I simply couldn't resist writing a Batman fic after seeing Dark Knight Rises twice in the theatres already. I am still writing on my Phantom of the Opera stories, but inspiration hit for this one. Please review and let me know how I did; John Blake is a fun, but difficult character to write.
As always, anything copyrighted belongs to whomever it is copyrighted to. I make no money off of this-all of my profit is immaterial. (coughreviewscough). This disclaimer goes for all chapters in this story so I don't have to keep writing the damn thing hahahaha.
The first time he sees her, she's running.
Her hair reminds him of the sunset—what was probably once vibrant red fading into deep pink and oranges, pale blonde flashing through, dark underneath. The look on her face is intense fury, red knit beanie crushed into her small hands. She's so short, she almost resembles a midget when she runs. It should be comical. And yet, the expression on her blurry face...
It's then he realizes that she's chasing someone.
He decides what the hell, to go see what's going on. It seems as though she's running pellmell after a guy who's big enough to break her in half. He frowns, wondering what the fuck is going on. He vaguely hears his partner call out to him, but ignores him. He's interested.
He appreciates with some surprise that the girl can run. She's having to work twice as much to catch her prey because of her short legs, but her pace never falters, never slows. She gracefully ducks and weaves through pedestrians on the crowded sidewalks, just managing to avoid clipping oblivious businessmen in expensive suits. Her Converse pound inexorably against the pavement like the gavel of Judgment Day, black-and-white blurs. He's beginning to be a little impressed.
He picks up his pace, sensing a confrontation is coming soon. The large man stops in a back-alley, snarling, his chest heaving. The girl's breathing hard too, but breathes deeply, controls it. He waits around the corner, hand resting on his gun. He wants to see what this is about.
"You sick god damn sonuvabitch," she hisses venomously.
"No... proof..." the man heaves, sneering.
"CHILD MOLESTER!" she shouts, furious.
"My little girl lying to you again? Gonna have to teach her what happens when she lies."
"The bruises on her arms don't lie, Mister Cameron. She's told me what happens!"
"Hey, you're just some crazy bitch, nobody's going to bel-"
"Then why did you run?" she spat out, voice cold as the bottom of hell. "Why did you bolt when I told you that she wasn't leaving with you, that I'd called the police, that CPS was on the way? Why did you run like the hulking coward that you are? There are you safe houses for men like you. Not anymore. Not now, not even if you knew old Maroni himself."
Slowly, he takes his gun out. It's obvious the accusations the girl is firing off like bullets are true; the man wouldn't have run if they weren't, like she said. And there's something in his voice...
"Yeah, that's right," he grinned sickly. "Such a pretty little girl her whore of her mother left me with, I oughta get something out of her for takin' care of the brat. And if she won't give it to her daddy, then I'll just take it from you, nosy cunt. You shoulda stayed outta my family's business. If I'm going down, I'll take you with me first."
"She's eight years old," she replies, voice strangled with grief and rage. "And if the courts don't convict you, I'll kill you myself. Do you understand me?"
The threat is a promise. Her voice is low, eerily calm, like the deep breath before the storm breaks. He decides to intervene; he's heard enough.
"GOTHAM PD! YOU'RE UNDER ARREST FOR CHILD MOLESTATION!"
Stunned, the two turn to look at him as he walks down the alley, gun drawn, knuckles white to keep from shooting the monster-man on sight. He sees the girl watching him in wonder, like he's a fucking hero, and she's got green, green eyes. She puts the pieces together, smiles.
"It's good to know the police already got the report I filed with CPS," she murmured, a hint of a weary smile in her voice, husky like good bourbon ought to be.
He smiles at her, just slightly, but it's more than most people have gotten in a long, long time. It's real.
The alleyway is washed in blue and red light, the familiar boop-boop of sirens chiming like a cavalry horn. The man, Max Cameron, is still in too much shock to fight the smaller cop. Its surreal, the reality of the consequences he never thought he'd have to deal with. Back in his day, stuff like this had never been reported to the cops. Before fucking Dent, the Narrows had kept to itself. His dad had gotten away with it... why hadn't he?
Blake is glaring at him, the lines around his eyes tight with an anger that he could never shake. The girl is watching him with careful, knowing eyes. They soften, catching his darker ones for a moment. She places a gentle, warm hand on his arm. It's not a request to lower the gun; it's not even a silent reprimand for his anger. It's just a simple human touch that tells him it's okay. It's okay to be angry, okay to know its settled into your bones. It's okay.
He doesn't lower his gun—he doesn't even change his stance. But some of the tension in him drains out for the first time in he can't remember how long, and it's nice. Her face is understanding, wise. She really does understand, he realizes. She gets it.
His partner—who was smart, and actually drove—watches in amazement as the hulking man is forced into handcuffs and wrangled into the backseat. He opens his mouth to ask, then closes it, shaking his head. No doubt he'll hear all about it on the way back; John Blake isn't that hot-headed, and a warrant for a child molester has just been put out...
"Thanks," she murmurs, looking exhausted.
"No problem," Blake smiles back. "It's my job."
She's beautiful, he thinks suddenly. Standing there, he's reminded of a Valkyrie; not that she looked like one, except for the way she held herself, with rare dignity and quiet, unshakeable conviction...
"No it's not," she replies, those green eyes of hers older than her young face. "You could've minded your business, and I probably would be dead right now. You're a good man. Don't let this city take that from you."
She's earnest, he can tell. Sincere. She's trying to tell him something, and he thinks he understands. There's been peace for a long time, but that nagging feeling of foreboding is creeping back again. This unnatural lack of crime can't possibly last for much longer. Gotham wouldn't allow it.
"I'll try, Miss..?"
He wants her name. She opens her mouth to reply, but her cell chimes with an incoming call. He's surprised by the ringtone; he recognizes it somewhere as a song that's very old. It's a classier song, belonging to a classier time. Very little about this girl—young woman? It was impossible to try and guess how old she was, she looked barely older than eighteen—was typical or easily identifiable. Her face turned pale, color draining. She spoke a few words tersely, biting them off.
"I'm sorry, Officer," she sighed regretfully, already shifting on her aching legs. "There's been an emergency. The monster's daughter... I've got to go."
"I could drop you off..." he offered. She shook her head firmly.
"No, thank-you. There's not enough room, and he needs to go to jail. Watch out for his right hook, by the way."
She was already sprinting off, legs pumping. He stared for a moment longer than necessary, then shook his head, climbing next to his partner. The Asian man raised an eyebrow, but held his tongue.
"So... she was pretty."
"She was, wasn't she?" Blake smiled to himself.
He doubted he would ever see her again, the strangely fierce young woman who had chased a man for a city block, knowing she would probably die when it ended. Later, he learned he'd missed her coming down to the station and filing a report. He didn't mind; her words about a storm bothered him though. It nagged at him, made him focus aware of just how much it was being said lately. Quietly, he researched as much as he could in preparation for that storm, worked out his body and mind more than ever. The rest, he'd decided, he could deal with as he went.
And three months later, Bane brought everything to hell.