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It had been a quiet week in Gotham. There’d been a minor Arkham breakout early in the week, but the Riddler was the only one who’d gotten loose, and Bruce and Damian hadn’t had too much trouble rounding him back up. Honestly, who wrote a riddle where the key rhyme was “orange” and “strange”? Bruce was a bit concerned the Riddler was losing his touch.
The rest of the week had mostly just been breaking up minor gang scuffles and foiling a couple of robberies, the kinds of things that Batman could’ve handled by himself without any trouble – which was fortunate, since Dick was busy in Bludhaven, Tim was handling a WE merger, Steph had final exams, Cass was out with the Birds of Prey, and there was no telling where Jason was.
As it was, patrol had been uneventful enough that Batman and Robin had been able to turn in early for the past several nights in a row (though Damian seemed less pleased with this than Bruce was, if the boy’s Tts every time they returned early were anything to go by).
Bruce was catching up on some of his old cases in the Cave – having escaped there after enduring Alfred’s pointed comments that making a bit of time for normal hobbies might do you some good, Master Bruce over a late night snack and feigning agreement while contemplating which case he wanted to work on next – when his phone rang, Clark Kent flashing on the caller ID.
“Yes, Clark?” he greeted his friend, then winced and held the phone further away from his ear as the screeching sound of sirens blared through the speaker. There was the distant sound of yelling, but no screaming, which Bruce decided to take as a positive sign in the wake of his growing concern.
“Um, hi Batman,” Clark – or, Bruce would guess, Superman – greeted him.
“What’s the situation?” Bruce asked flatly, already searching his systems for any news coming out of Metropolis. There went his relaxing week. Bruce had informed the Justice League that he was short-handed and needed to stay in Gotham this week, barring any world-ending emergencies. If Superman was calling him despite his request, it meant the situation was bad.
“Nothing too bad,” Superman answered, cheerful tone slightly strained. Bruce’s eyes narrowed. His search was coming up with very little from the past several hours – a mugging, two fires, and a small explosion at an empty warehouse.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Are you calling for anything in particular, then?”
“Well, yes, you see, erm,” Superman fumbled, voice awkwardly high-pitched, only to be interrupted by the yelling in the background getting louder.
”Get your hands off me, asshole, before I cut them off,” came a familiar-sounding snarl.
”Sir, if you would please just relinquish the guns.”
“You can have my guns over my cold dead body – and trust me, the ‘dead’ part is something you'll want to check twice.”
“Um, one second, Batman,” Superman said, then a crackling noise like Superman had covered the speaker with his hand, and his voice was more muffled. “Officer, just let him keep the guns. I’ll…I’ll vouch for him.”
“You sure, Superman?”
“…Yes.” He didn’t sound very sure.
Another crackle, and then Superman’s voice was clearer again. “Sorry about that,” he said, sounding sheepish.
Bruce could feel a headache building behind his eyes, his earlier alarm morphing into something more akin to bone-deep weariness. “Superman, why did you call?”
At this point, he was about 99% sure he knew the answer, but if he could stave off the inevitable for a few seconds longer, he’d take this last brief reprieve.
There was a fleeting pause, and then Superman whispered in a harried tone, “Batman, please come pick up your son.”
Aaand there it was. Bruce closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What did he do?”
“He blew up a warehouse.”
For the love of – “Why?”
“He won’t tell us, he just keeps saying if we weren’t complete idiots, we’d already know the answer to that,” Superman responded, and Bruce’s lips turned up a bit involuntarily at the hint of affront in his friend’s tone.
There was no denying that the other members of the Justice League were intelligent individuals (well – okay, questionably so, in Hal’s case. Bruce still hadn’t forgotten that the Green Lantern had disposed of Wayne tech in favor of Luthor tech right in front of Bruce’s outraged eyes), but Bruce was known as the World’s Greatest Detective for a reason. And if he’d tried to ensure his children learned how to think while working their cases, could anyone really blame them a bit of intellectual snobbery after being trained by Batman?
Still. His amusement could only prevail so long in the face of the fire he now had to put out, and he rubbed his forehead.
“Great,” Bruce sighed. “Just – great. Fine. I’ll be there soon.”
There was the sound of a distant scuffle over the line, more yelling in the background, and the sound of a mechanized voice making low, vicious threats. Superman made a dismayed noise. “Please hurry, he’s threatening the officers again. I think we’re going to have to take his guns away.”
Bruce snorted. “I wouldn’t try that if I were you,” he responded wryly before hanging up. He supposed he’d better get to Metropolis quickly – knowing Superman, they were likely to try to take the guns away anyway, which had a high likelihood of being far more explosive than whatever bomb had been set off.
“Thank God you’re here.” Superman looked ridiculously glad to see him, practically wilting with relief as Batman pulled into the scene, climbing out of the Batmobile. The warehouse was a smoking ruin behind the superhero, with police cars, ambulances, and firetrucks ringing the building.
“Where is he?” Bruce growled curtly, and Superman practically fell over himself in his eagerness to lead Bruce to his wayward son, weaving through the various emergency responders rushing around the scene.
He could hear his son’s voice coming from a circle of police cars before he saw him. “What, am I supposed to be intimidated by you waving that nightstick of yours around?” The sneer was evident even without the ability to see his face. “I got beat to death with a crowbar, jackass, you’re going to have to try harder than waving a little baton at me if you wanna scare me.”
The Red Hood was leaning casually against one of the police cruisers, arms crossed and body language practically screaming bored as one of the burlier police officers attempted to tower over him, brandishing his nightstick at Hood as if in warning. There wasn’t a trace of fear or concern in Hood’s posture at the officer’s blustering, and Bruce was nearly certain his son was rolling his eyes behind the red helmet.
“You can stand down, Officer Mason, I brought – backup,” Superman called out as they strode up, and Hood’s helmeted head snapped towards them at those words. A low groan came out from the helmet as Hood dipped his head back theatrically, glaring at the night sky.
“C’mon, Boy Scout, did you really have to go and call the old man?” he demanded, straightening and glaring back at them to gesture angrily at Bruce.
“If you didn’t want him to call me, you shouldn’t have blown something up in Metropolis,” Bruce said mildly in Batman’s growl. He came to a stop in front of his son, arms folded, Superman hovering uncertainly a few steps behind him.
“The warehouse was being used by a trafficking ring I’ve been tracking,” Hood protested in what was almost a whine. Irritation was written into every line of his body as he turned a glare on the police officers present who were eavesdropping on the exchange. “Which they would know if they bothered to do their goddamn jobs.”
“I’m certain the Metropolis police force is doing what they can – and regardless, that still doesn’t give you an excuse to blow up buildings in Superman’s city,” Bruce scolded gruffly, and Hood’s arms folded defensively.
“It was the quickest way to get rid of the traffickers’ base,” he said sullenly. Somehow, Bruce doubted that. It was probably the most dramatic way of getting rid of the base, and Jason had always had a flare for the dramatic.
“But not the only way,” Bruce countered, tone stern. “And what’s the rule about blowing places up?”
Hood grumbled under his breath for a moment, then said sourly, “I have to ask permission first.”
“That’s right, you have to ask permission first. And did you?”
A brief moment of rebellious silence, followed by a surly, “No.”
Bruce nodded once, sharply, then gestured to the man standing behind him, mouth slightly open in poorly-hidden astonishment. “So what do you have to say to Superman?”
His son aimed incoherent mumbling at the ground. Bruce suppressed an eye roll, holding onto his patience by the tips of his fingers.
“I didn’t catch that,” he growled out, tone uncompromising.
Hood let out a long, angry sigh before looking up at Superman. “I’m sorry for blowing up a building without asking permission because you’re too incompetent to do your fucking job, Superman,” he snapped petulantly, and Bruce really did roll his eyes that time.
Still, that could’ve gone far worse. At least Jason hadn’t shot anyone.
He turned to his friend. “I’m afraid that’s the best apology you’re going to get,” he said with a shrug, ignoring the slightly baffled look on his friend’s face and the confused expressions from the police officers as they looked between Batman and Red Hood. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get this one back to Gotham so we can have a talk about appropriate ways to behave in other peoples’ cities.”
He reached out to place a hand on Hood’s shoulder to steer him forward, only for his son to yank his shoulder away, marching forward with a huff in the direction of where Bruce had parked the Batmobile. “I’m not a child, B, you don’t get to give me lectures anymore!” he called over his shoulder, gesticulating wildly.
From the corner of his eye, Bruce could see one of the officers mouth the word ‘anymore’ with a disbelieving expression.
“I do until you learn not to make messes that other people have to clear up,” Bruce called after him sternly. “What would Agent A say?”
His son let out an indignant squawk, spinning to stab an accusing finger at him. “You can’t use Agent A against me, old man, that’s not fair!”
Bruce tilted his head and shrugged. “I’m not using him against you, merely pointing out that he would probably feel that he taught you better than this, should he find out about your behavior.”
There was a stormy silence, and Bruce had no doubt his son’s expression was a mixture of petulant anger and guilt under the helmet, before Hood spat, “You’re a manipulative old man, B.” He turned on his heel and started stalking towards the Batmobile again. Bruce shook his head and watched as the emergency responders leapt out of Hood’s way as he stalked to the car and slid inside.
Bruce let out a long-suffering sigh. “Sorry about him,” he said to Superman and the officers, searching for something that would excuse Hood’s behavior. Finding nothing, he just shrugged tiredly and said simply, “Teenagers,” before walking over to join his son in the car. He had a feeling it was going to be a long ride back to Gotham.