'Batman' and certain characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., respectively.
There is no non-con/dub-con/rape depicted in this story, but there are references to it having occurred in the past. I included this warning just to be safe, as I certainly do not want to trigger someone.
One day after one night filled with thwarted muggings, three attempted rapes, and one foiled heist, she goes into the tower and Fox leads her to a new compartment, one that, when its top drawer is pulled out, displays a new armored suit with all the trappings. She hadn't asked, hadn't ever mentioned it to him outright, but he knows. In the drawers below that, there are newer tools and flashier toys, things like retractable night vision lenses that, even at just a glance, will fit perfectly inside the cowl—and he did all this without reference, without proper measurements. And it's not that she underestimates Fox. . .
She's just not quite sure of his motivation in doing all this—for her, for no other reason than to help her. He doesn't get anything out of it, in fact loses stuff.
"Thank you," she says eventually, and he responds with that Mona Lisa smile of his and then leaves her alone to familiarize herself with the new gear.
Unbuttoning her jacket and then her shirt, she slides them off and puts them on top of the metal cabinet nearby. And, as she pulls out the new armor and goes about strapping it into place, fumbling a little with the different design on the latches, it occurs to her that all the important people in her life, save one, are men, older men, wholly paternal in their regard. What this says about her, she doesn't examine too closely, but perhaps more telling is the exception to the trend and the fact that, while Rachel is most definitely not an older man who looks at Brooke and sees a troubled and needy daughter, their relationship is just as nonphysical as the others.
Even Henri, Ducard, Ra's—even he, despite the others' insinuations and taunts, had never touched her in any way that wasn't professional and utterly distant. Sometimes he had seemed reluctant to touch her at all, and perhaps it was memories of his wife or a complete lack of desire or a vow of celibacy or pity, but it's standing here in the company in the building in the city her father and grandfather and great-grandfather and all the male Waynes for generations helped build and realizing it's been years since someone touched her with love, since she touched someone else for some other reason than to harm.
And she's never known how to reach out, and there's never been anyone to reach out to like that, anyway. Maybe there never will be.
She knows it then. The buck stops here. The last.
But, there are worse fates.
She finishes doing up the torso portion of the suit, and already the fit is a vast improvement over the initial prototype, the casing around her chest and ribs conforming perfectly and the waist brought in tighter. The plating for her arms is separate, just as that for her legs isn't connected to the hips and crotch section, and she understands suddenly that the torso portion can also double as a protective vest, that the other parts will be just as good a fit and possibly even able to pass under clothing, should the need arise. She is now armored for nearly every occasion, and she put herself in this position for a reason. It's only logical certain sacrifices must be made to hold it.
In practice it is more like a recipe than strategy. She constantly varies the approach, shifts the combination of moves in the takedown, and modifies the degree to which the criminal in charge and his underlings are punished, and sometimes the results are successful—and sometimes they are most definitely not.
How much is too much? The problem isn't the reverse and likely never will be. Alfred says she is angry and has credited the time spent away as the cause, but he's mistaken. Whatever rage she feels is older than that and was in truth tempered and refined during those seven years. She knows how to smile now and laugh and appreciate the tiny moments of joy her life does afford, things completely foreign to that sullen little girl barely able to refrain from glaring all the time. She remembers one winter break spent primarily throwing knives at a tree on the far edge of the property. She remembers purposely bumping into people on sidewalks and going out of her way to be silent and still for long enough periods of time to unsettle, startle, and occasionally scare those happening upon her. Years without eye contact or interaction—that was anger, childish and impotent. What she feels now is as far removed from anger as heat from ice.
Falcone made a good first impression. She read about it the next day in the paper Alfred handed her. What isn't in the front-page article is the fact that the crime boss' front teeth had been punched down his throat and the fingers of his right hand, the one he liked to use when pointing a gun or making threats, were reduced to useless flaps of meat. What isn't stated is that this powerful man begged, begged—like a fucking dog when the Bat had him on his back, genitals squishing underfoot. That wasn't anger that did that. It was something colder, older, something very much like revenge on the surface but much more resonant, more ruthless, more practical and long-term.
That was a message.
The double-interaction is the trickiest part in any communication, after all. In truth, her response was quite tame. She did nothing she can't live with, nothing wrong or wicked. She asked, and Falcone answered, and then she answered back—and answered everything.
The Batman. As Brooke Wayne, she smiles at every mention of that name, often joking about how built the guy must be or how much in need of a good lay he clearly is—all that pent up frustration, you know. The trick soon becomes extracting herself from these displays so that she can continue building the legend. Here again, the recipe is adapted to fit each situation.
Sometimes, it's a "business emergency," which everyone laughs at, or it's a prior engagement, which just means Brooke Wayne is bored to tears and desperate for a change in venue. She always does her research beforehand, and thus having the right "dates" tagging along can work as both excuse and alibi. Usually, it's at least one woman and either another interested woman or an easily dominated man. Once, she had a gay man on each arm, and, while that was wonderfully effective later in the evening when she went to slip away, the tabloids and rumor mill weren't fooled. Not a real loss, though, as now she's apparently developed quite the reputation as a perverted voyeur, which works too. Women, though, are best—lesbians or bisexuals, those secure and definite in their sexuality. The point is interest and attention. She needs it on her and then off her, and there's no time for cold feet or talking some inexperienced young thing into the bed, only to have her perch awkwardly at the edge and never get involved enough to become truly distracted to the fact that, oh, where did Brooke go? Oh, well, come here and let's fuck in her bed without her.
Women also stop, take 'no' for an answer. Gentlemen do this too, but not all men, and especially not in Gotham, are gentlemen. She doesn't have time to waste, should something—happen in the bedroom.
Alfred doesn't like this, any of this. He never says it outright, but it's patently obvious. At breakfast one morning, when she manages to sneak back up into the kitchen right as the ladies in question are just beginning to stir above, she gets a long stare from him, and it takes an insistent and more than slightly irritated gesture from Alfred for her to realize there's still some black around her eyes and across the bridge of her nose.
"Thanks," she says, taking the towel he's holding out and scrubbing harshly at her face. "Probably couldn't've passed that off as makeup," she adds ruefully.
"Certainly not to those who wear it with any frequency," Alfred responds on a sigh, his eyes pointedly shooting up to the ceiling.
Not gone yet, then. Well, this is always awkward. The morning after isn't her least favorite part of the whole act, but it's certainly down there on the list, only ranking above society parties, where she's tasked with maintaining a polite but insipid smile while married businessmen shamelessly flirt with her in front of their wives—and too often feel justified in attempting to grope her when those wives aren't looking. Following dinner, she's then herded off into a drawing room with these slighted train wrecks, the only things they have in common being what's between their legs and their disgust for the men down the hall.
Nearing 30 and never married, oh, that Brooke Wayne is such a sad case, isn't she? Pretty girl but damaged goods, you know.
That's then followed by the much more amusing, not too damaged, if you know what I mean, because I heard she and so-and-so did this, or the increasingly popular, no surprise there because everyone and their dog knows she's not exactly the marrying type, at least not in this state. . .
She crosses over to the island and hitches herself up onto one of the stools. Another look from Alfred gets her a nod, and she sets down the towel and brings her hands up to her temples.
"Long night, Madame?"
She sighs, rubbing at the headache that's dogged her since that altercation with the pimp in Oldtown early in the night. "Not long enough," she eventually answers, dropping her hands unceremoniously when a plate is slid in front of her. "Is this for me?" she asks inanely, as a fork and napkin join the plate of French toast.
"No, Ms. Wayne," and she's already rolling her eyes at his tone of voice, "I simply trust you to look after it for me." He's facing away again, hopefully fixing his own plate to sit and eat with her, but, even though he's unable to see it, she purses her lips in an effort at hiding her smile.
"You even gave me some weapons," she jokes, picking up the fork and twirling it. It's heavy, silver, but it's not elaborately decorated like some of the other family stuff. She's balancing it on her index finger when Alfred turns around with, good, his own plate. She meets his eyes, and he frowns, but it's not serious.
"No mayhem at breakfast," he declares deadpan, walking around the island to take the seat to her right.
She follows him with her eyes, and when he's sat down and has settled his napkin precisely in his lap, Brooke breathes out deeply and turns to do the same.
Half a minute later, after she's spread butter and poured syrup and is lifting up a piece of French toast, Alfred deliberately nudges her arm with his elbow, causing her to miss her mouth entirely and smear sticky syrup across her left cheek. When she turns to look at him, he's chewing with his eyes pinned straight ahead, the very picture of dignified.
She doesn't wipe the syrup off, instead popping the bite into her mouth and this time smiling wide enough he's bound to see even from the corner of his eye.
And that morning is one of the whys, the reasons, and not the cause.
Starting out, there are few enough problems that when she does hit some snags she's too slow to react, lulled as she is into complacency. It's too close a call, and she doesn't know if they'd guessed, the thugs or that scheming shrink, the truth about her, the fact she is a woman playing a man's game, playing dress up in her stolen body armor and war paint and armed with stupid gadgets. Maybe the goons hadn't figured it out, but she has this pit in her stomach, this well of dread inside her saying the doctor knew.
She opens her eyes and is met with the sun. The blackout curtains are pulled back, and light streams in, showing the situation for what it is: a sad, lonely old man stuck caring for a traumatized woman with a guilt complex. Alfred is sitting on the edge of the bed and slowly holds out a glass of water with Alka-Seltzer. Brooke takes it with both hands, keeping her focus only on the glass, and maybe that's why discovering there's someone else besides the two of them in the bedroom is such a shock.
"Ms. Wayne," Lucius says, and she flinches, her eyes snapping shut as she then takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. "I don't mean to alarm you," he adds carefully, tone both wry and concerned, "but you really must be more careful on your nighttime excursions."
Brooke takes a sip of the carbonated water and instantly feels a bit more with it. She glances over at the wall Lucius is currently leaning against and tries a small, grateful smile on for size. Alfred noticeably shifts on the bed.
"What can I say?" Brooke jokes. "Always try something before deciding you don't like it, right? Guess I can cross weaponized hallucinogens off my list. . . "
Lucius comes closer, stopping at the foot of the bed with his hands casually in his pockets like it's everyday he's apparently called in to rescue poisoned billionaires. "I ran a series of tests on a hastily taken blood sample and then counteracted the catalyst by. . . " At her no doubt glazed-over expression, he stops, chuckling. "Suffice to say, Ms. Wayne, I developed and administered an antidote less than two hours ago. Might I suggest that in the future when attending such—exhilarating gatherings as the other night's, you forego any party favors?"
Brooke nods, her mouth quirking to the side. "All the same," she says, "would you mind synthesizing more? Never know when it might come in handy. . . "
Lucius' eyebrows shoot up, but he nods and with that departs, he and Alfred exchanging polite goodbyes on his way out the door. That of course leaves just the two of them, and she takes another drink of water before meeting that stare.
Disappointment, sure, but it's worry narrowing Alfred's eyes and uncertainty compressing his mouth. It's the first time he really doubts her, not what she's doing, the path she's chosen in order to reclaim Gotham, but her, Brooke, his charge, his ward. She reads it right there on his face: he doesn't think she can do this, can keep doing it.
It's perhaps a testament to the kind of people they are that they don't say anything further. Alfred soon leaves, taking with him the empty glass. Brooke carefully climbs out of the bed after a few minutes spent staring at the ceiling and heads to the bathroom.
Happy birthday, Rachel says to her an hour later, and Brooke smiles and opens the gift and keeps from saying that it doesn't matter if it's her birthday, that it's all meaningless anyway, that she's not the person Rachel thinks she is, that she is trying here, here, underneath, down deep—the only part that's real, the only part still her. And when Rachel's called away to the Narrows, Brooke follows her because she is doing this, can and will, no matter what anybody says—or doesn't say.
Gordon got old, but he didn't change. She's pleased her initial assessment of his character still holds up almost 20 years later. Tracking him during the day still feels almost wrong somehow, though, like they're not who they are to each other when the sun's shining. She's Brooke, but he's still Gordon. He's always Gordon, but maybe it's the fact that he's not hers during working hours that makes it unsettling. At the police precinct, he's the cop the rest try to steer clear of, the one honest guy in a sea of liars, all of them crashing against each other, overlapping waves of corruption—hypocrites, the lot of them. They said the words, and that's all they were: words to recite, meaningless, sentimental nonsense. To Gordon, to Jim Gordon, that was a promise he made the day he received his badge. He wants to make a difference. She can see it. He did, though; he did make a difference. One night, almost 20 years ago, he helped make her.
During the day, he's not one of them, but at night, he all hers, her partner, her associate, her backup.
She can't fool him up close, though, doubts she could trick anyone crouching inches away from her, not with the suit or the vocal tricks or the body language she's been working on. The moment he gets it, his eyes go wide, and he rears back a little on the balls of his feet. It would almost be funny, if Rachel weren't currently terrified out of her mind on Crane's goddamned fear toxin.
Yes, the Batman is in fact a Batwoman. Welcome to the 21st Century, Detective Gordon.
"You take her outside," she tells him. "I'll meet you in the alley." She doesn't lighten up on the Voice, even though at this point it's more than slightly ridiculous. Wouldn't do to let up. Might give him ideas. Safer too, this way. If he and Brooke Wayne were ever to cross paths, the last thing she wants is him staring at her like he is right now—equal parts impressed and pitying.
"What are you going to do?" he asks, hesitantly, already gathering up a twitching and shaking Rachel into his arms.
"Provide the diversion," she responds, her lips quirking up into a smirk. She's listening for them, and as soon as yells and screams start sounding from outside, she stands up and motions Gordon to start making his way carefully down the staircase. Then, extending her arm just past the banister and balancing the emitter in the palm of her glove, she waits only six seconds for the bats to swarm inside. Gordon's made it roughly halfway when she drops the sonic device down the stairwell, following it two seconds later after backing up and hurdling the railing like she's trying for first place in Track. She snaps open the cape and shocks the frame into making her wings, and then she is the perfect distraction. The cops inside are freaking out, their guns up but pointed at the little, harmless bats, not the one they should really be watching. She catches a few watching her land, and it probably shouldn't be as rewarding as it is, seeing these stoic tough guys almost shitting themselves, those guns they'd raised minutes ago with the intention of shooting her on sight now clutched tight in their sweaty fingers. It is rewarding, though. It is very rewarding.
"Ask first; shoot second next time," she growls at the one unlucky enough to be crouched at the base of the stairs. She hopes that was a whimper she heard as she passed him and not just another bat squeak.
Gordon's already outside by the time she's striding down the hallway and heading out the back exit. She clicks open the Tumbler's hatch as she passes by it on her way to Gordon. He's still got a secure hold on Rachel, and she tries not to hold it against him when he hesitates in handing her over. Hopefully just his protective instincts. He's got kids, after all.
She takes Rachel in her arms and runs back to the Tumbler, Gordon calling out that he'll go get his car and come back.
"I brought mine!" she shouts back, already positioning Rachel inside and strapping her in. She then jumps onto the front and slides across to the driver's side, getting in and closing the hatch in one move. Gordon backpedals into the wall as she gases it and roars down the alley. Rachel's hands are clenching and unclenching, and her breathing's still way too close to hyperventilating, but any words of comfort coming from a giant bat is unlikely to be reassuring in her current mindset.
She remembers that fear, rushing through like a tidal wave or forest fire, destroying every rational thought in its path.
"It's okay," Brooke says, softly, trying not to make eye contact with Rachel. Keep them separate. Giant bat is driving. Brooke, though, is telling Rachel, "It's okay. It will be okay, Rach. Breathe. . . "
She's good at multitasking, which proves invaluable when fleeing police in a high-speed chase while attempting to calm down the person sitting shotgun who's recently been exposed to a powerful, panic-inducing hallucinogen.
Just as the entrance to the cave appears ahead, Rachel stiffens in her seat, and her eyes visibly roll back into her head. Brooke's hand shoots out before she can think better of it, and so it's Batman's gloved gauntlet grabbing Rachel's hand and Brooke's desperate voice yelling, "Rachel! Rachel, hold on!" as the Tumbler shoots into the air, through the waterfall, and she instantly jerks the wheel to the side and hits the brake.
She doesn't breathe for the next minute, doesn't even think. It's her body acting on autopilot, opening the hatch and thanking some imagined deity above that Lucius' antidote is there waiting on the desk nearby, as she runs and glides to it and runs and glides back, sliding to her knees in the water and slipping the needle into the pale crease of Rachel's elbow. She wasn't too late. Rachel will be okay. She wasn't–
She wasn't. Rachel remains unconscious, but her breathing slows down to the proper speed.
Brooke takes off the mask, her other hand, Batman's glove, still holding Rachel's arm. Wasn't just one of them terrified on that ride.
Fear brings it all back, even more potent than scent memory—gasping, kneeling in wetness, desperate because they're already gone, and it's all her fault–
She stands up, tosses the cowl into the driver's seat and rips off her gloves, dropping them on the floor of the cave, right in the water. She then bends over and carefully picks up Rachel again, holds her and carries her away.
She hopes her two lives won't cross anymore. She can't be both. It's too hard to hold onto. She can't take it—or doesn't want to. Brooke Wayne couldn't do what the Batman does.
And she doesn't want Batman touching what isn't wrong. Those hands can't be gentle.