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“Morning, sunshine.”
Bill jolted awake as a foot hit the bench under his legs. His head, already aching, jerked back, rustling the Jello-like contents of his brain. A bad kind of Jello. Lukewarm mint-green Jello that had been left out on the counter for too long and was beginning to sag apart from the mold.
He knew that voice, so the cuffs around his wrists and the hard-ass wood seats of the GCPD Narrows Precinct was hardly a surprise. What was a surprise was how hard it was to crack his eyes open.
“Give it a second,” Officer Bianchi said. He could tell she was grinning without looking. “The ER thought you might have hit your head a few times last night, but they still cleared you, so I guess you’re not in that much danger of keeling over on my bench.”
Bill groaned. He couldn’t reach his hands up to his head, so he settled for pushing his head down as far as it could go toward his thighs. Blood rushed into his head, doubling the intense pressure between his eyes.
He was sweating vodka. And if it was pungent to him, it had to be even worse for Bianchi.
“So I got another DUI,” Bill mumbled, eyes closed, “and you decided to play bowling with my head before taking me in?”
Binachi must have taken pity on him, because a steaming cup of coffee was nudged into his hands instead of a reply. Bill inhaled -- black, bitter coffee -- and decided to try not to puke.
“The DUI came after,” Bianchi said. The creak of her uniform pants meant she was probably kneeling near him.
“After what?”
“After you fled six GCPD patrol cars carrying hot merchandise and decided to crash it all in the Harbor instead of getting picked up for smuggling arms.”
Bill grunted. That did sound like him.
“But they caught me on DUI?”
Bianchi laughed -- low in her throat, gone before he could fully appreciate the sound. “When they pulled you out of the Harbor, yeah. The car sank, and we can’t swing rescue divers until tomorrow. The only thing they could charge you with after that was DUI. Well, and fleeing & evading. But I talked them down to DUI.”
That was worthy of him trying to sit up and open his eyes fully. Bill groaned as the weak Gotham sunlight from a cracked shutter beamed straight into his eyes.
“Just DUI?” he asked. Bianchi’s uniform swam into focus in front of him. He could almost make out the crisp red lipstick and slick-back bun that set her apart from the other officers. She always cleaned up for work. Most GCPD officers didn’t even brush their teeth before coming in.
“DUI,” Bianchi started. White teeth peeked out between her reddened lips. “And recklessly endangering safety.”
“Of who? The ducks?”
“There’s ducks in Gotham Harbor?” Bianchi asked, eyebrows raising. “Huh, you learn something new every day.”
Bill sat up a little straighter, cradling the styrofoam cup between his cuffed hands. At her pristinely unaffected expression, he bent forward, grumbling into the cup as he tried to take a haphazard sip.
“I made that special for you,” Bianchi said, stepping around the desk to get back to her seat. “Scraped up all the burnt parts on the bottom and everything.”
The jab barely hit home. Mostly because Bill was certain he’d puke up straight water right now, if given a sip. Black, burnt coffee on a sour stomach sounded like an awful idea.
Bill pretended to sip it, not willing to give her the pleasure of seeing him gag. Even hungover out of his mind, he could tell there were plenty of eyes on them. Most of them were for Bianchi; that didn’t surprise him, either.
“Hey Vanessa. I was just--”
Asshole, Bill thought, recognizing the voice from last time. Officer Colton. Transferred in from out of state through some bullshit program and seemed to think Gotham was a warzone he needed to master via PIT maneuver. Every single damn time.
A memory jolted to the front of his head, hazy at the edges. A car hitting him from the left side, passenger door. Spinning out and having to wrench the wheel at the last second, choosing between direct impact with a pole and the black oil slick of Gotham Harbor--
Bianchi chatted quietly with Colton -- probably because he outranked her, and she didn’t want to get on any officer’s bad side. Bill pressed his lips together, thinking about the feeling of PITing Officer Colton into Gotham Harbor instead. That sounded nice.
“Bianchi! Call for you on line three!”
Bianchi smiled at Colton in apology, reaching for the corded phone on her desk. “Sorry to cut you off. Duty calls.”
Colton made no move to leave the desk. Bill sat there plotting -- not his murder, but something that could lead to it. He could find a way to spin the failed shipment and make him the fall guy. Penguin would probably make him dive for the guns. With cinderblocks around his ankles, of course.
“This is Officer Bianchi,” Bianchi said into the receiver, pinning it between her ear and shoulder. She reached for a notepad and pen, retrieving both before Colton could even think to offer his assistance.
Asshole, Bill thought again. Colton was on the wrong side of forty and seemed to know zip about chivalry. If he’d had his hands free, Bianchi would already be in a seat with her notepad and pen in her hands. He’d hold the receiver for her too, if necessary.
“I see,” Bianchi said. A delicate line had appeared between her eyebrows. “And -- I apologize sir. What -- what exactly are you requesting?”
Bill sat up a little straighter, losing a little bit more of his hangover fogginess. Anything that made Bianchi frown was -- well, he’d known her for almost eight months now. She didn’t frown unless something was wrong.
“One moment, please.” Bianchi pressed the receiver to her shoulder, turning to Colton. “Superman wants to walk a perp in.”
“Superman?” Colton asked. One cocky eyebrow went up; it wasn’t that he didn’t believe her. That much was clear. If Bill had to guess, Colton didn’t think much of Superman.
“Him, the perp, and…” Bianchi glanced at the front door, hesitating. “...Batman.”
It was like a bomb had gone off in the complete opposite direction. The sound of chatter and chairs sliding across linoleum died down. Everyone within earshot had turned to Bianchi, looking either surprised, horrified, or a combination of the two.
“It’s probably a prank call,” Colton said, breaking the silence first. He wasn’t looking all that cocky anymore.
“It’s not,” Bianchi said. She lifted the receiver off her shoulder, speaking quietly. “If you could just give us one more second, I can -- oh, you can hear it. Okay, I guess that works…”
Colton crossed his arms. “You know we have standing orders to--”
“--arrest the Batman on sight,” Bianchi finished for him, sounding irritated. “I know. I went through the same training you did.”
Bill hid a smile in the coffee cup she’d given him. This was excellent. Or, as excellent as a DUI and possibly running into Batman himself could be on a random Tuesday morning.
That part was making his stomach queasy again. Batman didn’t usually mess with the lower level men unless they got in his way. If he’d been tracking Penguin’s shipment, then he --
Don’t think like that, Bill thought to himself, trying to calm down. He isn’t going to snatch you. He’s just bringing someone else in.
Bianchi, having had a silent staring match with Colton for the last minute, cleared her throat and brought the receiver back up to ear.
“Is it possible for you to walk the person through instead?”
Whatever the man -- Superman, if the guy wasn’t high as balls and prank calling for the hell of it -- said made Bianchi’s lips purse.
“Specific paperwork he wants to fill out,” she repeated, nodding. “Form…I don’t know that form.” Another pause. “Oh, I see. Okay, yeah I think we have that -- he has his own. Gotcha. He’s a prepared kinda guy, huh?”
Only Bianchi could make innocent small talk with Superman himself. A strange feeling of pride welled up in Bill’s chest. Even mildly disconcerted, she was still painfully confident.
“One second,” Bianchi said, not bothering to cover the receiver this time. She turned to Colton, eyebrows raised. “Does five minutes work?”
“Five minutes to what?”
“Walk the perp in,” Bianchi said, as if it was obvious. It was. “They’re giving us five minutes to get ready.”
“They,” Colton repeated, snide, “are walking in to get arrested, you mean.”
“You’re going to arrest Superman?”
It was a risky thing to let slip, but Bill couldn’t help it. When Colton whirled around, searching for who’d spoken, his face was slightly flushed.
“As far as I’m concerned, he’s an accessory at this point.” Colton sniffed, lip curling up slightly. “The last time Batman came in here, we gave him a hell of a fight. With five minutes to prepare, we can bag him this time.”
The last time Batman had entered the precinct -- years ago, before Bianchi’s time with the GCPD -- it had caused one of the largest officer responses to a call in Gotham history. Bill and his crew at the time had wisely decided to take that night off. A pissed-off GCPD officer or two was one thing; a pissed-off Batman caused ripples all through Gotham.
“Right in front of Superman,” Bill said, monotone. Colton’s nostrils flared as he turned back to Bianchi, ignoring the implied question.
“Tell Superman to let Batman walk in here himself, or we’re bagging him too.”
Bianchi stared at Colton for a few seconds, then lifted the phone back up. “You got all that?”
From what Bill could overhear, Superman’s voice was soft. He wasn’t yelling. By all appearances, he was treating Bianchi with respect on the other end of the line. If he hadn’t been, Bill would’ve known instantly. She got a red flush high on either cheekbones when she was stressed by an interaction. A pretty line up her cheeks that almost matched her lips.
“Okay,” Bianchi said. “I certainly can’t stop you. You know the official position. Can I -- would it be possible for me to, uh. Speak with Batman, briefly? Just really briefly.”
Superman seemingly caved to her demand. Bianchi’s expression tightened as she listened to a new voice on the other end of the call. After a moment, she nodded.
“I understand.” Then: “I certainly can’t stop you, sir. You’ve heard the GCPD’s official opinion on the matter--”
With a few more tense bits of conversation, Bianchi hung up. She glanced at Colton, red lips pressed together.
“You’re not arresting him.”
Colton stared at her, droll. “I’m doing whatever the fuck I want. He’s a wanted fugitive and needs to be in custody.”
An officer across the room turned back to his colleagues, wide-eyed, “There’s no fucking way we put him down,” he whispered, “None.”
“What was that?” Colton sneered at the group. “Officer…Nelson?”
Officer Nelson turned around, facing Colton head-on. He was from Gotham, Bill could just tell. They didn’t shy away from verbal conflict.
“I said,” Nelson repeated, hands hanging in his kevlar vest straps. “There’s no fucking way we’re putting him down. I actually like my ACL intact, believe it or not.”
Then:
“Sir,” Nelson added, like it was an afterthought.
“I’m not messing with a guy who can punch through reinforced glass,” a second officer from Nelson’s group said. “Sorry.”
“He can punch through walls,” a third officer said, shaking her head. Her ponytail swung back and forth. “You know how he busted the Russians last month? He blasted through the lower floors and flew up through the hole.”
Colton whistled, cutting off the sudden flurry of Batman-related stories. “Hey. Hey. Settle the fuck down, now. We’ve got four minutes--”
“Three minutes twenty-seven seconds,” Bianchi corrected, glancing at her desk clock. It was a tiny dalmatian. Bill loved it almost as much as she clearly did.
“We need a plan.” Colton stepped forward, eyeing the front door. “He’s not gonna come in through the front door, I don’t care what Superman supposedly said, That could’ve been anyone. He’s going to come in from somewhere we don’t expect. The walls, the floor, the air vents--”
As Colton led the assembled officers through his hasty plan, Bianchi sighed, sitting down heavily in her roller chair.
Bill lifted his cuffed hands, trying to offer the coffee to her. She shook her head, giving him a grateful -- if nervous -- smile.
“Was that really Superman?”
Her smile widened. There was a tiny bit of awe in her eyes. Even Gotham’s most hardened officers weren’t quite sure how to deal with Superman.
“I guess we’ll find out.”
They both looked up as Nelson stormed away from Colton, boots squeaking on the floor.
Bianchi raised her eyebrows as he passed her desk. Nelson shook his head, jaw working.
“I’m not fucking taking Batman down with an AK-47 we’re not even trained to use. I’m 90% sure he picked them up at some fuck-ass gun show, too.”
“You guys have AK-47s?” Bill asked, surprised. Nelson turned to him, then shrugged.
“What’s it to you?”
“He just dumped a whole truck of them into Gotham Harbor,” Bianchi cut in, explaining before Bill could. “And he likes guns.”
“What the hell,” Nelson said. He jerked his head at Colton’s loose formation of officers. “Wanna provide covering fire when those idiots bum rush Batman?”
“No fucking way.”
Nelson slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re making more sense than Colton. And I could smell you across the room, man.”
Bill felt his cheeks warm with mild embarrassment.
“Well. In vino veritas, or so they say.”
Nelson cracked a smile. His hands slid out from his vest as he turned back to Bianchi. “You think my DoorDash order will get here before shit starts hitting the fan?”
“What did you order?” Bianchi asked casually. Her foot spun the roller chair around.
“Dunkin.”
“Maybe you can ask Superman to pick it up from the door on his way in?”
“Fuck you, Bianchi.”
The majority of Colton’s group had managed to line up near the back entrance and service hallway. They had their guns out; several of them were trembling.
The front door buzzer went off. The silence that followed was sickening and tense. Bill wasn’t even part of the mess, and still. His heart was clenching in his chest, pumping fresh adrenaline into his hungover body.
“Officer Bianchi,” Bianchi said, pressing the matching buzzer on her desk.
“Hi, yeah. This is Superman. We spoke a few minutes ago?”
“Superman,” Bianchi said. “I’m buzzing the door open now. The processing desk is straight ahead once you enter.”
Colton’s eyes were wide enough for Bill to see the whites on all sides of his iris. He motioned quickly for his men to turn around, but the silent command went largely unheeded. The guns were still pointed at the back entrance.
“Great. Thank you, Officer.”
Bianchi pressed a second button. In the distance, Bill heard the front door crack open. One set of footsteps echoed down the hall, a perfect marching beat.
Superman stepped into the bullpen with a wave. He was -- dizzying wasn’t the right word. His smile was blinding. Every inch of his suit was made from a subtly-fluttering material. The blue of his eyes was so rich, it bordered on indigo. The rich red cape around his shoulders rustled gently against the floor, as if it had a mind of its own.
Colton pointed his gun at Superman. A moment later, half of his men did the same.
“If you take one more step forward, you’ll be arrested.”
Superman gave them a wry, if not slightly dismissive, smile. He ignored the threat, stepping toward Bianchi’s desk.
No footsteps sounded. And yet, in the blink of an eye, a shadow peeled itself away from Superman’s bulk, falling into step behind him.
“It’s him,” Bill heard one of the officers whisper. The guns trembled; they did not, ultimately, change direction.
“Colton said to shoot him--”
“--could be a distraction--”
“--fuck is he carrying?”
“--need to start covering fire--”
“--get back in LINE and--”
The chatter disappeared as Batman fully entered into view. He was tall -- almost as tall as Superman, something that surprised Bill. More impressive was the massive, unconscious body he had over one shoulder in a fireman’s carry, held in place by a singular gloved hand.
Bill sat back, more convinced of his previous position than ever. He didn’t want to fuck with someone who could pick up 240 lbs on one shoulder like it was nothing.
“Officer Bianchi,” Superman said as he approached the processing desk. He gave Bill a small nod before turning his full attention to Bianchi. “It’s nice to meet you in person.”
Bianchi flung her hand out, meeting Superman’s offered hand in a stilted handshake. “It’s, uh, my pleasure. Sir.”
Behind Superman, Batman made a low noise. It was almost a snort.
“Superman is fine,” Superman amended, releasing Bianchi’s hand. “My colleague here would like to fill out those forms I mentioned, if it’s not too much trouble.”
Bianchi blinked. Bill silently willed all of his remaining strength to her.
Get it together, Bianchi. You know this shit. You just gotta remember.
“Right.” Bianchi gestured at the unoccupied chairs in front of her desk. “You can sit. And. Uh--”
“Can he put him down here?” Superman asked, saving Bianchi the embarrassment as he nodded at the bench. “Sir, do you mind?”
It took Bill a moment to realize Superman was talking to him.
“I don’t fucking care.”
“Bill,” Bianchi hissed. Superman’s smile had become more of a smirk. He didn’t look offended at all.
“You really are different here,” Superman said, craning his neck to look back at Batman. “There has to be something in the water. They’re pointing guns at me.”
The polite expression on Superman’s face morphed into something…deeper. His lips were still stretched into a faint smile. His body language was as neutral as it could get. And yet -- his eyes, the veiled disapproval in them, spoke to a straining facade.
On Batman’s behalf? Bill thought to himself, dazed. His colleague. What a fucking joke.
Across the room, several officers went pale, their guns sagging down toward the floor. Colton gritted his teeth, still sighting on the pair. His arms were beginning to tremble from how long he’d been holding his shooting stance.
“There is something in the water.” Bill looked up in shock as Batman spoke, a low growl clearly only meant for Superman. “And they’re not aiming for you. They’re aiming for me.”
The blank lenses lifted to Colton, dismissing him entirely. Batman’s gaze went down the line of officers, making a show of examining them.
More guns lowered. Even Colton faltered as he was caught in the Bat’s crosshairs.
“Sorry about that,” Superman said, cutting through the sudden, strained silence. The strange expression had disappeared from his face in the blink of an eye. “B, you want me to take him?”
In response, Batman set the unconscious man down on the bench next to Bill with a barely-audible huff. The unlucky guy had been beaten all up and down the left side of his face. His left eye and cheek were so swollen, it was almost comical. Like he was half a chipmunk.
“Okay,” Superman said, sounding amused. “I’ll just sit here, then.”
Bill watched, in a daze, as Superman sat down across from him, crossed one leg over the other, and made a show of watching his colleague.
Batman, for his part, seemed to work methodically and fast. He cut the zip ties around the unconscious man’s wrists, replacing them with the cuffs that hung from the underside of the bench. Cuffs he’d have to have seen in order to know they were there.
“Will he bother you?”
Bill started at the sound of Batman’s voice, He sat up abruptly, keeping his eyes low.
“Is he dead?”
“No.”
“Then we’re fine,” Bill said. Batman gave him a sharp nod, then turned on a silent heel toward Bianchi’s desk.
“Form 11-07B,” Bianchi said, her voice ever so slightly strained. She held out a ream of papers to Batman, sliding a clipboard underneath. “You understand that that’s a -- uh. An extradition form. Internal use, mostly, but I guess we can--”
“Yes,” Batman said. He took the papers and the clipboard, scanning them far too quickly for comfort. “This is form 11-07B.2. I need form 11-07B.1, the one updated in 2018.”
Bill couldn’t quite parse the difference, but Bianchi clearly could. “That one is for foreign extradition.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a filled out 9-90 for him?”
Batman reached into his belt, pulling out a folded piece of paper. He slid it across the desk to Bianchi.
“Oh wow,” Bianchi said, her voice losing some of its nervous tremble as she stared down at the form. “Nobody ever has these pre-filled. Do you happen to have the--”
Batman slid two more papers across the table. Bianchi took them, held them up to the fluorescent lighting, then very obviously braced herself up on her desk.
“I don’t see any reason why you can’t fill out the 11-07B.1,” she said. She took the incorrect form back from Batman, sweeping it into a free space on her desk. “Just a warning, I will have to fill out an incident report since he’s a little…”
“Banged up,” Superman helpfully supplied for her. Bianchi nodded, sliding the correct form forward.
“I’m sure--”
“He fell.”
Bill eyed his benchmate, smirking. Yeah, that was definitely what had happened. Bad fall, lots of stairs. Bad falls on multiple sets of stairs, even.
“What’d he do?”
If Batman was surprised by being addressed, he didn’t show it. Still, the eerie shift of his lenses away from Bianchi and to him was disconcerting.
“Human trafficking,” Batman said after a brief pause. “Children, mostly.”
“Shit.”
“And we are using the correct procedure to get him extradited to where he belongs,” Superman said, stressing the beginning very obviously toward Batman. “Instead of just dumping him on foreign soil and calling it a day.”
Batman ignored him, halfway through filling out the form Bianchi had given him. Bill got the distinct impression that was something Batman tended to do. Which was odd, considering Gotham was really fucking far away from most countries.
Maybe he can fly, Bill amended. Maybe Superman carries him, I don’t fucking know.
“Isn’t this nice?” Superman addressed the rest of the room. Most of the officers were either gone, or pale-faced and seated at their desks. “Using the proper channels to achieve justice?”
Colton stepped forward, stubborn to a fault. His gun was sighted quite obviously on Batman’s unguarded back.
“He’s got warrants.”
“I have warrants,” Superman rebutted. Colton didn’t seem to know what to say to that. Bill snorted, bending over to smother it before the asshole could hear him. “Heck, even Robin has warrants.”
Batman made a low noise in the back of his throat. Superman’s eyes flicked to him, sharper than diamonds, then dulled as they refocused on Colton. It was an impressive change -- there and you miss it. A crack in the gleaming facade.
“GCPD policy is to arrest the vigilante known as Batman on sight,” Colton protested through gritted teeth. “He doesn’t get special protection because you decided to--”
Bill had the distinct pleasure of watching the remaining blood drain from Colton’s face as Superman stood, holding out his wrists.
“So arrest me, then.”
Colton reholstered his gun with trembling hands. He reached for the cuffs on his belt, never taking his eyes off Superman.
“Form AM-47B.”
Superman looked away from Colton at the sound of Batman’s voice. “What’s that?”
“The form Officer Colton will need to fill out in order to extradite you to a facility capable of monitoring metahumans,” Batman said, continuing to write even as he spoke. “Then the GCPD request will be overridden by a LexCorp emergency bid before sending you to the closest meta-capable facility. Which is Arkham, by the way. And then Officer Colton’s paperwork won’t matter, because you’ll be in a LexCorp blacksite and scrubbed from official records before Officer Bianchi can even scan them into the GCPD servers.”
Superman’s hands lowered to his sides. He glanced at Colton, giving a nudge of his shoulder as if to say get a load of this guy, huh?
“Would you like to fill out Form AM-47B, Officer Colton?” Batman asked, not bothering to look up.
A red flush had worked its way up Colton’s neck, standing out starkly against his pale face.
“I will,” he said, shaky and stupidly brave all at once. “If it’s for you.”
That finally made Batman look up from his form. Bill saw a flash of his teeth and immediately looked away.
Fuck no.
“Good thing I’m not a meta, then.”
Superman sat back down, recrossing his legs. He perched his hands on his lap, content to watch and wait.
Bianchi took Batman’s completed form when he finished, looking it over with wide eyes. “He’s--”
“Yes,” Batman confirmed. Whatever that meant, it had Bianchi doubletaking at Bill’s seatmate. After a brief pause, she reached for a sheet of paper on her desk, crossing out something she’d written.
“Please sign this.”
Batman took the paper, signing it without hesitation. “He fell?”
“Very slippery out there,” Bianchi said, nodding. “Lots of ice.”
“Jesus, Vanessa,” Colton protested, “it’s barely forty out there. How the hell is there gonna be ice?”
Bianchi pursed her lips at him. “What am I, a meteorologist?"
“You don’t need to be a meteorologist to know what temperature water freezes at. Tell me you know that.”
“No clue,” Bianchi said, dismissing him with a jerk of her chin. She took back Batman’s signed form, shuffling it into the pile of the other forms. “It’s been a pleasure. Truly.”
Bill got the impression she truly meant that. The way to Bianchi’s heart was, somehow, correctly filled-out paperwork. He made a mental note.
“B?”
It was suddenly obvious how much of Superman’s role had simply been guarding. Without the body between them, Bill could actually see the way Superman had been positioned just in front of Batman -- and now, about to exit, directly behind him.
Do something, those indigo eyes begged. Try to arrest him and see what happens.
It was strange to see a restrained Batman, especially in comparison to Superman’s growing irritation. As Superman’s stony glare circled the room, Batman inclined his head to Bianchi.
“Thank you.”
“No problem,” Bianchi said. “Any time.”
Bill doubted that, but he didn’t have a chance to process that. Batman’s eyes slid over to him next, examining him briefly.
“I’m just here for a DUI,” Bill protested. “Definitely haven’t trafficked any kids or anything. If you’re worried about that, I mean.”
Oh god, I’m going to fucking throw up. Why is he LOOKING at me--
“Penguin sent divers.”
Bill’s heart stuttered to a stop inside his chest. “W-what?”
“After your crash into the Harbor,” Batman continued. “Penguin’s divers already stripped the car.”
The silent, implied if I were you was outrageously loud. Bill nodded up and down, accidentally jangling the cuffs as he did so. Of course he knew. Of course Batman knew. It wasn’t even a question.
“Right. Yeah. Thanks for the, uh--”
Batman turned away before he could complete his thanks, his cape sweeping across the floor as he did so. He was face to face with a grinning Superman, with a subtle tilt of his chin Bill would bet was stubbornness.
“Was that so bad?”
Batman glanced, pointedly, over his shoulder. Colton had unholstered his gun again, sighting low on Batman’s cape. Aiming for the thigh, Bill realized. Not enough to kill him unless they got extremely unlucky. But even with armor, it would do damage. There was no way around that.
“They’ll warm up to you,” Superman assured. “They’ll warm up to the idea, at least. Who doesn’t want help sometimes?”
Batman grunted.
“Other than you,” Superman amended.
Another grunt.
“And me. But that’s not the same, and you know it.”
A brave rookie stood up on the other side of the room, weaving around Colton with legs that shook and curved inward at the knees.
“Uh, Mr. Batman, sir?” The rookie held out a piece of paper and a pen to Batman. “Could I get an autograph?”
Colton smacked a palm to his face. “Jesus fucking Christ, Brady.”
“Sure you can,” Superman said when Batman didn’t reply. “Right, B?”
The rookie -- Brady -- looked up hopefully. Batman seemed to be having an entirely silent conversation with Superman over the innocuous piece of paper.
“Here,” Superman said, taking the sheet of paper. With no warning, he reached out, digging into Batman’s belt and pulling a sharp-edged bat-shaped piece of metal from one of the pouches. He tapped it against the ink pad on Bianchi’s desk, then pressed it into the paper.
“Holy shit,” Brady said as the stamped paper was passed back to him. “Thank you!”
Superman replaced the throwing star -- that was what it had to be -- in Batman’s belt, snapping the pouch shut with a smile. At Batman’s grunt, his smile only widened.
“Sir,” Brady said, stumbling over to Colton with the inked paper held out. “Look at this.”
Batman took the moment of distraction to make his exit. Superman trailed after him, cape flared out on all sides, blotting out Batman’s form entirely. He was famously bulletproof, Bill remembered. A potshot at Batman would just piss him off.
Superman was also famously slow to anger. That was what made the flecks of it that escaped his stiffly pleasant facade so surprising. Where Batman had been surprisingly placid, Superman’s eyes had sharpened. Where Batman’s shoulders tightened, Superman was easy smiles and jokes.
They’d swapped back and forth several times, Bill realized. It would have been impressive to witness, if not for the uncertainty of where the true threat resided.
Maybe that’s the point, Bill thought to himself. He closed his eyes, hearing Bianchi buzz the pair back through the front door. Colton was already talking up a storm near the rookies, making threats in a lowered voice as if Superman couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t always hear him, if he tried.
“Hey.”
Bill opened his eyes. Bianchi was kneeling in front of him again, looking a little adrift. Her hand was braced on the bench, inches from his thigh.
Breathing in was not an option. Neither was exhaling.
“You doing okay?” Bianchi pressed her lips together as soon as she’d asked the question, reconsidering. “I mean, feeling nauseous or anything like that. Not -- I don’t know what that was, either.”
“I’m good,” Bill assured her, leaning back just enough so his breath didn’t reach her. “This is like a typical Tuesday for me.”
“Sure it is,” Bianchi said, rocking back onto her heels. “That’s why you keep ending up at my desk. In Gotham Memorial scrubs.”
“You make a compelling argument.” Bill faltered a little, trying to scrape the words up from his scattered brain cells. “How about we get a drink after this? And you can tell me all about those 11-07 forms.”
“11-07B.1 and 11-07B.2,” Bianchi corrected, which wasn’t an outright no.
“Yeah, those.” Bill fumbled for the next number. “And that fancy AM-47…B?”
“AM-47B,” Bianchi repeated in a pleased voice. She gave him a once-over. “Make it a coffee and I’m in.”
Bill held up his styrofoam cup. “This is already a coffee date, as far as I’m concerned.”
“You’re funny.” Bianchi stood, rolling her shoulders back. She gave Bill a pat on the arm, leaning in so she could whisper in his ear.
“Sold,” Bill said instantly. His hands broke through the thin styrofoam, spilling coffee across the bench. And, quite unintentionally, across the lap of the man cuffed to the bench beside him.
“You’re gonna make me clean that up?” Bianchi asked, exasperated.
“His pants are already soaking it up. Look. It’s almost gone.”
“Because you’re using them to mop it up.”
“And?”
“Well,” Bianchi said, then relented. “I guess it’s better than piss?”
“That’s the spirit.”
Bianchi pointed at him, holding her finger in his face. “No more spirits for you.”
It wasn’t really a joke. Bill leaned back against the bench, giving her a respectful nod. It didn’t beat Superman, but it was close enough.
“Yes ma’am.”
“It really wasn’t that bad.”
Over by the monitors, Bruce grunted. Clark ignored the shorthand denial, clapping Dick on the shoulder.
“He was fine the entire time,” Clark continued. “We just walked in there, filled out some paperwork, and then we were done. Easy peasy.”
“And they didn’t try to shoot you?” Dick asked, directing the question over Clark’s shoulder towards the back of Bruce’s head.
The next grunt wasn’t quite a denial. More of a stop bothering me with this. Clark was getting better at deciphering the grunts. For a man with such little to say, he was quite eloquent sometimes.
“They didn’t shoot us,” Clark confirmed. “There might have been a few guns pointed at us--”
“To shoot us,” Bruce cut in.
“--but then it was all fine. And B even got asked for an autograph.”
“No way,” Dick said. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Clark glanced at Bruce again, but the man was still focused on the monitors in front of him. “I think the desk lady liked him a lot. She was impressed with his paperwork.”
“Paperwork is important,” Bruce grunted, not bothering to turn around. Dick rolled his eyes.
“Sure. So now what? We can just start walking in perps ourselves?”
“You have warrants,” Bruce said from the desk, monotone.
“Yeah, but I’m a lot cuter than you are,” Dick protested. “And you have way more warrants than I do.”
Bruce turned around abruptly in his chair, giving Clark a pointed look. Clark glanced away, clearing his throat awkwardly.
“Well. Maybe not as many as me.”
Dick blinked. “You have warrants? For what?”
“They’re actually mostly intergalactic warrants,” Clark clarified. “B and I both have a few Hal pretends to ignore. And then I have a few from Krypton that Zod put out before he died. Those make diplomatic missions kinda sucky.”
“For what?” Dick repeated. Clark saw Bruce hide a smile behind his hand out of the corner of his eye.
“For being really F’ing cool,” Clark said.
“You just said F’ing.”
“Yeah, and?”
Dick narrowed his eyes, but seemed to let the point go. “So you’re coming to all our drop-offs now?”
It was Bruce’s turn to narrow his eyes. “Dick.”
“I’m just asking.” Dick turned back to Clark, unflapped. “Duck taping them to doors takes a while. And you have to time it right so nobody sees you doing it, but late enough that someone will find them before they get hypothermia or something. 4:45 am is the sweet spot if you’re curious. Most of the precincts change shifts right at 5:00.”
“Dick.”
Clark glanced at Bruce, who was pretending to be very invested in one of his monitors. “I--”
“He called ahead,” Bruce corrected. “And asked them if it was okay to walk in.”
Dick’s nose wrinkled. “Why would you do that?”
Clark stared at him for a beat.
“...They said yes?”
“They said yes?” Dick repeated.
“Yeah.”
It was bizarrely hilarious to see Dick’s eyes swap between him and Bruce, judging both of their positions and, inevitably, finding one lacking.
“I’m with B on this one,” Dick said, crossing his arms. “That’s weird. And it feels like a trap. I’d rather parachute in and duck tape them to some building, honestly.”
Clark caught a flash of pride in Bruce’s eyes as the man turned back to his monitors, jaw tensed just enough to hold off a smile.
“Or we could use official channels to achieve justice in the--”
“Pffft. That’s hilarious.” Dick shook his head, like Clark’s protest had been a joke. “Official channels?”
With that, Dick turned on his heel and skipped -- bounded, really -- over to the monitors, perching himself on a chair right next to Bruce. His expression tightened, a near-perfect replica of Bruce’s own. He pointed at the screen, muttering something to Bruce. Bruce grunted, marking it as he continued his examination.
Clark’s phone pinged. He glanced down at his pocket, surprised he even had a signal this far down into the Earth. He turned it on, scrolling down to --
“Oh shit. He just -- I think our guy just escaped custody.”
Bruce hummed.
“B, we need to--”
“What do you think I’m doing?” Bruce asked quietly. He was still looking at the screen, his face shadowed in blue light.
A screen that, Clark realized belatedly, had the man’s face plastered all over it.
“You knew he escaped?”
“Ten minutes ago,” Dick responded, in lieu of Bruce. He tapped at the nearest monitor, enhancing what looked like surveillance footage. “Next time we should just drop him at Interpol. Where is Interpol, by the way?”
“France,” Bruce said instantly.
Dick zeroed in on Clark with alarming intensity. “How fast can you fly to France?”
“Really?”
“Dead serious.”
“With a person?”
Dick hummed at the exact pitch Bruce had. “Yeah.”
“Five minutes,” Clark hedged. “Maybe ten if the weather is cold.”
“You fly slower in the cold?” Dick asked.
“I fly slower because I’m trying to avoid freezing whoever I’m carrying to death mid-flight,” Clark said.
“Has that happened a lot before?”
“Robin.”
This time, Bruce’s implicit order snapped Dick to full attention. He turned back to the wall of screens, looking at something Bruce had pointed out.
“It wasn’t all a waste,” Clark said, more for his own benefit than anyone else’s. “I think that desk sergeant and the guy handcuffed to that bench are gonna go out on a date later. That’s something.”
Despite the urgency of his current task, Bruce found the time to turn, slowly, and give him the most piercing, dry look Clark had ever experienced. And he’d known Lois Lane for almost a decade.
“Right,” Clark said. “It was a stupid idea. You were right.”
Then, cutting through the sudden silence:
“I did some paperwork.”
“Yeah?” Clark asked, perking up as he recognized the unexpected silver lining. Bruce had already turned away, but it didn’t matter. It was still an olive branch.
A grunt. Softer this time. Even Dick’s eyes darted away from the monitors, curious.
“Yeah,” Clark repeated for good measure. “I mean. Yeah, you did.”
There was a pointed pause. Bruce’s eyes joined Dick’s, drilling into the side of Clark’s head. He wasn’t going to ask. Clark was powerless to ignore the silent question anyway.
“Okay,” Clark sighed, giving in and grabbing the closest chair. “Where do you want me?”