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Everyone knew Bruce Wayne was Batman. It was unfortunate, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. The Thanagarian invasion had him fighting aliens unmasked and throwing batarangs with practiced ease in the streets where everyone had phones. There’s no hiding Bruce Wayne running around with Wonder Woman. So a few connected dots, a leaked video or two, and a billionaire getting caught kissing a princess in a small restaurant while on the run was all it took for his identity to become common knowledge.
Of course, everyone also knew Clark Kent was Superman and Wally West was the Flash, but apparently the boy scout being a boy scout wasn’t shocking and Wally for the most part was able to run with the sudden attention.
After a few months it all started to die down. Bruce could leave his house and not get stopped on every block to get asked about if he had any new fights to talk about, or gossip about the league. Batman could leave the cave and not have criminals suddenly underestimate him as if he was the ditzy persona of Brucie instead.
Life carried on normally. For the most part.
He wanted to keep enforcing his self imposed rule of no taking off the cowl at all while outside the cave. He really wanted to. But sometimes he got tired. That’s not to say he would lose focus on patrol, that he would just lean against the closest wall and take off the mask like it was nothing. He wouldn’t do that.
He would, though, take off the cowl when he sat down to eat a 4 AM burger in a small burger joint in downtown Gotham. It’s where he found himself now. In the furthest booth, in the darkest corner, without a mask, eating a greasy burger and greasy fries. A picture of him would probably show up in the tabloids the next day, but he let himself enjoy the end of a long patrol.
Cowl on the table next to him, Bruce thought he probably looked funny with the rest of the suit on. It’s probably why the man behind the counter kept trying to steal glances, looking out of the corner of his eye as he cleaned glasses.
Bruce let himself just sit with his eyes closed and leaning back. Take a deep breath. Hold it for a moment. Let it out and feel the tension leave. His leg where one of Harley’s hyenas tried to bite him was sore and his side where Ivy had landed a solid hit with thick vines was likely already bruising. It was nice to ignore the injuries.
He opened his eyes and looked around until he saw himself reflected in one of the many picture frames hung on the wall. It was one of those signed photos of a celebrity that happened to eat there once. The thought of Batman having a signed photo on that wall made him chuckle.
He hoped that if a photo is taken, it's of that moment. The lights were dim in the restaurant, but the neon signs on the windows cast him in blues and reds. The hole in the wall of a restaurant was old, but cared for, and had the feeling of a place trapped in time with plastic booths and news clipping under the glass on the table. His elbows were supporting him, keeping him up while his eyelids drifted shut. He probably looked exhausted, but the moment was tranquil.
He woke up the next day to a front cover of him taking too big a bite of his burger while ketchup smeared on his cheeks. The headline questioned his diet.
For the past week and a half, most weather based villains had teamed up to perform elaborate heists in anywhere that suited their fancy. Cameras were melted to uselessness and any possible witnesses were frozen in place before they even knew what was happening. It was a surprising amount of coordination for those involved, enough to keep them from getting caught. It had been dead end after dead end tracking them down.
Or it had been dead ends until Metropolis Pier became a battleground of ice, wind, and fire. The villains had reached the end of their patience with each other it seemed. All that was left was to fight them and turn them into the police after they gave away their location so spectauraly. Superman, Flash, Batman, and Wonder Woman worked fast and worked well.
It was late when the fight ended. Costumes were ripped. Muscles ached. They were either soaking wet or burned and feeling uncomfortably warm. No one really wanted to head back to the cave, a temporary fill in for the watchtower, and fill out paperwork for the fight. It’s how they found themselves taking up a table at a nearby cafe. No one really talked and no one wanted to break the silence.
Diana looked regal as ever. She cradled a mug of hot chocolate in her hands, and her tired eyes still held a small light. But with every sip raised to her lips, all he could focus on were her wrapped up forearms that hid the light burns that her cuffs couldn’t shield. They would heal fast, like they were never there, but that the fire was hot enough to do any damage had him filling a mental note to research how hot Volcana’s fire could get later.
Clark looked all too big for the small patio chair, dripping cape taken off and draped against the back to try to dry. His curls were flat on his face, and Bruce was fighting the increasing urge to push them away from his eyes. He looked fine though, the benefits of invulnerability.
Wally, in contrast, looked like shit to put it simply. He had small cuts from ice shards shattered across his arms and a small nic across his cheek. He had a darkening bruise forming on his chin, and his lowered mask shows what's going to be a really nasty black eye. His accelerated healing would take care of it quickly later, but the speedster would need to eat his weight in calories and rest up first. He hadn’t been eating enough outside the quick energy bars he could sneak in, feeling stressed from both his civilian job and his hero one. The usually joyful speedster had been slightly off his game this fight.
The redhead was shivering from the ripped suit and seconds from dozing at the table, Bruce hardly had to think about what he did next. He removed his cape, a literal weight off his shoulders, and instead gently draped it onto the redhead next to him. When Wally looked to him in shock, all he could do was slightly grunt.
“I was getting warm anyway.” He looked down into his own coffee, sickenly sweet like he preferred. “The suit’s thermal regulation got short circuited.”
He pointedly ignored Clark or Diana while they exchanged soft glances, and he pointedly ignored the vital photo of him covering up his teammate that was making its rounds through social media.
Bruce felt years added onto his life in that moment as he watched the video Tim had shoved into his face. He felt more as he scrolled down, more of similar content staring up at him.
It had become a trend to post pictures or clips of the league doing something silly or mundane or relatable, and depending on whether they were in civilian or hero persona, the caption would say something related to the opposite.
A five second clip of Batman, shakily taken on the phone. He’s running from roof to roof gracefully until he trips on his cape in the last frame. The accompanied text says “Gotham’s beloved billionaire ❤️”. A photo of Bruce Wayne looking at a spilled coffee as it pooled on the floor around his desk in the office as if his world crumbled around him. Caption, “The Dark Knight 😈😈😆”
“You should see some of these, Bruce!” Tim turned his phone back towards himself, quickly scrolling until he found one and turned it back towards him. “They’ve got videos of Batman from years ago! And people are going crazy finding Brucie pictures! The gala ones are my favorite.”
He could only take in a deep breathe, slowly letting it out through his mouth. He should be used to this sort of thing, brief flashes of Do the butts match and Is Bruce Wayne dating Batman going through his head. The people are creative, and even if it’s at his expense, at least they're having fun. The world always needed a bit more of that.
It was when Dick sent him a video (Bruce Wayne dancing years ago with a pre-Two Face Harvey Dent, both plastered and more hanging off each other and swaying on their feet rather than the waltz the music called for, the caption practically a paragraph in itself talking about lovers to enemies to idiots to lovers again and 100K slow burn and hero/villain and all sorts of phrases he could make sense of) that he felt defeat though.
He let out a falorne sigh, closing his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose trying to ease his growing headache.
“I miss my secret identity.”
Bruce couldn’t get out of bed. His limbs felt like there were chains pulling him down. His eyes were glazing over, unfocusing as he nearly fell asleep again and again before jerking awake. His breathing felt shallow. His head hurt.
People were connecting the dots between the Robins and his sons. They’d figured out Dick was the first, had moved on to become Nightwing. They’d figured Tim was the current, his most recent partner. They’d figured that Jason wasn’t just killed in an accident, and the second robin had not just vanished.
He had been avoiding social media for the past two weeks. Both his sons had. Barbed words struck out with every post concerning them.
He knew he wasn’t the world's greatest dad. That he was stubborn, short tempered, and emotionally constipated. But he cared, and he tried to make sure his sons knew that. He and Dick fought, but he’d been working on admitting he was sometimes in the wrong. He saw Tim pushing just too hard, overworking himself in an attempt to earn the affection he should have had from the beginning, he would sit with him, try to steer him away from destructive habits he saw in himself.
The media didn’t know that. The people don’t see how they behave behind locked doors and shaded windows. They didn’t see a man trying to fix his struggling relationships with his sons, his sons trying to be there for him in return. They only saw children being made to fight battles most adults cower from. Children with fighting prowess and analytical skills that outshone most martial artists and detectives.
They saw a boy, killed by a madman. Taken too young. Jason Todd. His Jaylad.
Their words weren’t all true, but some struck just right. Some words sounded familiar, things he told himself as he drifted off to sleep.
His door squeaked quietly, and he struggled to keep his eyes open as he watched Alfred gently make his way towards the large windows. He opened them all the way, Bruce’s eyes burned at the midday sun but his mouth felt too dry to protest.
Alfred turned towards him. His eyes looked so gentle and understanding that for a brief moment Bruce wondered if the older man was reading his mind. He tried to focus on the near inaudible click of the butler’s shoes as Alfred made his way towards his bed. The older man sat on the edge, just looking at him. A calloused hand cupped his head, and Bruce felt tears run down his cheek.
The thing about everyone knowing his secret identity is how much easier and harder it became to deal with galas. Someone’s talking bigoted or something blatantly stupid? Prove the fool wrong with immense knowledge on the subject that Brucie previously shouldn’t have known. Eye bags look just a tad too dark for someone that should be a well rested billionaire? Well Batman’s been tracking down this trafficking ring for a week now, and he had to be more active these past few nights on patrol.
Supervillain of the week tries to rob the gala of the mounts again? Well there’s no need to wait for Batman when he’s already in the room. A few people felt bold enough to try to stand up to the armed men, claiming the goons inevitable doom by Batman’s hand, or others were sending tentative but hopeful side glances towards his hiding spot when they weren’t being watched. They had high expectations now. Everyone talks about when Batman defeats the villains, but do they ever ask how?
It wasn’t a high end name supervillain, but the gang was still respectable enough to put fear into Gotham’s wealthiest when they came in guns blazing. Bruce was suitless, three batarangs in his pockets max, and hiding behind a pillar to think up a plan. Tim was under the weather and at the mansion with Alfred. Dick was back in Blüdhaven, having just left after staying the weekend. His league comm was a part of the cowl, and his portable one was forgotten on his dresser.
One him to twelve punks with guns, not bad odds all together.
He just had to work his way up. Start with the goons on the outskirts, the ones trying to find anyone hiding. He heard a heavy boot passing by his pillar, and he took action. Staying low, he hit quick and hard in the stomach, leaving the man breathless as he pulled the gun arm towards him and sent a swift punch to his head to knock the other out.
Bruce was far enough away from the main area that most of the gang didn’t hear him, but three more men did come to investigate the grunts. This time, when the men came around the corner, he ran at the pillar before jumping off and at the men just as they raised their guns.
He let his momentum take him, reaching the first goon and twisting just enough to land on the man’s chest feet first and have gravity pull them down. The goon was disorientated, but not knocked out yet. Bruce had to lunge to the side before he could do anything about it, the other two gunmen apparently not afraid to shoot in the direction of their partner. He lunged again, this time for their legs, sliding between them and kicking back at their knees. One of them lost balance and tripped down. The other was taller, burlier and only stumbled a step forward before swinging down with the butt of his gun to try to aim for Bruce’s head.
He leaned to his left, the gun hitting the ground instead, and pushed his feet right up to the big man’s abdomen to kick him over his head and back. The two previous gunmen were already getting up and he rushed over to punch one into the floor and turn to elbow the other in the head.
He looked over his shoulder just as the big man ran right at him and jumped with enough power to throw them both into the main hall the gala was being thrown in. Bruce was being held down, arms pinned to his sides and eight other men were suddenly pointing all their guns at them. He threw his head back, hearing the man’s nose snap as he rolled away after being released.
Nine men still left, one injured. He rolled his neck and got to work taking the rest down.
Fifteen minutes later, the GCPD would finally arrive to find twelve men tied up, a room full of the shaken wealthy, and a billionaire mourning the loss of his favorite tux.
Gordon walked over when he saw Bruce, looking tired and letting out a deep sigh. He raised his hand in a lazy greeting, standing straighter from his slouch as he got closer. “Bruce Wayne. I take it you took care of them?”
He wasn’t really sure what persona he was supposed to be playing at the moment. He wasn’t in his suit, and Brucie is a persona long gone. He went with Bruce, calm and collected, and sent a slight head tilt back. “Commissioner. They were a small gang, slightly trained but not proficient as a team. Looking to make quick cash in style.”
The older man just nodded his head again, looking contemplative. “You know, the procedure is that we have the witnesses and victims give their story and paperwork detailing the event, but I’m not too sure about what the protocol for Batman in taking down a gang in a three piece suit is.”
“Not my first choice in fighting gear.” Giving a shrug, Bruce pulled at his ripped sleeve, making it go taut and brushing off the front of his vest. His joke was stupid and bland, but the man next to him was familiar with the brand and gave a small huff of amusement.
“What was the party for this time?” Gordon gestured generally around the room, tables overturned and horderves on the floor.
Bruce scrunched his eyebrows for a second. “Wayne Foundations has announced the partnership with several food banks and shelters in Gotham for remodeling and further funding.”
He gave an acknowledging hm, looking around the messy room. Looking back at Bruce, the man looked shocked to see him. “Thought you’d have disappeared.”
Feeling the corners of his lips tilt upwards, he looked the commissioner almost sheepishly in the eyes. “It’s not the same without the suit.”
Batman, Flash, Wonder Woman, and Green Lantern had just finished taking out the team up of most of Superman’s villains while the man himself was off planet. A few heavy hitters; Parasite, Livewire, Toy Man in another large robot suit, designed much like a transformer, most notable among the team up. Their motivations at the time were unknown.
Cleanup wasn’t horrible, most damage being contained to a block and a half. Diana and John were flying up, helping people down from unstable buildings, while Wally and him worked on the ground, either piling large rubble or carrying civilians caught in the crossfire to the ambulances on site. Luckily the streets had been largely evacuated of people, those with quick instincts running and grabbing anyone they could along the way. The rising number of villain attacks had led to safety procedures becoming widespread, Gotham helping to develop them, being one of the cities attacked most early on in the rise of crime.
The click click of well worn heels on pavement had Bruce turning around, spotting Lois Lane making her way to the two on ground heroes. First on scene, first to the scoop. Though other news outlets were probably close behind, Lois was a woman with a mission.
“Batman! Flash! Lois Lane from the Daily Planet.” She said it with a smirk, well aware they both knew her for one reason or another.
Wally practically lit up, speeding to drop off the child in his arms by the police line where their parents were waiting. Bruce took it slower, dropping the rubble in his arms off by designated area before walking to the reporter.
“Been a while since I’ve seen you last,” Lois was looking at Bruce when she said it, chin tilted up, and a look in her eye that made him feel scolded. She took a pad of paper and a ballpoint pen out of her purse, and got to business. “So what’s happened here, villains saw Superman was out of town for the weekend and what, any reason yet?” Wally had just been about to answer her when the rest of the media vultures came for them for all the wrong reasons.
Calls for Bruce Wayne and Wally West littered their questions, microphones shoved at them and cameras flashing at the crime scene. Lois was pushed forward, Wally steadying her and looking into the crowd with an uncomfortable look. The identity reveal hadn’t been too much of a hassle for him, he was usually able to just speed away from a scene should things get too much after a fight or cleanup. He was largely left alone civilian wise at this point, his day job not enough to warrant constant media attention. He was social, and handled most interviews and questions well, but there was something distinctly uncomfortable about his real name being used while in suit.
Bruce was much more accustomed to it, unfortunately with a more public role. Even toning down Brucie now that the people knew, he had a company to help run. No super speed to dash off, Bruce was well acquainted with the press acting just a tad too familiar at all the wrong times.
Didn’t mean he liked them doing it to him or his friends. He straightened his back as much as he could, knowing the looming presence was still just as effective in the daylight after years of practice. He took a step forward, just enough to cover Wally, and let disappointment radiate from his gaze. “You’re all supposed to be professionals. Act like it. There will be official statements given once all information has been gathered.”
There was a short man in the front of the pack. His nose twitched and he was biting at his lip. He wanted to ask a question anyway, they all did. The short man had just opened his mouth to speak but Wally had found his voice again. He put his hands up as if calming a group of toddlers. “You heard him, please wait behind the police tape until we’re ready to answer your questions.”
The reporters looked unsatisfied, but nearby officers had come over to guide them back over the line. Lois looked especially unimpressed, knowing she could have gotten the early story had any other reporter bothered to call them by their hero names instead of trying to act personal.
Bruce glared at the group as they walked away, and he didn’t comment on the huff from the speedster. Wally looked at him, and Bruce almost felt like he was being scolded, “It was just a few reporters, nothing I haven’t handled before.”
Ah. Wally knew his intentions. Not having anything to say, and getting that feeling of not being sure which role he was meant to play, Bruce could only give a small shrug and get back to the rubble.
Shayera was in his living room. Or, the most used living room in the manor. His family tended to stick to one for the sake of convenience. Anyway, Shayera Hol, double crosser to both her own kind and the Justice League.
She looked tired, her wings looking like they were drooping and her back slouched. She was no longer in Thanagarian armor, just a t-shirt and cuffed jeans. Her eyes were half lidded, and her breathing slow. But in the room's only loveseat, she had a small smile as she took a bite from the treat in her hand. She was eating scones with Alfred.
Just his luck, Bruce had come in the door that was directly in her line of sight. She saw him quick enough, and her smile faded to something Bruce hesitated to call insecure. Alfred turned to see what caught her attention. He gave a small ah when he caught sight of him standing stiff in the doorway.
“Master Bruce, as you can see we have a guest over. Do show your manners and say hello,” the old butler turned back to his tea, disregarding the rising tension of the room. The two heroes looked to Alfred for a glance and back at each other, neither really sure what to say or do.
“Ms. Hol,” Bruce said, his greeting flat of any emotion. He saw her scrunch her nose, and was glad to see calling her that felt just as weird for her as him. “Shayera, it’s good to see you again.”
He walked over, sitting on the couch as if there were no bad feelings or betrayals to even think about. Alfred handed him a small plate with scones and reached for the teacups to pour him a glass. He made eye contact with her again. They relaxed into their seats. The moment felt… calm.
Bruce thought of an ashamed warrior in his cave, turning her back on her own people. Of being wary of her, preferring she leave than stay a second longer. Of being handed vital information that would help them win. He thought of her flying away.
Looking at her then, he wasn’t sure what to feel. If he was supposed to feel something specific. Was he supposed to still be mad? Was he supposed to clear all grievances as if her actions were inconsequential?
Bruce just felt like he missed her, missed one of so few friends.
Alfred gave him a saucer with his cup and sat back into his own seat. The butler always did have such a soothing presence. “Now Miss Hol was just telling me how…”
Clark had managed to convince Bruce to drop by for lunch while in Metropolis. It was his last day there, finally done with business related to Wayne industry facilities in Gotham’s neighboring city. He figured he’d allow himself a break, catch up with the man outside of the capes and costumes, just this once and then back to work.
Work came to them.
Parasite was definitely one of the more annoying villains they could’ve run into, but he was nothing they hadn’t handled before. The issue at hand was that while Clark can hide his suit under reporters' wear any day, the bat suit was bulkier, and currently in the car further away then worth the hassle. So armed with three batarangs in his pocket Bruce jumped right in.
It was a shame, really. He had been enjoying the lunch with Clark. They haven't talked much outside of league business lately. He’ll have to drop by again next time.
Tim showed him another viral video later. There had been more and more as Bruce was able to just join a fight even if his suit was nowhere to be found. The belt was to clunky to just wear around, so his rule of thumb was to carry three batarangs, and use the area to to his advantage. It was working so far.
This one had come from the cafe they had been eating in. The logo sat reversed in the corner and the window glare made it difficult to distinguish what was being shown for the first few seconds. It focused soon enough on the fight from earlier that day.
Superman rolls out of the way of a powered punch, narrowly missing parasites grapple that followed. He was moving slower, but he didn’t let that stop him. Then, almost randomly it seemed, he ducked to the ground, just in time to avoid the blast of water that would shoot Parasite into the building across the street.
The camera pans over to the source of the water, which was decreasing in its pressure, to Bruce Wayne, himself, in his nice suit pants and dress shirt, jacket and tie discarded, unseen in the video where. He was messing with the fire hydrant, before going to stand by Superman, his red and blue costume a stark contrast to his partner. They were ready to see if the villain would get back up, but he remained where he had slumped against the wall.
A small voice behind the camera spoke up, “Ha ha, what?”
Bruce didn’t get the point of the video.
Bruce wouldn’t say he had been housing J’onn following the destruction of the watchtower, but the Martian did spend a good amount of time among the manor walls while the new one was being built. It wasn’t uncommon to come upon him, standing in the middle of the room without really doing much. Of course he went out, he fought, he visited the Kent’s, and worked on the new watchtower plans. J’onn just slept here, it was a temporary thing.
Sometimes he took the Martian out himself. He recalls a time he brought him to a gala. It had been for one partnership or another of the company, and he figured he’d bring a friend as his plus one. He asked J’onn, he said yes, morphed on a suit while remaining green, and they headed out.
Stepping out of the limo, his arm around the taller man’s own, he almost chuckled at what he could guess the reports would say the next day. Batman and the Martian: Leaguers and Lovers?
It was a calm gala. No bold gangs or villains. No sudden calls for on the League or Alfred. Only one almost punched face when an old donor implied some unsavory things about J’onn. And a dance with a good friend.
J’onn was pleasant company. He’s smart, honest, with a snarky sense of humor sometimes. Bruce didn’t feel the need to play a role around him, play up to the cameras. He hasn’t felt he needed to do that in a while.
Standing in front of the satellite ready to launch into space with the alien by his side, Bruce thought he’d miss the company anyway. He’d miss coming up the stairs from the cave, and seeing J’onn either baking, or snacking on whichever processed sweet he had managed to sneak under Alfred’s nose. The helpful and observant eye looking over his shoulder for details he may have just missed in his case.
He watched the building go up, the Martian inside now, ready to guide it to orbit. The scientist next to him kept reading the charts, and another person further up in the room was trying to make contact. After everything was confirmed to be functional he left the room, then the building, until he reached the reporters eager for the story. Bruce kept an eye on his watch, he’d need to leave soon to fly up to the watchtower himself to begin helping with the teleporters and final tune ups. He stayed as long as he could, answering whatever questions he could, and when the person switching between calling him Batman and Bruce and Mr. Wayne in rapid fire got on his nerves, he left.
“Shayera, do you want to know the final vote?”
Bruce and Shayera had taken to little lunches at the manor. Sometimes Alfred is available, sometimes Tim is, and sometimes she prefers to sit in the garden alone. Currently they were in his convertible with the roof down, her wings slightly spread and her feathers ruffling in the wind. They were on their way to the city for the first time.
She looked to him at his question, a considerate look on her face. A few months ago, that question would have closed her off.
“I don’t think I’m ready yet.” She turned back to the road, but didn’t leave them in silence. “I’m not sure if I want to be ready yet.”
Bruce wondered for a moment if she meant ready to know or ready to fight. Ready to come back or… he didn’t know. He pulled over and parked the car next to the curb. They were at a small place, not really a beat down hole in the wall and not a restaurant that would take a Brucie favor to get a seat. He liked their soups.
They both got out of the car on their own, but Bruce was raised a gentleman first and foremost, and walked fast enough to get the door. The room quieted when they entered, but whispers of hero names and speculation started up soon enough. He couldn’t say he was surprised. He frequented the diner enough that the staff no longer had a shock factor every time he entered the door, and they were quick to be shown to a table and asked about drinks. When he had his sugary coffee and she had her ice tea, they started talking again.
“How’s Alfred? He didn’t meet me at the door this morning.” Shayera took small sips of her drink as she looked at her menu. She was flipping through the pages but not letting anything catch her eye.
“Look in their sandwich section, you’ll like the options,” He said offhandedly, thinking about getting either a burger or just a salad. “Alfred’s well, he’s taking a long overdue vacation. He’s going with Mrs. Kent I believe.”
The waitress came over and they quickly gave their orders. Shayera rolled her eyes when he asked for the Caesar Salad.
It was easy to spend time with league members. To take lunch or invite them to dinner. It was nice to spend time with Shayera in public. Before, the team never met outside of the watchtower or for missions. There were out of costume meetings, and J’onn had sometimes chosen to change form, but there wasn’t much luck hiding the large, gray wings of their team mate. If Wally, Clark, or himself had met with her out of costume, some sort of assumption would be made. Probably nothing incriminating, between a forensics specialist, a reporter, and the league's largest donator, but it was better to play it safe and assume the worst.
Bruce wasn’t lonely, he'd say. He had Alfred, and he had his sons. He’d talk with Barbara and Gordon on occasion, visited specific Arkham inmates, and would catch up with Selina every other month or so when she was in town.
For a part time member though, he couldn’t help but find himself increasingly fond of his team. Looking at Shayera, enjoying herself in a public setting again, he wondered if they’d fight together again one day.
(She would, in fact, come back to the league. She would have to kill a friend, and she would look exhausted in the papers that captured her image after she came back from the sewers. She’d look tired, but still hold a wobbly smile as her team would support her to the angry crowd. They didn’t like seeing her fighting again.
She’d find herself in the manor that night, down in the cave, and just sitting with him as he worked on the computer. She didn’t say a word, and they just existed in the other's presence.
The cameras wouldn’t catch Bruce Wayne and Shayera Hol watching cheesy shows at 4 AM when they finally went upstairs. No one would question how Batman could sit so close to a traitor, a team mate who gave away his weaknesses. There would be no social media post about how she might be no more than Bruce’s latest fling.
The next few weeks following, he made a large effort to show himself close and working with her. Taking off the cowl after a fight to openly show his expression. He felt he was being really obvious. He found he didn’t really care.)