Chapter Text
Bruce is tired.
Not Brucie Wayne, though. As the heir of the Wayne Industries, he has galas and papparazzi and a wild lifestyle to keep up; only Bruce Wayne could penetrate the highest and the lowest parts of Gotham at ease, sliding in and out of the galas and bars next. Life is a party, and Bruce Wayne was the piñata, rife at taking with ladies left and right aiming for a chance, a dig in his pocket changes.
Bruce never let himself got too drunk in these parties. He has built enough tolerance with different types of alcohol and poisons, has perfected his physical training enough to seem like he's drunk even though he's not. Bruce is sober enough to smell the stinking odors of meth and sweat, sober enough to crawl down and pocket a sample for him to bring home as an evidence.
It's 3 AM, and he's still at the Iceberg Lounge. It's late enough for people to feel the aftermath of a hangover and the wild rave, chaotic enough for him to slip away from the crowd without catching much attention other than Penguin himself, who gave him a stink eye worthy of a new kind of poison concoction itself.
At no point does Bruce consider himself safe. Prowling through the alleyways of Gotham so late in the night without the familiar gear is practically hazardous, especially with the knowledge what had happened before when he was a mere child caught unaware.
...Bruce wasn't that child anymore. He met the gaze of Penguin's men head on, knocked them out swiftly before they could see what was coming. He stopped by the exact muddy alleyway where his parents had laid on once, lifeless with blood soaking through their clothes, and prayed. He prayed to the Gods he doesn't believe in that no other Gotham children should ever endure the suffering he and his children has experienced, and vowed to take care of all Gotham orphans as equally as he does of his own children.
He really should be going home.
A quick stride out of the alleyway and Bruce scanned out the familiar empty street; watched as only few of the apartment room had their lights, the street devoid of any transport as the citizen remain asleep, and… a hotdog stand, the lights going alive colors with bajilion sign pointing and practically begging people to come to it. Alright, that's new.
As Bruce approached the stand, he expected everything except for a familiar blue hoodie skeleton to hop out from behind the stand, his grin practiced wide. Ah, Dick's friend.
Bruce caught the skeleton's eyelights flickering before it stabilized, and decided he is sleep deprived enough to not think about it.
"hey there, pal." the skeleton greeted, his hands going in his pockets as usual. "damn, okay, sorry. i was 'boutta give you some of my staple jokes, but you look like a wreck. do you want some hotdogs?"
"Sure," Bruce said, even though Bruce Wayne doesn't eat hotdogs from a street stand—Batman might, though. He had vivid memories of taking Dick out for corndogs after school, and even after patrolling as Robin.
"coming right up." The Skeleton winked, somehow. As Bruce gathered, his eye socket has functional magic eyelid(s)? "want some cheese on the 'dogs?"
Bruce hummed, an acknowledgement of agreement. He watched as the Skeleton pulled out the ingredients—the sausages, for one thing, and then a huge load of ketchup and cheese on top of them—and thought, what a strange night. Bruce needed to take that twelve hours nap to gather himself back up; maybe this is a dream after all.
Then, the Skeleton said something, and he blinked his eyes open once again, catching the Skeleton's eyelights go in and out.
"What did you say?"
"i asked if you wanted some tea with that." the Skeleton said with an easy grin.
"Oh. Okay, sure."
"you'll have to wait though," The skeleton added. "that lady over there came before ya. won't be long, i swear."
Bruce looked behind him, catching the silhouette of a woman in a trench coat in the shades. She must be intimidated by the sight of a man in a loose suit, seemingly drunk and hazy of alcohol.
"Of course."
The Skeleton lifted himself up, walking tentatively toward the woman in the shades, bringing a relatively more normal looking hotdog compared to Bruce's own hotdog, which is completely lathered in condiments.
They talked for a while; the only thing Bruce could catch was "i think you look grate, ma'am," which was cheesy, but Bruce respected the attempt anyways.
A part of Bruce is still in that analysis mode, so he decided to peek in the stall. It was relatively simple, concerningly: only a matress and a chair was behind the grill. Of course, Bruce might be speaking from a place of privilege here, but that living state is worrying. No wonder the skeleton preferred to live in Dick's apartment.
Then, he looked behind, down underside the stall, and found a most particular thing. A bag. As Bruce shook it, he could hear sheets of papers rustle against the leather material.
When the skeleton came back, Bruce decided that maybe he can make some small talk.
"What's inside that bag?"
The skeleton blinked. "what bag?"
"That bag," Bruce said, his tone a bit perplexed. "The one under your stall."
The Skeleton looked under his feet, his eyelights flickering. An expression of confusion, perhaps?
"i…" The skeleton mumbled. "i don't remember?"
Bruce nodded in understanding. He really was itching to get that hotdog and go home. Then, suddenly, the Skeleton spoke again:
"can you help me?"
The Skeleton paused, his eyelights lifted back to meet Bruce's gaze.
"can you help me give it to someone? don't worry 'bout it, it's someone you know really well. the one you consider your own son. you don't need to pay for the 'dogs even. "
"Alright…?"
***
Bruce still paid for the hotdogs. It was greasy, cheesy even, but it was good. Passable. He hasn't had hotdogs for so long, so maybe he's not a good judge for that.
So, there was Bruce Wayne—stranded in the middle of Gotham without a proper car because Penguin's men broke Bruce Wayne's car, and for a moment he's seriously considering calling The Batmobile. Screw the secret identity, he could make some bullshit up about buying a replica. The people already make up the wildest things about him anyways.
Then, a taxi came by, and Bruce sighed in relief. He got in, glanced in the rearview mirror to see his ward, his son staring back at him, and he wondered whether he truly was lucid dreaming after all.
He left the bag behind.