'Batman' and certain characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., respectively. No profit is gained from this writing—only, hopefully, enjoyment.


It's not that he runs or lifts for shits and giggles; it's just always been necessary. He lives where he lives and works where he lives, and that's not really the nicest neighborhood in the city. It's actually the polar opposite of nice. Working out is what he calls it now as an adult, when in truth it's really only the polite way of saying, "I'd prefer not to get my ass handed to me if I can help it, thanks."

So he runs a lot, and he lifts weights when he can, and he's conditioned himself to at least feel like he's doing okay afterward, if not all that happy about things. Life is okay; his life is decent. It's not the greatest—never has been and never will be. That's just the facts. But, then again, nobody's life is perfect. People in Gotham, none of them have it really good anymore. The rich were all murdered and swindled, and good luck to the few still alive in getting their stuff back. The weak-poor were trampled over, and the strong-poor did the trampling. Maybe the folks in the middle were able to keep their heads down, and maybe they weren't. Fact is, though, no one came through untouched.

John's skinny now—no other word for it. Oh, there was still plenty of running going on those five months but not as much lifting and not nearly enough good eating. If he never even sees another can of beans or stick of beef jerky, it will still be too soon for his liking. Even the thought of sticking that crap in his mouth again makes him grimace.

The result is that he's still fast with good stamina for distance and quite adept at thinking on the fly, particularly navigating around obstacles in his path, but he can't pull himself up worth a damn, so it's ground or stairs, no climbing. His legs are good, really good, and his brain's just fine on the adrenaline, but his arms and upper body are pathetic. Not the worst situation, but he could be better. He will be. It'll just take awhile.

He helps out around the neighborhood because he always has, and he's a creature of habit—likes to be anyway, when he can. People move back into the apartments that have stood empty for almost a half a year, or they finish what the opportunists started and pick over the bare bones of what's left in the places. Either way, there's stuff to be carried. It's not weights, not even couches or big armchairs or refrigerators usually, but there's plenty of it, and after a bit his arms and shoulders ache regardless of how heavy the crap is, but he'll never improve if he doesn't try.

So, he tries; he runs, lifts shit, eats decent enough food, and finds himself feeling pretty jealous at times of Selina who's still as agile and strong as ever without seemingly putting forth any effort at all. But, at least he's better off than Bruce because he's not injured, and eventually he'll get back to what he was before The Occupation. Bruce sure won't. He was pretty rickety before, back when John went to see him at his big mansion, and he's even worse now.

Doesn't stop the guy from trying too, though. Midway through the second week, stitches not even out yet from the stab wound, Bruce comes walking out from the bedroom early one morning when John's stretching in the living room, getting ready for one of his runs.

"Up early," John says, and he holds his stretch the usual amount and then moves on to the next one, but they both know what's really going on. John can play subtle as much as he wants; he's still an amateur compared to Bruce. Guy takes monosyllabic to the next level. He's negative-syllabic. Whole speeches are conveyed in just the lift of Bruce's eyebrows, the minute curling of the corners of his mouth.

"Thought I'd join you," Bruce states, and, sure enough, he's dressed the part. Must be Selina's doing because John sure as hell doesn't own anything big enough to fit Bruce, and he didn't grab him any workout clothes, either.

Christ, between the two of them, they're the worst kind of enabler there is. John can't say no, and Selina doesn't even know the meaning of the word. And Bruce probably hasn't heard it in forever.

So, John finishes stretching then chews on the inside of his cheek for a bit before answering, debating what he should do against what he wants to.

He settles for saying, "Fine, but if you collapse or rip out those stitches, we're stopping, and you won't be coming along again until next week. Deal?"

Bruce nods, his mouth unsmiling and serious, but John's looking at his eyes, and they're crinkling at the corners and reassuringly bright and clear.

"Stretch," John then tells him with a wave at his legs. "It's cold out there. Don't want to add a pulled muscle to the list of injuries."

Bruce obligingly bends over, reaching for the floor and with only a slightly heavier exhale giving away the fact he's not feeling 100%. He glances up at John a couple minutes later, when he looks about done, and he says with a completely straight face, "List isn't that long. . . "

"My ass," John immediately responds. He watches Bruce slowly stand up straight, this time with no tell whatsoever, and he himself says with a completely straight face, "List was long before. Now, it's a fucking novel."

And that's when Bruce's weird side shows through because instead of arguing like anyone else would, he kind of smiles—kind of. Well, for Bruce, it's a smile.

"Let's hit the road," John says. He turns and heads for the door, and Bruce is right behind him.

Just takes one to know one.


It's more like jog-walking for the most part, but John doesn't feel the need to speed up the pace any. Bruce is pushing it as it is, and there's plenty of ice on the sidewalks and streets this morning. No need for one of them to sprain or break something.

At one point, they're waiting at the curb while three Army trucks, massive, heavy things, if the way they're riding low to the ground is any indication, pass by down the street. John keeps his head up because he knows, and, sure enough, can see from the corner of his eye, that Bruce can't. Instead, Bruce takes a knee and pretends to tie up his shoelace, and the Army guys drive right on past—no fuss, no muss. Bruce stands up again, and they resume the slow pace, and all's right with the world.

Except, now John's thinking about the big picture and how Bruce is going to go on living when he's supposedly dead. He's got no money. Any connections he'd had as Bruce Wayne are risky now, if not downright impossible to use. How much on the up-and-up had he been, though? There are gaps in his history, and the curious part of John perks up at the thought of another mystery to solve, another set of problems to address. He's always hated being idle, after all.

Fortunately, it's still pretty early, so not too many people are out and about yet, and whoever is is a resident of Oldtown and knows better than to look anywhere but where they're going. He glances at his wrist, sees it's barely past six, which means they've been going for about 45 minutes, so he slows to a walk and waits for Bruce to come up beside him. He's breathing heavy, sweating, and there's a tightness to his mouth and eyes, but John's bold enough to reach out and unzip the parka and look at Bruce's side, and there's no blood or seepage there. They're probably okay for today.

Then, he looks up at Bruce and gets a funny smile for his trouble.

"Anything else you'd like to look at?" Bruce asks, smirking.

"Not out here, no," Blake responds, zipping Bruce's coat back up and grinning at him as he takes a step away. "Clean-up's next, though. Should be fun."

Bruce makes a weird face again, definitely amused but something else too. Maybe it's surprise. Maybe he hadn't thought John was really on board for all this. Or maybe he's just thinking of what they can do, deciding what he's up for, running through a list. Maybe he'll be too tired for anything and is coming up with a way to let John down easy.

John about-faces and starts walking again. They're pretty much done for today, but now they have to go back to the apartment, which is a ways away still. He figures they'll take it slow on the return trip, head over to the smaller streets and avoid the big thoroughfares, move fast enough to keep the blood pumping and not go stiff, especially Bruce, but there's no real rush. Just two guys out for a morning walk, trying to get back some semblance of normality.

When Bruce catches up to him, syncing his steps flawlessly, John goes ahead and starts making small talk. Mostly, it's just to pass the time, but a little part of him is hoping Bruce will chime in with some real information, something true and secret about himself, some bit he's hidden from everyone else that John alone can know. He's maybe a little selfish like that.

"So, Selina's down the road," he says, waving an arm behind them in the direction they'd just come from, "and she thinks I don't know this, but she's been helping out at one of the shelters pretty regularly. I've been by there. It's looking pretty good, all things considered. The plumbing's probably the worst of it, but they've got everything else—food, heaters, people who know what the hell they're doing. One of the guys from my old precinct, Brady, he's down there every day, too. . . "

And so John just fills up the emptiness between them with miscellaneous crap. He shares whatever information he's been able to pick up on his turns around the neighborhood, even tells Bruce about the whole minor fiasco he and Selina had had the other day on their way back from the bunker out by the docks. He kind of gets a reaction to that but only because he's looking really hard for one. John practically stares at Bruce the whole walk back, looking for the tiniest flickers of emotion, winces, twitches, smirks, frowns.

It's not until he brings up the stitches and the fact that they'll either have to go down to the clinic to get them out, which isn't a good idea, or convince the doc to come back up to the apartment that Bruce really reacts.

And he really reacts.

John's gesturing down the street to their left as they're getting ready to cross, telling Bruce, "It's about two and a half blocks that way, and it's always crowded. I've been there at night, morning, afternoon. I've gone past at freakin' two-thirty in the morning and at four-something, and there's always a line of some kind. Maybe they live there. I don't know. Some of the apartments aren't all that bad around here, you know—mostly those that were already kind of crappy and rundown to begin with, but now I bet they're looking pretty damn good! But, yeah, Elliot and the other docs and the nurse-types, they practically live there too. Hell, maybe they really do live there. It's not like there aren't beds to sleep in or places to wash up. That's actually a really good idea in the short term, you know– "

"Which one did you bring up—to see to me?" Bruce suddenly interrupts, stopping in his tracks. John stops too, looks over, and there's a huge frown on Bruce's face.

"Uh, Elliot," he says, and he's proud of how steady and nonchalant he sounds in the face of what appears to be Bruce's strong disapproval. Well, too bad. What else were they supposed to have done? Let him die of blood poisoning? "But, he's a decent enough guy," John goes on. "Great doctor. He was top of his class, still has the plaques to prove it." John raises his eyebrows a little, adds, "And if you give him half a chance, he'll show you the whole lot and brag your ear off."

Bruce is still frowning, and it's still really cold out, and they're both still just standing here like morons.

"What is it?" John finally asks, biting the bullet. He waits patiently for awhile, and then when Bruce doesn't answer, John presses. "Look, we didn't really have a whole helluva lot of options, okay? It was either a doctor or us, and we're okay with minor stuff, but I don't know how to stitch anyone up or treat fucking sepsis, and Selina didn't seem too keen to try her hand at it either, so a doctor's what you got." He takes a step closer to Bruce, who at least now is meeting his eyes, and he says quieter, "We got you the best we could under the circumstances. And this guy knows what he's doing. He treated the Commissioner."

But, that's apparently the wrong thing to say for some reason, as Bruce's face just goes blank as a slate. John thinks quickly, assumes it's to do with Gordon somehow getting wind of Bruce still being alive through Elliot, and he opens his mouth to address that fear, when Bruce beats him to it.

"Elliot," he repeats, and immediately John's adrenaline spikes because of how Bruce says the name. He's looking away now, over John's shoulder—down the road to where he'd earlier said the clinic was.

"Yeah. . . " John agrees, tense.

It's only another handful of seconds that pass, and then abruptly Bruce seems to deflate. He meets John's eyes again, and both the blank stare and the huge frown are gone from his face, and suddenly it's just Bruce in front of him once more—not Batman.

"I think I know someone better," Bruce then says, before turning and starting to walk again. He takes a right instead of continuing across, not heading up the street John had had in mind. And this one's on an incline, so it will be slower going and more effort, effort Bruce probably shouldn't be exerting right now.

But, isn't that just Bruce right there. Of course he wouldn't take the easy route. Of course he'd push himself for some stupid reason. It's probably personal, some goal he'd set before they'd even stepped out of the apartment, or maybe he's just giving John the finger, showing him who's really in charge here—and it ain't John.

He sighs and then starts after him, taking as long a stride as he can in order to catch up faster. Really, though, they're pretty well matched today, Bruce being taller but slower, John irritatingly short as hell but healthier and a damn sight quicker.

"So, who do you have in mind instead?" John asks, once he's pulled even with Bruce. "Hopefully, not some quack owing you a favor. . . "

Bruce makes a noise suspiciously like repressed laughter, and John shoots him an astonished look, which he of course chooses to ignore. Business as usual then, even if they're still a little off. But, Bruce is smart. Surely, he's able to recognize the facts, and the facts are in John and Selina's favor. It was just a shitty situation, which they hopefully didn't make worse.

Hopefully.

"I don't even know if she's still around for sure," Bruce says, as they're nearing the top of the hill and the next intersection. They both look to make sure the way's clear and then step forward, and that's when Bruce continues, saying, as he and John match step for step across the deserted street, "But, if anyone's stubborn enough to stick around and keep the peace, it's Leslie."