Chapter Text
How, exactly, do you tell the Justice League you weren’t a feral cryptid haunting Gotham?
That single, most ridiculous question had been gnawing at Bruce’s mind for the past week. He could let them believe it—he had certainly let worse rumors fester when it served his purposes—but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
He would rather have “Brucie” Wayne trending across every tabloid site in the world—caught in another absurdly staged scandal, or even filmed skinny-dipping in Gotham Harbor during a charity dare—than have the planet’s most elite heroes secretly wondering if the Batman was, in fact, literally a bat man.
He knows the League is due to have another one of their meetings soon.
While he had made an effort to keep Gotham—and by extension, his family—off-limits to superhumans, that didn’t mean he ignored the League. From their first public appearances onward, Bruce had tracked them as carefully as he tracked any rising crime syndicate. He knew their roster changes, their headquarters rotations, their habits.
Which meant he also knew exactly where and when they were gathering next. Not that the meeting location was particularly hard to find.
Subtlety doesn’t seem to be a requirement for memberships. If the gleaming building didn’t already have a giant stylized emblem plastered across its facade, the battalion of news crews camped outside made it more than obvious.
But he couldn’t just show up. It would not be taken well and he already screwed up the first impression. That’s what got him in this situation in the first place.
But if he doesn’t, they’ll continue to treat him like some elusive cave-dwelling cryptid whose territory must be respected.
Bruce sighed.
It looked like his best bet would have to be to find Superman before the meeting starts. The man had said they wanted to talk, he would be more than willing to invite Bruce to join.
–
Finding Superman wasn’t hard.
All it took was luring him into an abandoned building in Metropolis.
Batman waited in the rafters, perfectly still, the way the city’s bats waited for prey. The building groaned faintly in the wind, broken glass whispering against the steel frame. Down below, the heavy tread of boots crunched across grit and plaster. Superman stepped through the main doors.
He was cautious, scanning the shadows with that infuriating calm he always carried, but in Batman’s opinion? Not cautious enough.
Once Superman passed beneath him, Bruce moved. The grapple hissed softly, and his body lowered headfirst in absolute silence. He hung there in the dark, cape draping awkwardly, eyes catching the faintest glint of light.
It was a terrible idea. But hanging like a bat had felt… appropriate at the time. In hindsight, it would not work in his favor.
He could already hear Alfred’s voice: Astute as ever, sir.
Superman turned.
For one rare, glorious second, the Man of Steel looked genuinely startled—his entire frame jerking back. Then his boot scuffed against the cracked concrete as he stumbled a full step away from the upside-down bat.
Then, in the span of a heartbeat, the shock smoothed out. Superman drew a breath, his face pulling into a crooked smile.
“...Batman.” His voice dropped lower like before.
Batman said nothing.
He just stared, unblinking, cloak swaying gently in the draft like wings preparing to close in.
Superman cleared his throat. The sound was loud in the cavernous dark. “You’re… a bit away from Gotham.” There was an edge of concern in his tone, but Bruce couldn’t pin down who it was for.
He tilted his head slowly. The movement made the cape shift again.
The silence continued. And the longer it went on, the more the man in front of him seemed to fray around the edges. Superman’s weight shifted from one foot to the other. Fingers curled, uncurled. His eyes kept darting—just slightly—to the way Batman hung.
Then—too loud in the stillness—Superman blurted, “Oh!”
Batman flinched, muscles tightening unexpectedly.
Superman froze, hands shooting up instantly, palms out in apology. “Sorry! Sorry, didn’t mean to—uh—startle you.” He gave an awkward laugh that died halfway out of his mouth. “I just—uh—I think I know why you’re here.”
Batman stared at him.
Superman’s smile faltered under the weight of that silence. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, the other lowering from its placating posture in something that felt… resigned. “You’re here because… I wanted to talk to you. Right?”
Batman nodded once.
Superman’s shoulders loosened a fraction when Bruce nodded. “Good. That’s… good.” His voice carried a little too much relief, like he’d just confirmed a bomb was probably disarmed.
Superman glanced around the empty building—almost in an attempt to not meet the other’s eyes. Batman could infer why. Many predator beings viewed eye contact as a challenge. At least the man was taking pre-cautious, but Bruce was not an animal .
He grit his teeth, trying to hold back a growl.
“So… um. I’ve been meaning to—” He stopped himself, then tried again, his tone soft, careful. “The League has… noticed you.”
Batman shifted himself slightly, a small headache forming from how long he had been hanging upside down.
Superman hesitated at the movement, then pushed on. “We’ve been talking, and… we think you’d be a great asset. You know, if you’d want to work with us.”
Batman had suspected that was why the League wanted to meet. What he hadn’t expected was an actual invitation after they’d spent weeks believing he wasn’t even human. (He refused to call himself an animal.)
Batman didn’t have an answer. He had always been doing it alone—or as alone as you can get with the multitudes of children he seems to keep acquiring.
He didn’t know what working with the Justice League would be like.
Superman looked like he was about to fill the silence again. Before he could, Batman dropped from the grapple line. His boots hit concrete without a whisper. The cape fell around him like the folding of wings, and when he straightened, the faint light caught in his eyes just enough to make them gleam.
Superman swallowed audibly.
“We’re meeting today,” he said, voice careful and coaxing. “I thought maybe… if you’re unsure. Just… to talk.”
Finally. That’s what Batman wanted. Maybe it would have been faster if just spoke but one look at Superman’s face, the embarrassment bubbled up and he wasn’t sure if could manage actual words if he tried.
Where had that come from? He was Brucie Wayne, for God’s sake. Shameless was practically his brand. And yet—apparently, he’d been wrong.
Clark gave a shaky laugh. “...Or, uh, not talk. That’s fine too. We’re flexible.”
He forgot to respond.
He still didn’t. Instead, he turned and strode toward the building’s exit, trying to crush the mounting discomfort clawing at him for losing control of the interaction.
Superman’s footsteps followed quickly. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
—
Batman’s boots were silent on the polished floor as he stepped in behind Superman. The low hum of conversation died the instant he crossed the threshold.
He wasn’t impressed. Not that he expected much—his standards were famously high, or so his kids liked to remind him—but this? This looked like a daycare for overgrown children playing dress-up.
It wasn’t just the outdated costumes. The so-called meeting table was littered with scattered papers and uncapped pens. A few pairs of scissors sat half-haphazard, as if forgotten mid-craft project. Sure, most of these people could survive worse than a sharp edge, but that didn’t excuse carelessness.
Then there was the tech—piles of it, stacked in corners and along the walls like hoarded junk. Gadgets, monitors, wires tangled in hopeless knots.
There was no professionalism. None.
Batman wasn’t even bothering to study the heroes anymore. But that wasn’t the case for them.
No one had moved since he entered. Every hero sat frozen, the silence thick with the kind of unease that came from seeing something you weren’t prepared for. A couple of eyes flicked toward Superman, searching for confirmation. Did he really bring this thing here? The bat-creature even he kept his distance from?
Batman resisted the twitching urge to start fixing the disaster of a room. He forced his attention back to the people. There’d be time to correct it later when— if he decided to join.
Another blinking light in the clutter caught his eye. Some gadget chirping for attention. His focus almost slipped—
Until Flash leaned toward Hal, voice just loud enough to carry. “D’you think its species likes shiny things?”
his gaze locking onto the speedster. He didn’t miss the way Flash froze, his face draining pale under the mask as the realization hit. Then came the squeak—a small, strangled sound Flash probably wished he could bury six feet under.
Batman would have been satisfied by that— should have been—if he wasn’t already failing at the single objective that had brought him here.
“Can it even speak?”
The question came from Hal Jordan, his tone pitched a little too high, betraying nerves he probably thought he was hiding.
Batman’s glare shifted to the Green Lantern.
‘I can.’
…
He was drawing up blueprints for a ship, calculating trajectory out of this solar system, plotting coordinates for a new planet to call home. He did it again.
“We think…” Superman’s voice cut through the static in Batman’s brain, sheepish in a way only he could manage. “…uh, they don’t have the right vocal cords for human speech.”
Batman turned his head just enough to pin him with a look.
“But they do seem to understand.” Superman added quickly, forcing a smile. He turned back to Hal, that same smile sharpening as if to reprimand his friend.
That shut the Lantern up. Hal dropped his gaze to his folded hands on the table, fidgeting like a school kid caught passing notes. Across the room, someone shifted in their seat. Another cleared their throat. The tension crawled up the walls.
This was torture. But Batman was not going to be the first one to break it.
“Right.” Superman finally spoke, Batman let out a discrete breath of relief. “Why don’t we… take a seat?” His tone was light, but Batman didn’t miss the way Superman’s hand brushed the edge of the table, quiet reassurance to the others.
He led Batman around the table to the far end. When they neared, Green Arrow rose. The scrape of his chair legs granted against Batman's ears. He stepped into their path with that easy, cocky grin—the one that said I’m not intimidated. Really. Totally fine.
“Welcome to the team.” He said, hand extended.
And—
He knew that damn goatee. He’s recognized it anywhere.
That was Oliver Queen.
Oliver Queen was Green Arrow.
He didn’t know how to feel about that. He’d known Oliver since childhood—the bratty heir with too much money and not enough sense. He never expected him to be a superhero. But…no one would’ve pegged him for this either.
Oliver’s grin twitched, a crack in his confidence. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hand still hanging in the air. Then his smile thinned into something less certain.
Right. He needed to shake the hand.
By the time Batman moved to reciprocate, Oliver had already started to lower his hand. Which was worse—pretending he hadn’t seen it or making him raise it again for an awkward half-shake?
Apparently Batman’s survival instincts had chosen violence. His arm kept moving past Oliver’s retreating hand and—God help him—patted the man on the head.
Like a dog.
Oliver froze. So did Batman. His own hand hovered there for a second too long, making the situation ten times worse. Across the table, someone choked on laughter.
“…Cool,” Oliver said finally, voice dry as he slid back into his chair with the grace of a man rethinking life choices.
Bruce wanted the floor to split open and drag him into the molten core of the Earth. This was not working. At all.
He defaulted to his backup plan: sit down and show he’s human.
If he struggled to maneuver his cape so he wasn’t sitting on it—he didn’t.
Superman took the head of the table, his voice steady as he started the meeting. He picked up a sleek tablet, directing the others to review the reports.
There was a similar device in front of Batman. Good. He could work with that. Focus on the screen. Pay attention. Avoid further humiliation.
Except… he couldn’t.
The screen stayed black when he picked it up.
He tapped the screen. Nothing. Swiped. Nothing.
His brows furrowed. Tilting the device, he ran a finger along the edges, searching for a power trigger. Nothing. His scowl deepened. He flipped it over. Checked again.
A soft cough came from his right. Flash.
Batman looked up, meeting the speedster’s wary smile as two hesitant hands reached toward the tablet. For reasons even he couldn’t explain, Batman pulled it closer to himself.
Flash flinched back, hands up in surrender. “Hey, no judgment, big guy.” His smile twitched wider, nervous. “Just… y’know, tech can be tricky.”
Batman’s eyes narrowed.
Flash twitched, uncertainty flashing across his face. “Uh… you gotta hold the power button for, like, three seconds.”
Batman stared at him. Then at the pad. He turned the tablet over again, locating the offending button. He pressed.
Nothing.
Pressed harder.
Still nothing.
Barry cleared his throat again. “You gotta, uh… hold it. Three seconds. Like… one Mississippi, two Mississippi—”
The screen exploded in color and cheerful icons. His eyes narrowed at the sudden brightness, blinking once, twice. Definitely not his kind of tech.
This was going to be hell.
From beside him, Flash muttered, “Nailed it.” under his breath.
He really should’ve taken Alfred's social lessons.
—
“I heard you paid the Justice League a visit.”
Dick’s voice carried that particular brand of amusement that always spelled trouble. He leaned back against the table holding the Batcomputer, arms braced on the edge.
Bruce grunted, hand pressed to his forehead. The meeting had only created more problems—exactly what he didn’t want.
Dick folded his arms, eyebrow lifting in fake seriousness. “Funny. I thought you were the one who said to stay away from the League.”
“I went to clear a misunderstanding,” Bruce replied flatly.
That eyebrow climbed higher. Bruce pressed on. “They seem to be under the impression that I’m… a bat cryptid.”
Dick blinked. Then the grin broke wide, sharp and gleeful. “And why would they think that?”
He didn’t want to answer. Dick’s tone said he already knew and was just loading ammunition.
Bruce sighed, rubbing his forehead before forcing his attention back to the glowing screens. “They were in Gotham a few weeks ago,” he said. “I… may have forgotten to speak normally.”
There was a beat of silence. Then—
Dick’s laughter cracked the air like glass. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, wheezing out between gasps, “You—oh my God—you spoke to them in bird calls ?!”
Bruce’s jaw clenched. “Yes.”
That only made Dick laugh harder. He slid onto his side, completely losing his balance, rolling on the floor like the concept of gravity had joined in on the joke.
Then, just as abruptly, he stopped. He shot upright, eyes bright with a spark Bruce knew all too well.
“Wait.”
“Does this mean…” Dick’s grin grew slow and deliberate, blooming like the grin of a cat that just discovered a box of canaries. “…we can mess with them ?”
“Dick.” Bruce’s voice dropped an octave, thick in the warning.
Dick’s smile only grew bigger. “I didn’t hear a no.”
Bruce leveled him with a glare. “ Dick.”
Dick vaulted to his feet in one seamless flip, grinning like a man possessed. He backflipped off the Batcomputer table just to show off—because of course he did—before sprinting toward the elevator like the hounds of hell were at his heels.
“Tim!” he yelled over his shoulder, voice echoing off the Cave walls. “Call Jason—we’re gonna have some fun !”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling slowly through his nose.
This was going to be worse than the meeting.