Chapter Text
There is an unspoken understanding amongst Gothamites that Gotham changes her people.
Not just in the manner the average Metropolitan would think of; the resilience, the additional backbone, the innate grit residents of the city have. While yes, those are marks of surviving her streets, she also leaves her mark in more…fundamental ways.
People rarely move to Gotham, why would they? This fact is known.
Few realise the reverse is true. That those who settle down in the city rarely leave.
A Gothamite can be taken out of Gotham, but nothing can remove the hold she has on them. Leaving her confines is like abandoning a mother’s embrace. To leave is to desert a part of themselves in that gloomy city, their persons constantly haunted by a constant nagging sensation of emptiness. One that will only be quelled by their return to her lands. For while they may have entered the city whole, leaving reduces them to a shell that is a little less than complete.
Gotham is capricious.
Sometimes she is a caretaker. A mother who has nurtured to the best of her capabilities, raising, shielding, and providing for her children despite all adversity.
Other times she is a dictator. A merciless, uncaring monarch who continues to take, and take, until all that is left of her subjects are empty husks of resentment and resignation, condemned to disillusionment and apathy as the city swallows them whole.
For the select few who are able to endure. Who look at her, in all of her miserable, fickle glory, and instead of fear or disgust, they still find her worth embracing, she likes to reward them, to sink her claws into them and mark them as her own.
Gotham’s method of remuneration is unique, something akin to a blessing.
The boons she imparts are mercurial. Most are barely noticeable. A small mutation within her children’s very essence.
A restaurant owner whose skin is slightly tougher than average, a factory worker who can lift a tad more than they should, a street kid who is able to see a little too clearly in the dark.
Nothing drastic.
Nothing that would draw attention to those in the wider world, but enough to help them to survive.
From the formation of the city, these small changes have followed generation after generation. Like most things, truth warped to myth and legend. In the streets of her city she hears whispers describing the abnormality of Gothamites. Of longtime residents who make newcomers weary, who by all means are normal, and yet, there is something about them. Something about their person’s that triggers the hairs on the back of new residents’ necks to stand on end.
Gotham does not overstep.
For the most part, she will leave her children to their own devices, no matter how much she wishes to embed herself within each and every resident. To sink her claws deep into their beings and leave her mark.
However, there are always exceptions to the standard.
Select children who have lost so much to the city, who, despite everything, look her in the eyes and decide that she is still worth saving. They evoke a carnal desire within her.
A desire to possess, to tie them down to the city, to stake her claim on them.
Thus, as Gotham observes as her new masked vigilante navigates her streets with the moniker of bat. Watching as he performs unseen acts of grandeur and service, only to return to that little cave of his all battered and bruised, she cannot resist the temptation.
As The Bat sleeps, she curls around him, gently caressing his being.
Then, at the right moment, she sinks her claws into his soul.
Bruce wakes to an itch on his scapular.
With a mind still clouded with sleep, he slowly lifts his eyelids. A grunt escapes his throat as he focuses on the irritation on his back, one that in his brief moment of lucidity, has evolved into a dull ache, a pulsating pressure.
Before he has fully shaken off the hold of slump, pressure blooms to pain.
It spreads like an infection. Through his veins, under his skin, blossoming until he abruptly finds himself breathless.
Quickly, the sounds of strangled breaths fill the previously quiet night.
There is an incessant burning sensation on his back as if he is being burnt alive, that the skin on his back is being cauterised with hot iron needles, that every cell in his body has turned against him.
He writhes powerlessly on the bed, body clammy with sweat, jaw clenching and teeth gritting as he pushes down groans, knuckles turning white from the grip he has on his now sweat sodden sheets.
He tries to form thoughts but words muddle in the face of white hot pain.
He attempts to push air through his lungs. To call for Alfred. Before he can he is reflexively pushing his face into the bed to stifle a scream brought on by the pain that pierces through him.
He knows not how long he spends in this state of limbo as distress eviscerates his nerves.
Minutes?
Hours?
Perhaps a day has passed, he does not know.
And then suddenly, a release.
The sound of fabric ripping, the sickening squelch of flesh ripping and the crack of bones flexing fills still air.
A small moan of relief. For the absence of pain brings about pleasure. It is as much torment as it is euphoria, the release from the pulsating pressure pushing him to the brink. In its place, the stinging of a fresh wound, the potent metallic scent of blood diffusing through the room.
For the next few moments, all he can focus on is the frenzied beating of the heart in his ear, the laboured breaths as his chest rapidly rises and falls.
Deep breaths in—
The trickling of blood down his back, drenched fabric sticking to his skin, the rapid beating of his heart.
—and out.
Bruce repeats this cycle of breath until he no longer hears his heart in his ears. Only after gaining some semblance of control, does he dare turn his head to catalogue the source of his grief.
His eyes widen at the sight he is met with.
Where his scapulas had previously laid, now sat a pair of bony protrusions soaked in crimson ichor. They stretch out, bones fanning out into five digits. On each bone clings a thin layer of membrane that spans the entire wing. Every inhale and exhale causes the appendage to rise and fall, every contraction and expansion sends electricity up his spine.
At this revelation, he finds himself momentarily drowning in the newfound sensory information. Control over limbs that he did not have hours ago blinding him.
Startled, his body jerks, a response which is instantly punished with a stinging ache, the protesting thrum of tender muscles straining.
Before Bruce is able to act upon any of his curiosities, distantly, he hears the sound of hurried footsteps. A couple beats later, he finds an involuntary hiss escaping his throat as light floods the room from the hallways. Alfred’s face enters his vision.
“Master Bruce is everything alright-” The butler wears a face of weary worry, one which soon freezes in its place. His eyes flicker between the exhausted look on Bruce’s face, to the newfound bloodied appendages on his back.
“Alfred, could you please bring a mirror.” Bruce croaks, voice hoarse, pointedly ignoring the look of surprise colouring Alfred’s face.
“Right away sir.”
Soon, Bruce finds himself situated in front of a mirror, a growing sense of horror as he observes the reflection staring back at him. He is kneeled on newly placed towels, shirt cut off, Alfred sat behind him, cloth in his hand as he tenderly attempts to wipe bloodied wings.
A pair of black membrane wings framed by stark white bone.
Fully spread, they are wider than he is tall, spanning well beyond the length of the bed. The main structure of the wing is supported by the bones protruding out of his scapulas, stretching and fanning out into five digits, like that of a true bat. At the very ends, the bones are curved into claws, and if he focuses hard enough, he can flex the opposable digits. Across the wings stretches a thin membrane, one which attaches like a second skin from his spine, all the way down to his now elongated tailbone. Turning his body around with a grunt, his jaw clenches as he takes in the sight. A tail. A disturbing thin protrusion which forms the base structure of his wings.
Each contact Alfred makes as he attempts to wipe the blood off the base of his wings sends shivers up his spine. An utterly foreign sensation that plunges his sensors into a frenzy. Tentatively, he attempts to engage the newfound muscles attached to the bone.
Previously stationary wings suddenly contract, hitting Alfred in the process and evoking a wince out of Bruce.
“Master Bruce, perhaps you should wait until you have fully healed before attempting any more movement.” Alfred dryly suggests with a hint of warning and concern in his tone.
Bruce replies with a noncommittal grunt, but nonetheless waits until Alfred has finished wiping and applying ointment.
Unsurprisingly, a reconfigured skeleton and additional limbs quite drastically alter one’s centre of gravity. The moment he sets two feet on the floor and attempts to stand, he finds his body careening towards the ground.
Long ingrained reflexes attempt to cushion his fall, yet he is unable to account for his wings, and soon, he finds himself unceremoniously meeting the unforgiving carpet head on.
“Do you need some help sir?” Alfred questions, his voice revealing nothing, but Bruce can hear the underlying amusement. With a groan, Bruce pushes himself up and glares at the other.
Bruce proceeds to spend the next week holed up in the cave, pouring over scans of himself, of analysing his DNA, of rewatching patrol footage from the week previous to determine anything amiss, anything that could have triggered the sudden mutation.
Nothing.
He finds absolutely nothing.
No mutation, no radiation, no event to indicate any substantial alterations to his physiology and trigger such a drastic transformation. The unknown and mystery drives him half to madness.
During Bruce’s endeavours to understand his sudden mutation, he begins to hear talk of other abnormalities across the globe. Of freaks with powers that bend the will of nature. Of metahumans who possess abilities beyond logical comprehension. Of aliens. Of individuals who wield magic.
Perhaps in the grand scheme of everything, his mutation was simply one amongst countless.
After he exhausts all his avenues of investigation, he turns his focus onto flight. Considering how the majority of bats could not take off from the ground, he determines that he requires updraft to even entertain the possibility of flight.
That is exactly how he finds himself, a week after his impromptu transformation, hanging from the walls of the cave, grappling hook in hand, an exasperated looking Alfred next to a wide net elevated across the floor.
Bruce leaps.
And for a few brief moments, he is flying.
Dark wings spread, the silhouette of a bat looming over the cave floor. A feeling of absolute weightlessness. It evokes foreign ecstasy from the centre of his chest. In that moment, he truly becomes the Bat that overlooks Gotham and her turf.
His feelings of euphoria last mere seconds, before he feels one of his wings cramp, and suddenly he is once again at the mercy of gravity, body rapidly approaching the unforgiving floor. As he collides with the net, he muffles a groan, his figure a mess of limbs and wings lying on the net in defeat.
“Perhaps, sir, we should consider isolated practice before jumping off the cave walls.” Alfred interjects, cutting through Bruce’s silent moping, brows downturned in concern, nonetheless still sporting a small rise of the corner of his lips.
The ends of Bruce’s wings twitch in annoyance.
Bruce’s next attempts reap varying degrees of failure.
Slamming into walls of the cave.
Falling flat on his face.
Narrowly avoiding impalation on the various stalagmites and stalactites around the cave.
Around his fiftieth or so attempt, Alfred with a camera in hand to capture his wing motion, Bruce successfully navigates his first set of stalactites. With a body battered and bruised from failure, the success brings upon a swell of satisfaction he is unable to suppress.
An involuntary high pitched squeaking sound escapes his throat, echoing through the cave.
The sound of contentment causes Bruce to freeze mid-flight, and he has mere seconds to swerve his body to avoid another collision, and he finds himself deposited on the floor, body rolling to Alfred’s feet.
An awkward silence.
“Sir-” Alfred opens his mouth, eyes twinkling with mirth, camera pointing down at Bruce’s face.
“Not a word.” Bruce grits out.
Privately, he experiments with his newfound vocal range.
Any and all footage pertaining to the development of his flying capabilities are locked up in an encrypted folder never to see the light of day.
The next set of business is his suit.
With the addition of his new anatomy, his body now had the disposal of many new skills as well as weaknesses. The intersection point between the humerus of his wings and scapula were extremely vulnerable, with the membrane and skin connection even more so. Even a week after the transformation, the skin was still soft, muscles tender. Though he expects more frequent usage to bolster up the concentration of muscle fibres, it is a weakness he cannot afford in the field.
The solution comes to him as he is comparing new concept designs, open back, no cape, with older iterations including the cape. Though his new designs initially removed the cape considering the presence of his wings, if he finds a way to use the cape as a cover for the wings, it would both provide more protection for the thin-wing membrane, but also conceal his new weak point.
Thus birthed the new literal Bat suit.
The back has a section cut open to allow for the protrusion of his wings and tail, the cape’s underside now an adhesive kevlar that latches onto the bone and membrane of his wings. The first time he sticks the cape to his wings, he has to grit his teeth to prevent his hands from ripping it off in physical disgust. The weight feels wrong. Stifling. It muffles his senses. A constant thrumming irritation. He ignores it all.
Eventually he finds a balance between adherence, mobility, comfort, and protection.
Batman’s silhouette is virtually identical to his past designs. This time however, instead of a cape loosely hanging on his shoulders, there is now a pair of wings when at rest, circled around his body.
With that, a true bat is born.
While flying in the cave is freeing, weaving through Gotham from an aerial view feels exhilarating.
Gotham's wind hitting his face, air being pushed down by his wings, the soft glow of lights, the newly magnified hustle and bustle of the city below. It is peaceful in a way he never believed the city capable of.
Up in the sky, there is only him, the sky, and the streets below.
As he dives into the alleys of his typical patrol routes, he catalogues the state of the city. At this point, Batman is still more myth and legend than fact. Thus, nobody really missed him during his week of investigation.
The first criminal he sweeps down to apprehend passes out from shock at the sight of him.
Subsequent encounters play out similarly.
Some shrieking, others begging for forgiveness before the first punch has even been thrown, many are hysterical as they take one look at his wings spread as they seek self-enforced incarceration for protection.
Fighting with wings feels simultaneously strange yet intuitive. If needed, they have power to knock fully grown men down when caught off guard, but for the most part, he lets them hang at rest wrapped around his body, a familiar weight and warmth, one only relinquished when additional mobility with his hands are required.
From there, whispers of the Batman patrolling the streets explode. The rumours of his disposition and aerial capabilities spread like wildfire.
“I swear Batman can fly, I’ve seen it with my own eyes!”
Gradually, the flapping of wings high above the Gotham skyline becomes another facet of the city.
Some theorise that The Bat had waited to stake his claim on the city before revealing the extent of his inhumanity, others write it off as ravings of deranged criminals driven to madness. There are even some outlandish claims of self-experimentation to fit the brand.
The quietest of whispers, the ones most do not hear echo truth.
That Gotham had claimed Batman as one of her own. Had seen the way he accepts the city and had responded in fold, altering him into the image she, and the rest of the city has of their masked vigilante.
Batman solidifies himself as the living legend of Gotham.
Sometimes, as he is flying high over the city with only the gaze of the moon privy to his presence, he feels the ghost of an embrace. Curiously, he is not alarmed at this feeling of unknown origin. It feels correct. The city seems to sing in his ears.
Half a year after his transformation, he encounters his first superpowered being.
Superman. The Man of Steel. The protector of Metropolis. The alien who dons the moniker of man.
A rogue robot from Metropolis had run all the way down the highway connecting to Gotham. As soon as the invader had been detected by Batman’s systems, he had swiftly deactivated it, putting it out of commission before it was able to commit any more damage. It was only after everything had been resolved, that Superman had appeared, in all of his red and blue glory, a friendly, open, and slightly guilty expression on his face.
To Bruce’s delight and annoyance, the rumours proved to be entirely true.
Superman is a figure of light.
He had not approached Batman’s territory with any arrogance or animosity. Simply an apologetic smile, a promise to clean up after his mess.
Naturally, Batman had instantly sent the other away, not wishing for the other’s presence to linger in his city. The presence of another superpowered individual in his own territory, one he was unprepared to face, sending newfound senses and intuition he was only just beginning to understand into a frenzy. A sense of possession over his city. But at the same time, under his territorial feelings, were feelings of unease.
For part of him could not fathom the existence of someone who shone so brightly.
Though Metropolis was a drive away from Gotham, Bruce has been keeping an eye on him, wary about the extraterrestrial hero.
On a surface level, Superman is everything Batman fails to be.
Optimistic, approachable, a ray of hope that people look towards for comfort and reassurance. Superman operates in brought daylight while Batman acts under the cloak of night. Cynicism and paranoia commanded him to keep on edge as he waited for the ball to drop, for some deep dark secret of Superman’s to be pulled out in the open. Something, anything to reveal that his outward disposition was at least in some parts a mask.
Batman had little time to linger on these thoughts, as mere weeks after his first meeting with the other, Earth found itself under attack from extraterrestrial invaders. Aliens from the skies above descending with the promise of destruction.
While weaving through the battlefield, tensely shouting orders to a group of ragtag heroes desperately attempting to protect their planet, part of him was creating a mental profile of every single individual he fought beside. Fighting patterns, habits, any and everything to assist with their war.
During his cataloguing, Batman cannot help but notice a peculiarity within Superman.
Where other heroes had laser focus on defeating and beating down the invaders, Superman, while a combatant, prioritised life first and foremost.
That is not to say nobody else saved human life. Even heroes on the front lines did their best to minimise casualties, with many on civilian duty keeping the innocent from the destruction of the battlefield. But it was different with Superman.
Whether it be human animal or otherwise, anything that breathed without animosity was rescued by the Man of Steel. Perhaps the moniker was not as fitting as many thought. For while he has the qualities of a good man, the person he fought beside is not made of cold steel, but instead something much warmer.
After the dust had settled and alien invaders had been repelled, from the ashes rose the Justice League. The newly dubbed protectors of humanity.
In all honesty, Bruce finds the entire thing ostentatious.
Batman was never meant to be under the light. Somehow he had found himself alongside Wonder Woman and Superman as de facto founders of the group.
Sometimes, Bruce ponders the irony of his position.
Him, a social recluse, the silent prince of Gotham who never stepped into the limelight, the leader of an organisation. Where the most interaction he has had with another human being had been the past battle through hastily hissed orders.
Batman was never meant to be scrutinised under cameras broadcasted to the entire world, never meant to have a group of people who looked towards him as a leader. Part of him wishes to return back to Gotham, to isolate himself in her embrace. Alas, with his participation in the last battle, he recognises the necessity for a wider body to collaborate against wider threats.
Within the League, powdered individuals are plentiful.
A speedster. Other animal metas. Men with magical rings. Actual magicians. Martians. Amazonians. Kryptonians.
Partly due to Bruce’s own desires, in part due to his innate deficiency in his ability to socialise, he finds himself standoffish with most of the League members. He knows not how to converse, finds no worth in their small talk and attempts at friendship. Each and every one of them was a danger he needed to know how to render immobile in the case of a dissolution or attack. Most members are dissuaded by his demeanour, favouring other members for company over his cryptid silence.
Most however, are not Superman.
For some incomprehensible reason, Superman seems to have made it his mission to befriend Batman. Part of him screams that this is an overly convoluted strategy to get him to let down his guard. Not that the kryptonian would need it.
By the first month anniversary of the League’s formation, Batman has constructed contingency plans for all members of the League, all applicable besides that of Wonder Woman and Superman. He has yet to acquire kryptonite.
The kryptonian had been transparent with the League about his weakness, a necessity at the time as they faced an enemy that had access to the ore. Most had been destroyed in the subsequent battle, with the remainder being held safely within the League itself. Though he could steal some—he had written the security for the whole tower in the first place—in a display of trust he wrote a proposal outlining why he should be allowed to acquire some for study.
After his speech, the room turns silent. Most, if not all eyes at the League turn towards Superman.
This is it. This will be the moment Superman’s facade of optimism and trust fades. This will be where he grows defensive, where he can no longer find it within himself to defend Batman’s paranoid tendencies. Perhaps he would even get discharged from the League due to his lack of trust.
Yet, as Batman steels himself for rage, instead of scorn and disappointment at his lack of trust, Superman dons a contemplative expression. Eyes scanning the document of the proposal, before smiling, an albeit tight one, in his direction.
“It is a reasonable request, I know little about the composition of the material besides its influence on me. Studying its properties would be beneficial for all parties.” Superman finally says, cutting through the silence only to be met with wide eyes and an awkward silence.
“Uh, Supes, you realise you’re giving Batman access to the one thing that leaves you…vulnerable.” Flash lamely ends, voicing the thought that no other League member wished to articulate.
“I trust that Batman will not use it unless the circumstances demand it,” Superman replies, a conviction in his tone that leaves Bruce stunned.
Bruce feels eyes turn to him to gauge his reaction, but he remains silent. After a couple minutes of uncomfortable silence, Wonder Woman brings up the next agenda item and the topic is put to rest.
After the meeting has been concluded, most League members excuse themselves as they walk towards the zeta-tubes. Others find themselves lingering in hallways, catching up with each other, walking towards the cafeteria or other facilities.
Soon, only Batman and Superman remain in the conference room.
As the other moves to leave the room, Bruce cannot help himself but ask.
“Are you insane?” It is a crass question, but Bruce cannot find any other justification for Superman’s actions. Only an insane person would give a person they did not trust what was essentially a weapon specifically designed to render them powerless.
The query causes Superman to turn around, confusion on his face. “Insane?”
“Why agree to give me kryptonite?” Batman clarifies, words almost grit out, almost. It is obvious. How could the other not see the problem with his actions?
The confusion grows, and the next statement comes out as more of a question than an answer. “For you to study?”
“I could use it against you.” Bruce’s incredulity was growing as he found himself unable to stop his interrogation. He should just take the kryptonite and leave. He had obtained what he needed, there was no reason to begin this conversation with Superman.
“I trust that you won’t unless necessary.” The absolute confidence the other delivers his statement floors Batman.
“Why?” Bruce questions, wings wrapping slightly tighter around his form.
Why does Superman trust him? There are so many reasons why Superman should not trust Batman. He is the one who voted against League members revealing their identity. He is the one who turns down everyone’s attempt at friendship. He is trying to obtain kryptonite for the explicit purpose of having counter measures against the kryptonian, a notion anyone with a brain cell in that meeting could have picked up on.
“You have given me no reason not to trust you,” Superman justifies with sincerity. Words delivered with absolute transparency, no lies in sight. “You have long proven your capabilities Batman. Your vigilance is the reason many of us are still standing today. I trust your judgment.”
Before Batman can process the words, a response is tumbling out of his mouth, words erupting from his throat, “The base of my wings are vulnerable.”
Silently Bruce curses himself. There was no reason to say that.
“What?” An alarmed expression blooms on Superman’s face.
“If you were to incapacitate me, you should aim there.” Batman quietly admits. His wings wrapping tighter around his body, the pressure grounding him, preventing him from fleeing right then and there.
“And you tell me this because?” Though the concern is still there, something else is present in his expression. Hope. A hint of joy.
The sight almost blinds Bruce.
There are so many things he can say, should say. That this is a display of trust, that he did not know how to express gratitude and so he does the next best thing. This conversation is a mistake. Superman is going to nod and leave the room and never speak to him again unless it is with weary caution.
“It’s only fair.” He lamely justifies, voice quiet, eyes pointedly not looking at Superman’s, his head turned slightly to the side.
The other’s expression abruptly softens, a beaming smile on his face. “Well, I’ll be extra sure to watch out for your back then!”
“I can take care of myself,” Batman instinctively responds, eyes narrowing at the declaration.
“Of course,” Superman replies, lacking any malice at the cold response to what should have been a natural declaration between teammates, “but it can’t hurt to have a friend looking out for you!”
Friend.
The word reverberates through Bruce’s head. Friends and him did not mix. He cannot recall the last time he had a friend. Perhaps before his isolation, before his world was turned on his head.
“I don’t make friends.” Batman finally responds, the statement almost a warning, any attempts to imbue steel into his tone melted by the growing warmth in his chest.
“I think everyone could use a friend.” The sincerity in Superman’s words almost causes Batman to choke as he forcibly muffles the growing chitter in his chest from escaping his throat.
Batman awkwardly nods, bidding a quick goodbye to Superman as he leaves the meeting room. Gait carefully measured, wings rigid against his body.
The next day, through the official League communication line they had constructed, having learnt from past mistakes, Superman requests permission to enter Gotham to chase the villain of the week that had escaped Metropolis.
[16:38] Superman: Afternoon Batman!
[16:38] Superman: It seems that one of Lex Luther’s affiliates has escaped to Gotham and are currently at the harbour. I don’t want to intrude but I think it would be best if we worked together :)
As Batman stares at the text, he expects to feel that same possessiveness that had gripped him by the throat the last time Superman had come to Gotham. For some strange reason, those same instincts are quiet. Instead, something else simmers in his chest.
Against his better judgement, he types a reply as he begins putting on his suit.
[16:40] Batman: 2 minute ETA.
Before he knows it, one visit turns to two.
[20:08] Superman: Good evening Batman! I’m sorry to intrude…
Two turns to three.
[12:15] Superman: Good afternoon Batman! Apologies it seems…
Embarrassingly, it takes a comment from Alfred about how his “new friend” has been “great for Bruce’s socialisation skills” until he acknowledges that his encounters with the kryptonian have shifted from League meetings, to happenstance intersections between their cities criminals, to patrolling sessions around the city at Superman’s request.
After dealing with another one of Luther’s robots, Batman finds himself staring at Superman as he comforts the civilians caught up in the fight, the way he reassures, the warm smile on his face, and cannot help but think that perhaps this whole friend thing was not the worst decision.
Gradually, Gotham’s air welcomes a second occasional visitor.