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Diana grunted as she was thrown through a wall, concrete flying outwards in a dusty spray. Nimbly rolling back to her feet, Diana readjusted her grip on her sword and darted forward once more, her blade clashing with that of her brawny opponent.
"Batman," she hissed into her comm, muscles bulging as the enemy began to push her back. "I need backup!"
A grunt.
"Ten," Batman intoned flatly. The comm went dead.
"Ten?!" Diana screeched, her shock loosening her grip and letting the enemy knock her sword out of her hands. She cursed, dodged a swipe of the enemy's blade, and delivered a sharp uppercut to the man's chin. The man grunted, head snapping up with the impact as he stumbled back.
"Batman! What the hell does ten mean?!"
No response.
"Ooh, that no-good caped bastard, when I get my hands on him…"
Diana continued to curse out Batman under her breath, batting around her opponent while dodging vicious sword slashes. See, the longer the Justice League worked together, the more Diana noticed one glaring issue. Bruce Wayne, and by extension Batman, was a shit communicator.
Go to team meetings? Sure, but he'd sit in the darkest corner and glare at everyone and hiss if they spoke to him.
Strategize attacks? Of course, but he wouldn't share his plans with anyone then get spectacularly angry if those secret plans weren't followed.
Have genuine, healthy feelings and emotions and express them in a healthy manner? Not on his watch.
Even under normal circumstances Batman's unfortunate habits were annoying, but then he'd pull crap like this that blew his day-to-day nonsense out of the water.
Just last week, when they were fighting some sort of underground sewer monster tearing up Star City, Batman threw a singular (only one!) batarang at the monster before pulling his disappearing Houdini act when no one was looking. Despite his open comm he didn't answer any of the League's calls, because why would he respond, he’s Batman . Please note the heavy sarcasm.
Almost thirty minutes of grueling fighting later, complete with copious sewer water and possibly tetanus, Batman returned with a thirty-kilo bag of flour from Star City’s most famous bakery and dumped it over the monster’s head. The monster shrieked in pain before it disintegrated into a strange, gray-ish sludge, which Batman scooped into a plain red soup thermos.
“It had Celiac,” he deadpanned, before vanishing into the wreckage before anyone could question him.
Diana thought she could never want to slap anyone as much as she had in that moment. But clearly she was wrong, because here she was, fighting some overly brawny sword mercenary while planning a murder.
Just as she settled on strangulation with his own cape, Batman burst through the wall behind her opponent in a metal wall-crawler, sending bricks cascading down in a stony waterfall and knocking the villain out.
From inside the cockpit, Batman nodded.
“Ten.”
Diana screamed and flung herself at him.
Barry stared at his phone, baffled.
He had just sent Bruce a massive file detailing an elaborate liquid nitrogen smuggling ring involving Captain Cold, The Thinker, and the man who ran the balloon animal stand on the corner of Fourteenth Street. It took him a full seven sleepless days and nights to collect all the information and another three days to organize it coherently in the report. He was particularly proud of it, and was secretly hoping for some praise when he sent it off to Bruce.
But…
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Barry stared at his phone. The bunny emoticon stared back, its expression nearly as blank as it's sender's. Stunned, Barry typed out a quick complaint, hesitating for several moments as he decided if it was worth the inevitable bitchfest from Bruce the next time he saw Barry. Before he could hit send, his phone vibrated again as another message from Bruce popped up on the glowing screen.
“Is that…”
It was.
The poop emoji.
“What the fuck?!”
So maybe Hal screwed himself over when he signed up to be on monitor duty with Bruce. To be completely honest, Hal thought it wouldn’t be so bad at first. Sure, Bruce wasn’t the most cheerful guy, but he had to have some interesting stories locked up somewhere deep in his brain and Hal was confident in his ability to annoy them out of him.
Here’s where Hal fucked up: it’s Batman . A novice writer with writer’s block and the vocabulary of a toucan could compose the next seven year’s worth of award-winning novels before Batman chose to open his mouth. How this critical piece of information slipped Hal’s mind was a medical mystery, and now he had to suffer the consequences and sit in eerie silence as Bruce did his best impression of a Victorian gargoyle in the chair next to him, barely blinking as his eyes focused on the Watchtower screen before him.
“So…” Hal started, nervously twisting his ring around his finger. “Watch any good TV shows lately?”
Nothing.
“Yeah, me neither. Everything's all the same now.”
Oh god, this was so awkward. Twitching, Hal pursed his lips and struggled to find something, anything that might break the silence. Could he ask about Gotham? No, Bruce would call that meddling and kick his ass to Neptune and back. His children? Definitely not, that would be worse than asking about Gotham, Bruce would skip rope with his intestines for that. Maybe he could ask about billionaire life? Yeah, that could work, that’s a fairly safe - wait, no, most days Batman pretended that he wasn’t Bruce Wayne and would probably smack him around for talking about his secret identity. Same goes for talking about Justice League stuff - if Hal tried to talk shop Bruce would take it as his cue to ‘re-train’ him (like he needed re-training, he’s a Lantern, he’s got this) and stuff Hal in an impossibly tiny garbage can in the name of sparring.
Hal was beginning to sense a pattern to Batman’s habits. The pattern was violence.
Out of nowhere, Batman pulled a fork out of his utility belt and stabbed it into the meat of Hal’s thigh, piercing through the fabric of his jumpsuit and digging into the muscle.
Hal screamed, kicking out wildly as he fell out of his chair. He clutched his thigh, staring wide-eyed at the offending utensil.
“What the hell, Bruce?!” he cried, hands fluttering uselessly over the fork, his mind stupidly focused on the little bats engraved into the shiny silver. No, no, don’t think about the bats, there’s a fork in his leg! Does he pull it out? Shit, aren’t you supposed to leave things stabbing you in? But it can’t stay there forever, he needs that leg! Oh my fucking god, what does he do?
Bruce grunted.
“Stop talking about me.”
“Are you a fucking mind reader?! ” Hal shrieked, closer to peeing himself than he ever was before.
Oh no, does this mean Bruce heard him when he was thinking about sending a stink bomb to Jason as revenge last week? And the time he was thinking about how sometimes Superman and Batman acted like a divorced couple who secretly yearned for the other while they navigated their tumultuous divorce? And the time -
Batman pulled out a matching silver spoon and held it aloft threateningly.
“I will eat your toes,” he vowed, voice deep and growly and so fucking terrifying.
Strategically, Hal chose that moment to pass out and prayed to anyone that might be listening that his feet were intact when he woke up.
Arthur would be the first to admit, he and Bruce weren’t very close. Yes, they were both superheroes. Yes, they both were in the Justice League. Yes, they both got coffee at the same time and awkwardly stood around the water cooler for ten minutes determinedly not making eye contact as they sipped their drinks. And yes, occasionally they did speak to each other, mostly about dumb little things like the weather, the state of the economy, and did you see how Barry tripped over that pebble the other day?
But they weren’t close, not by a long shot.
So someone please tell him why Batman was lurking in the shadows behind him, carefully holding out a shiny pebble like an overgrown child.
Arthur, not knowing what to do, carefully took the pebble from him. If being a superhero taught him anything, it’s that when a child hands you something you take it from them, smile, and then put it down later once they wander away unless you want to get the worst cold of your life from all the germs on their grubby little hands.
Batman tucked his chin in slightly, looking almost - bashful?
“Thank you?” Arthur tried, not quite able to fully scrub the confusion out of his voice.
Batman gave the tiniest of nods, face completely blank.
“For Mera.”
And - oh. That was surprisingly sweet. His and Mera's wedding anniversary was coming up soon; Bruce was giving him a pebble as an anniversary gift. He recalled telling Bruce once that Mera collected little scraps of brightly coloured seashells and oddly shaped stones, but he didn't think that Bruce would remember.
Touched, Arthur looked closer at the pebble. It was perfectly round and smooth, save for a slightly off-center thumbprint-sized divot. The pebble was mostly gray, with a few smatterings of inky black patches that formed a rough bat shape if you looked at it from the right angle. Not something Mera would usually pick up, Arthur thought, but lovely nonetheless.
"A princely gift," Arthur said more sincerely, before looking up and faltering.
Bruce was gone.
Clark perked up as he heard the zeta tubes fire up, followed by a robotic chime reading aloud Batman’s entrance code. He hurriedly set down his half-full coffee cup, whirling around to face the rest of the room.
“He’s here,” he announced gravely, fingers flexing with anticipation. “It’s time.”
Across the room, Hal stood up quickly, cramming the remainders of his sandwich into his mouth before rushing to the door, nearly crashing into Diana as she hastily shoved her leftover Chinese into the refrigerator. The three of them hurried out of the kitchen, bumping into Arthur and Barry in the corridor as they made their way to the largest meeting room, the latter of which vibrating noisily as he barely contained himself.
Justice League almost fully assembled, they scrambled to take their seats and turned as one to look at the gleaming steel doors just as they slid open and Bruce stepped through silently.
“Bruce,” Clark said, doing his best imitation of his Ma when she caught him stealing some pie before dinner. “We need to talk.”
Around him, the Justice League (sans Batman) put on their own stern expressions, some more intimidating than others. For example, the look on Diana’s face was enough to bring Ares to his knees and beg for mercy, sharp and cold but also vaguely like her stomach hurt. On the other hand, the look on Hal’s face was closer to that of a new boyfriend asked to pick up a specific tube of lipstick from a Sephora - distressed, overwhelmed, and close to tears.
Truly, the full spectrum of emotion.
Bruce grunted, proudly lifting his chin. A subtle movement of his arms sent his cape billowing out behind him theatrically.
Silence.
“A conversation requires two voices, Batman,” Diana said coldly into the silence. Bruce didn’t respond.
With a sigh, Clark laced his fingers under his chin, rested his weight on his elbows and desperately projected disappointed father in Bruce’s general direction.
Bruce didn’t seem to pick up on Clark’s killing move, only lifting his chin higher in the air until he was almost looking straight up at the ceiling.
Impossible! No one could resist Clark’s patented disappointed father look! Just last week ten petty criminals turned themselves in because Superman shook his head sadly at them! The disappointed father look made even Lex Luthor falter! Impossible!
Clark paused, mentally rewinding.
Wasn’t Bruce an orphan?
Nodding to himself and making a polite noise, Clark filed that information away in his how-to-deal-with-Batman’s-nonsense folder and recalibrated.
“Bruce,” he said sadly, lower lip wobbling subtly. “Bruce, don’t you like us? How come you never talk to us?”
Bruce may have been fatherless, but he was a father. And all fathers have the same weakness! Clark honed this particular skill by saving countless kittens from tall trees, millions of puppies from speeding trucks, and an inordinately large number of small children getting thrown from irresponsibly tall heights!
Behold!
The Ultimate Puppy Dog Eyes!
Bruce glanced down his nose at Clark as the rest of the Justice League gaped at him. Clark could feel Bruce begin to waver, his walls crumbling helplessly as Clark ruthlessly attacked. Just one more push, he could feel it!
Determinedly, Clark made his eyes wider and started to tremble. Bruce shifted nervously. Breathless with his near victory, Clark pulled out the final stop. His eyes began to water.
Like a stick of butter left in the sun, Bruce melted .
“I do like you,” he said quietly.
“But you don’t talk to us,” Clark said tremulously, quivering with just enough sadness. If Clark were a dog, he would’ve been president of a small country and surfing on a lifetime supply of snacks by now.
“Is this what toddlers are like?” Arthur whispered loudly from his seat, glancing furiously between the two of them as Bruce shuffled and Clark pouted more.
“Do not disturb the ritual,” Diana whispered back, infinite in her wisdom.
“Bruce,” Clark whined quietly, “why don’t you ever tell us your plans? Don’t you trust us?”
But alas, Clark pushed too far, and no secret technique could bring them back from the brink when Batman detected Emotions™.
Batman screamed, high-pitched and shrill, his natural response to his feelings, then turned tail and booked it out of the meeting room.
“After him!” Clark cried ardently, already clambering out of his seat and over the table to get at him. Diana scrambled after them with a warrior’s cry, dragging Hal across the floor when he didn’t get up fast enough. They were followed closely by Arthur who still looked confused, but seemed happy enough to just go with the flow.
Barry just sat at the table, cradling his head in his hands.
“I need so many drinks,” he whined.
BONUS: BAT STARE-OFFS
"Master Bruce," Alfred said plainly, interrupting the ongoing League meeting to hand Batman a thin sheaf of papers.
Batman took the papers quickly, skimming over the top page briefly before staring at Alfred.
"Hm," he said.
"Hm," Alfred said back.
A moment passed as they stared at each other.
Bruce handed back the papers. Alfred tucked them under his arm neatly and inclined his head.
"As you wish, Master Bruce."
From the other end of the table, Barry spluttered.
"How?!"