyone. And I asked him to fill that vacancy, because it's not your spot to fill, Johnny C. He's a bat, and I'm a bat, and that kind of makes us a thing."
"I could be a bat!" Clancy said, fists clenching. He dug in his heels, whirling back toward Damian. "You don't deserve her!"
"I don't want her," Damian deadpanned. "But she won't go away."
The Grey Ghost spluttered indignantly. "How could you say that about our savior, the Lavender Rose of Gotham, the---"
"I'm really uncomfortable with where this conversation is headed, so let's wrap this thing up," Steph interjected quickly. "Clancy. Look. You're a nice guy. I understand that you want to help me, but I'm not good for you. Being around me is dangerous. People close to me get hurt. They die. If you don't go, Batman is going to kick you off the roof and then you're going to end up in the hospital with no fewer than eighteen broken bones. And hospital bills are expensive, so do yourself a solid and just walk away."
He took a moment to survey his options.
Batman cracked his knuckles.
"This isn't over," Clancy spat over his shoulder as he started powerwalking toward the fire escape. "This is far from being over!"
But he left, and that was good enough for her. She was tired and exhausted and more than a little bit cranky. Her Midol had worn off hours ago.
"I'm done," she announced. "If I don't lay down, I'm going to fall down. The trail will be there to pick up tomorrow. I'm not going to spend the next five hours on a wild goose chase around the city. We don't have anything connecting the Vulture to the Fox. His place was clean."
"It won't be a wild goose chase," Damian said sourly. "You're only cranky because that charlatan thought I had any interest in you."
"Screw you. I happen to be a very interesting woman, and..."
And then, it hit her.
"Wait. Goose chase. Goose. Chicken," Steph said, her eyes widening.
Damian raised an incredulous eyebrow. She had had more than enough of that eyebrow for one night.
"Pardon me?"
"Chicken. It's the chicken!"
"Woman, have you gone mad?"
"No! Listen. I just---I get it! The Shark commits water-related crimes. We found him operating out of the shipping yard, using ships to move the Trio's product. The Vulture commits air-related crimes. We found him in a high-rise warehouse, making a mint off of plane parts and putting anyone who opposed him into bird cages. So I thought to myself, well Stephanie, if you were a Fox, what kind of crimes would you commit? Chicken crimes. I would commit chicken crimes, Batman."
He stared at her blankly.
"Yes, you clearly have gone mad from exhaustion. Just...get back into the car. Rest. I'll finish this myself."
She grabbed his arm, fingers tightening.
"Please. I know that I'm right. I'm positive. Guys like this, they stick to their gimmick. The other two upped the gimmick factor since the last time they were seen---you saw that! Foxes raid henhouses. They steal chickens. I would bet you money that the Fox's base of operations is in a chicken packing facility, or a chicken processing plant, or something chicken-related."
He sighed, looking away. "I refuse to take that bet. I don't need money."
"Okay. Fine." She took a deep breath, calculating her odds. "Then if I'm wrong, we'll go on as many bogus calls as you want to."
That got his attention, of course. "For how long?"
Oh boy. How sure was she? Pretty sure. She was pretty sure.
"A day."
But not super sure.
"A week."
"Three days," she countered, jabbing a finger at him. "And that's my final offer."
Damian extended his gloved hand with another sigh. "Deal." She shook his hand enthusiastically, grinning.
"To the Batmobile! We have chicken-related research to do! The Case of the Curious Chicken Caper is afoot!"
"I am never allowing you to attempt 'detectiving' ever again," Damian said as she dragged him back to the car. "And, for the record, I hate you."
*
And he especially hated when she was right.
The long-since-abandoned factory that had produced Chuck's Chicken Nuggets was only four blocks away. Lights were on inside, though the sign on the gate reaffirmed the fact that the place was condemned. Upon investigation---punctuated by a fight about the true nature of the chicken nugget, which Steph swore by, though he knew that the 'nugget' was not a natural organ---they found the Fox. He had surgically altered himself---only in Gotham could someone find a plastic surgeon willing to graft a bottlebrush tail on a man.
His changes were only cosmetic, so Damian was a gentleman and allowed Stephanie to end the night with one of her infamous punches.
They found the usual accouterments of criminal black market activity---doctored shipping manifests, large stacks of non-sequential bills, a rainbow of market-ready drugs, even a delightful portable freezer that contained what Damian suspected were several human kidneys---and some of the more unusual ones as well. Apparently, chicken-related crime actually included chicken-related regalia.
I.e., a giant neon chicken sign that garishly lit up the Fox's office.
The sign was about fourteen feet tall. When lit, it cycled through an animation of the mascot, Chuck Chicken, raising a drumstick and then bringing it to his beak. Underneath his feet, the slogan CHUCK'S CHICKEN: IT'S CLUCKING DELICIOUS buzzed.
"What in God's name is this doing in here?" Damian asked, aghast. "Why hasn't this affront against good taste been taken to the dump?"
"The Sprang Act," Steph answered, which was just as illogical and surprising as her earlier verbal drizzle regarding chicken crimes. "Years ago, Gotham used to be known for its huge, gaudy novelty signs. They started erecting them after WWII---kind of an architectural nod to 1950s good and plenty. The skyline was covered in giant toasters, blenders, and cash registers. But then, Humpty Dumpty brought several of them down---since that was his gimmick---and the state senate passed the Sprang Act, which banned anything past a certain size from the tops of buildings. That's why you don't see big billboards or signs in Gotham.They became collectibles---Bats 1.0 has a couple of them in the cave already."
It surprised him that she knew that. He hadn't, but then again, he hadn't cared to know. Marketing and billboards were nonessential, and advertising frankly bored him. But, this was a part of the city's history.
Father had thought the history important enough to preserve.
"So this...thing used to be some sort of tourist bait?"
"Yeah," Stephanie said, circling the sign. "We should keep it."
Damian looked at the sign, then back to her.
"Do you hate me? I don't want this in the cave. That chicken is clearly eating another chicken. That makes it a cannibal, as well as diseased."
"I think he's adorable," Steph chirped.
"And I think that you're mad, and only one of us can be right."
She lightly punched his shoulder, leaning into him as she looked up into the great and terrible face of the chicken.
"This is the first case we've busted open together as Batwoman and Batman," she said, smiling. The neon light danced off the curves of her suit and turned her hair into a luminous halo. "Don't you want some kind of memento to remember it by?"
"Batman and Batwoman," he amended, still looking at her instead of the poultry abomination.
Stephanie turned that electric smile on him.
And that was how Chuck the Cannibalistic Chicken came to roost beside the T-Rex in the Batcave.
*
"Sit down and close your eyes," Stephanie said, her smile wide. It was her sly smile, her I'm-planning-something-smile, which he had learned to differentiate from her I'm-only-humoring-you-smile, and her I-smiling-but-I-want-to-punch-you-smile, and her you-made-me-happy-smile. He had to resist the urge to just turn around and leave the room before whatever the damn woman had planned could pan out.
"No," he said flatly.
"Do it," she insisted.
"Absolutely not."
"Dooooo iiiiiiiit."
The woman wouldn't give this one up, that much was obvious. He had no other choice, unless he wanted to start a fight. A fight would take more time and energy to resolve than to cave to her whims. He sighed explosively, closing his eyes and resolving to change the Batcave's security codes again. She kept guessing them, which led to her popping in on him unannounced. Damian had gotten used to being a solitary man, and her energy was enough to overwhelm anyone sane.
"Good boy. Now hold out your hands."
"Stephanie."
"Dooooooooo iiiiiiiiiiiiit."
"I hate you, you insufferable hag," he told her, but did as he was instructed.
Not ten seconds later, something soft, warm, and slightly vibrating was placed into his cupped palms.
"Okay. Now open them."
He did, looking down at what she had given him.
It was a kitten, of all things. Even to his inexpert eye, the little fleabag was undersized, undernourished, and too tiny to be parted from its mother. It was black and white, wobbling as it tried to squirm in his hands. It was too young to retract its claws, so they caught on his calluses. It mewled piteously, its voice not much more than a squeak.
"I'm not sure what response you were hoping to elicit. You got a pet. I truly do not give a damn about your misplaced desire to care for helpless creatures."
Her I'm-planning-something smile turned up its wattage.
"This isn't my kitten. This is your kitten. His mother was hit by a car, so his siblings starved. But this little guy, he toughed it out and meowed until I found him. I named him Alfred, because he's an itty bitty badass."
"I don't want him," Damian said. The kitten busied himself with licking his thumb. His tiny, rough tongue rasped against his skin.
"Tough noogies. He's yours. You're going to keep him and take care of him, and if you let him die I'll put your head through a wall. Capisce?"
He pulled a face, repeating "I hate you," with feeling.
"He's still a baby, so you'll have to feed him by hand."
"You must be kidding."
"Balance, D. You took a life this week. Now, you're going to save his."
"A cat's life and a man's life are not comparable. And you're failing to acknowledge the countless lives I've saved."
She just smiled.
"Your face," she said sweetly. "Through a wall. The end."
"Tt."
Stephanie obviously took this as a sign that she had won the argument.
And, really, she had.
Damian was quickly learning that women were very persuasive.
*
Gotham never slept, never slowed down, so catching up with all of the intrigue and crime he had missed was an arduous and time-consuming process. It'd been a hotbed of crime even during the peak of his father's reign, so now that it had gone months without a Batman it was in shambles. Damian brewed a pot of tea and read, cross-referencing statistics that the computer's database automatically cached and compiled. Even with that help, it was taking him weeks to make sense of everything that had gone on.
The kitten climbed up his pantsleg and settled into his lap, vibrating happily. Damian petted him absentmindedly as he read. He was getting used to the company of the furry little hellion. He wouldn't go so far as to say that he liked him, but he tolerated his company. He didn't hate him all the time, at least.
The sheer amount of data he had to assimilate was staggering. Even if he had had the empathy of a saint, there was no possible way for him to care about each and every kidnapping, rape, or murder. These people were largely faceless, reduced to statistics and medians.
Despite what the Commissioner believed, he felt that this was an appropriate stance for the Batman to take. If he bothered with caring for each loss, for each death, he would render himself useless as a crimefighter. There had to be a certain distance, a buffer. In this case, a lack of attachments was beneficial. It allowed him to carry himself with a clear head.
Caring was dangerous. To most, caring too little was a sin and a sign of sociopathy. But most were not raised al Ghul and of Wayne stock. He considered himself fortunate, effective---
A name jumped out at him, the association so strong that it might as well have been bolded.
Agnes "Crystal" Bellinger-Brown, age 54.
He scrolled down quickly, skimming the article. Murdered during a home invasion. Devoted nurse and member of the community, eighth fatality during a domestic robbery in the month of April, survived only by her daughter.
Horror bloomed in his chest.
The name of the daughter hadn't been given, but he knew. He knew, and it all clicked neatly into place.
Stephanie Brown was not living on the street because it was economical or convenient. She was not distancing herself from her family and normal life in order to be a better Batwoman. No, she did this because she had no family, no normal life, left. They had been sacrificed, but not in the way he had assumed.
Her mother had been murdered. Her mother had been murdered in their home in cold blood, likely when she was on patrol as Batwoman. Without him, she'd been the only Bat left in the city. Gotham was too much for one person to handle, much less a young woman with limited resources. She'd worn herself thin picking up the slack, and she'd paid dearly for it.
This was his fault.
She'd worried about him---risked herself for him, saved him---and how had he returned the gesture? With the gift of a suit, certainly, but not with...she deserved more than that, more recompense, for doing all that she had done in his absence.
He wondered what the city would have looked like had she not stayed. He wondered if there would have been anything left at all.
Damian was ashamed of himself. He should have known. Despite her smiles and damnable quips, he should have sensed that something was wrong. Father would have.
Shooing the cat off his lap, he threw on a coat and boots and turned on the tracer installed in the Compact. It blipped to life on his handheld GPS, a bright cheery yellow. He took a civilian vehicle so as not to arise suspicion, trying to suss out what he would say to her as he drove.
I'm sorry was out of the question, of course.
He could have pointed out that her life held an eerie parallel to his father's, now, but she hadn't searched for his approval for a long time. Revenge had never driven her. She hadn't needed a reason to do the right thing. The impetus had been there for years, because she was one of the very few people who fought because she genuinely believed that it was the right thing to do. She was different than his father, different than him, different than even Grayson. She wore the bat symbol as an emblem of hope, not of punishment or grim justice. And even after losing everything, even after being reduced to living out of a vehicle like a vagrant, she continued to wear the emblem of the bat.
His chest felt tight. Breathing was difficult. He needed to find her---needed to see her immediately---needed to say---he didn't know what to say, what words could possibly make this right, but he---he couldn't breathe.
He pulled to the side of the road and tried to calm himself down. Breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. He was having a panic attack, he realized almost giddily. He, Damian Wayne, was having a panic attack.
In through his nose, out through his mouth. It only took about ten seconds before that agonizing knot in his chest loosened and his thoughts stopped leaping and tripping ahead of him.
He knew, then, precisely what he would say to her. He reached up and adjusted the rear-view mirror calmly, then merged back into traffic.
Being an obnoxious purple van with a tracking device built into it, the Compact was not difficult to locate. He had thoroughly collected himself by the time he parked and stormed up to the car, though the state of the neighborhood she was stoked the banked coals of his anger. If she was living in her car, she could have at least chosen a safer neighborhood to park in. Was she taunting the would-be hijackers, the flotsam and filth that she could undeniably handle, but should not have had to?
Damian pounded on the back window with the flat of his palm. There was no response, and he couldn't see through the heavily tinted glass. He chest began to tighten, despite his careful breathing, so he hit the window again.
This time, it rolled down partway. The upper half of Stephanie's face squinted at him beadily.
"This is unacceptable," he told her in a tone that forbade argument. He didn't waste time with small talk or greetings; he was there to get a point across, nothing more. "You cannot serve the city if you're living out of a vehicle. It's absurd."
"What is your problem?" Stephanie demanded. Her hair was tangled over her shoulders, and the circles around her eyes were dark and pearlescent from exhaustion. A livid bruise smeared over her right cheek, where her resistant cowl didn't cover her face. He had obviously woken her up just after she'd turned in for the night. He couldn't even fathom how uncomfortable sleeping in the back of a van for six months had to be, and something that may have been guilt tugged at him.
"My problem is that you are one of the few individuals fit to continue my father's work. Therefore, I'll grant you use of his property for so long as you serve Gotham."
"What?"
Stupid woman.
"You can live with me," Damian ground out. "The Manor has 25,000 square feet. There's no need for us even see each other, much less share space." After a breath that hung like cotton on the frosty air, he added, "I absolutely will not take no for an answer."
"Really." Stephanie's brow knit. "I don't need charity, little Mr. Wayne. Thanks, but no thanks."
Then, she frowned and rolled the window back up.
Damian swore wrathfully under his breath, smacking the window with enough force to rattle it in its frame.
"It isn't charity, you vapid twat!"
Well, if she was going to be stubborn about it, she would find that he was capable of being a hundred times more stubborn. Fishing his tracker out of his pocket again, he punched in the override code.
The Compact's engine roared to life. He programmed in the route to the manor, and then announced to the closed window, loudly, "You're being completely unreasonable, Stephanie. Live in the car for all I care, but it will be parked in my garage. It is Wayne property and I am collecting it whether you like it or not!"
By the time that their little entourage got back to the cave, she'd brushed her hair out and braided it back. She seemed tired and angry, but he didn't care. Better that she think herself the prisoner of a self-important brat than freeze to death on the street. Damian was used to and comfortable with being hated by others.
He couldn't stand by and allow one of his family members to live like that. She deserved better. He'd shove better down her proud, idiotic throat if he had to. She was the only one that had willingly carried on his father's work, the only one that had stayed. He would repay that loyalty, if he could. If she would let him.
"I'm going back to bed," Stephanie told him with a long yawn, but she started walking toward the elevator to the manor, not back to the Compact.
The knot in his chest disappeared, finally.