Chapter Text
Sunday. November 3rd.
This city has a smell. Like rotten fruit. Like dead roses soaked in filth. You’d think the rain would wash it away, but it only makes it stronger, as though it’s washing everything out into the open. It’s become inescapable. The headaches are getting worse.
I don’t know if Gotham’s changing or if I am. Probably both.
This new killer—the Riddler—is very careful. There was no trace of him at the scene of the mayor’s murder, not a single fingerprint or hair. And yet I felt, somehow, as though the air in the room were thick with him. As though he smeared himself over every surface.
I’ve watched the videos countless times now. I keep focusing on his eyes. As though if I look into them long and deep enough the answers will appear before me. I have to be careful, though. His eyes have a strange power. There is a hypnotic quality to them, even on the screen. I lose track of time. I fall into dark and repetitive patterns of thought.
He wrote to me. He knew that I would be there. I can’t let go of the sense that this is connected to something bigger, deeper. He feels like a manifestation of Gotham itself. Its rage, its darkness. Again and again, I go over the details in my mind. I am missing some crucial piece of the puzzle.
I can’t let myself lose sight of my larger goal. The Riddler has consumed my thoughts over the past few days, but ordinary crime, ordinary need, has not gone away. If anything, the citizens of Gotham need me more than ever.
People are afraid. Sometimes when people are scared, they get violent.
I have to protect this city from itself.
* * *
There was a gang called the Skulls. They’d been gaining traction in Gotham for the past few months. Bruce had encountered a group of them on Halloween Night—men with painted faces.
Initiation involved a potential member beating a victim into unconsciousness with their bare fists. If they got squeamish and stopped before the job was done, they were rejected.
The appeal of such gangs was obvious: the streets of Gotham were a dangerous place, and there was safety in numbers, even if it was often a false safety. And if you had no one else, the group offered a sense of camaraderie. Of family. But to be accepted into the family, you had to get your hands dirty. Often, the Skulls went after the homeless, those society had forgotten and abandoned. But anyone walking alone at night could become a target.
There were four Skulls pursuing a lone man in a hoodie, now. They moved in the brisk, measured gait of experienced predators, slowly closing the distance between themselves and their prey. The target walked with his head down, hands in his pockets. Bruce observed the entire scene from a nearby rooftop as two Skulls detached themselves from the group and circled around, blocking the man’s path from the other direction. They moved with purpose and coordination—a wolf pack stalking an elk.
The man froze, doubled back. He saw himself surrounded and quickly darted down the alley next to the building Bruce was currently lurking atop. The alley ended in a chain link fence. There was no way the man would be able to scale it before they closed in on him.
Bruce breathed in the cold night air, and a sour ammonia tang swam into his sinuses. Smells manifested as colors sometimes. The Skulls’ aggression was a deep reddish fog. The man’s fear was a luminous green cloud swirling through Bruce’s brain. But there was something else mixed in, something he couldn’t pin down. Silvery, electric darts.
Bruce’s pulse escalated. Steady. He had to wait for the right opening. To strike when they were off their guard, so he could take them all down before they reacted. These weren’t the same men as last time, but by this point the Skulls were familiar with Batman's tactics; they would know his armor was bulletproof, so they would aim for his face. He would only have one chance.
The Skulls' intended prey leapt onto the fence and started to crawl up. The men grabbed him, whooping, and dragged him down. The victim struggled in their grip. Two of them pinned him to the fence, spreading his arms crucifixion style.
“God damn. You smell that?”
“We got a bitch in heat here.”
Laughter.
“You thought those cheap scent-blockers were gonna be enough, huh?”
“Walking around at night smellin’ like slick—”
A red haze slipped over Bruce’s vision.
One of the Skulls—the leader, it seemed—pulled out a knife and placed the edge of it along the man’s jaw. “Your kind likes pain, right?" The knife pressed in harder. "You’re gonna love this.”
Bruce—the Batman—dropped his binoculars and descended directly into the alley.
The four Skulls froze. A low murmur rippled through them. One hissed, “Shit, not this asshole.”
One of them started to pull out a gun. Batman lunged and seized his wrist, bending it backward. There was a snap, and the man screamed. The gun fell.
He hadn’t actually meant to break his wrist. Just to disarm him. He was losing control of his own strength. At the moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Batman grabbed the handgun off the pavement and swung his arm, pistol-whipping the nearest Skull across the face.
A bullet whizzed past his head like an oversized mosquito. It grazed his cheek, but he barely felt the pain. He whirled to face the man who’d shot at him, while the other moaned on the ground. The other two were already running away.
The Skull lunged at him. A punch connected with his jaw. Bruce hit back, harder. He felt a crunch, and the man went down, spitting blood. A white fragment of tooth landed on the pavement. While he was still down, Bruce rammed a kick into his side, and the Skull let out a choking scream. He tried to crawl away, gasping, and Bruce grabbed him in both hands, hauled him kicking and struggling to his feet, and slammed him against the nearby wall. The stink of his sweat, red and green, rage and fear, flooded Bruce's nose.
“Shit, shit, shit,” the Skull gasped, his voice muffled and thick. “Please.”
He’d pissed himself. Bruce could smell that too, a hot salt-smell that pulsed behind his eyes and blinded him. Gloved hands tightened on the Skull’s shirt. The paint on his face was running, mixed with sweat and tears. He gasped in whimpering little breaths.
The Batman doesn't kill.
Bruce’s body quivered with the effort of restraint. It was getting harder to think. His head hurt. He wanted to grab the man’s face, to jam his fingers through his eye sockets, to squeeze until the bones popped and cracked—
With an effort, Bruce shoved the man away, toward the alley’s exit. “Go,” he rasped.
The Skull stumbled, fell. He huddled, quivering, on the pavement.
"Go!"
He lurched to his feet and bolted without a backward glance. The night swallowed him.
Bruce stood, face dripping with sweat as his shaky breaths echoed through the silence. As he came down from the rush of aggression, horror crept over him. He’d come so close to the edge. It had taken everything he had not to finish the job. This was getting out of control.
Bruce turned toward the Skulls’ intended victim, who was staring at him with a soft, dazed, unfocused expression. His hood was down now, his short, mousy-brown hair was damp with rain. His glasses seemed too large for his face. The framed were clear plastic. They’d slipped down his nose a little. “My god,” he said breathlessly. “It's you."
Bruce should go. It was over. The man was safe. “Are you..." He paused, struggling to focus. When he descended deep enough into those trances of rage, language became inaccessible. It was a struggle to return. "Are you injured?”
“No.”
Bruce was accustomed to fear, even from the people he saved. He accepted that as the price of being who he was. There was no hint of fear in this man’s face. Bruce had no words for the expression. Admiration—no. That wasn’t quite right. It was something more akin to religious awe.
Or he was on drops, tripping. That seemed like the most likely answer, come to think of it.
Bruce turned slowly to face him. A breeze stirred his cape.
The man was ordinary-looking. Mild, forgettable features…or at least, they were forgettable if you didn’t look too closely at them. His bow-shaped pink mouth was just pale enough to fade into the rest of his face at first glance. The green of his eyes was subtle and ambiguous enough to be mistaken for hazel or blue.
Slowly, the man stood. He wobbled a little and clutched the chain link fence with one pale hand. He was larger than he'd first seemed. About Bruce's height. He moved as if he didn't know what to do with his own body, as though he were constantly trying to make himself smaller.
“If you have a phone, I’d advise you to call the police,” Bruce said. “Give them your attackers’ descriptions.”
The man let out a tiny, breathless laugh. “That’s very funny. You’re funny.”
Bruce frowned.
The man tilted his head. “Oh. You’re not joking.”
“This area isn’t safe. Do you live nearby?”
“Yes.” His glasses had slipped down the slope of his nose. He pushed them up with one finger. “I was walking home.”
“I’ll stay nearby and keep an eye on you until you’re home, then.”
The way the man smelled, it was—distracting. Soft green clouds swirled through Bruce’s head—a mellower, warmer green than before, but still laced with those silvery streaks. A rich heat, like melting butter, mixed with something sweeter and fresher. A field of dew-covered lavender on a spring morning, the sky still soft with dawn. He'd never even smelled a field of lavender, yet that was the image it brought to mind. He breathed it in deeply. It calmed him, brought him more firmly into the moment. His pulse slowed. Just moments ago he'd been in the grips of a killing rage, and now he felt almost drowsy with contentment. It was unsettling. Or it might have been, if he wasn't so distracted by that pleasant smell.
The man took one unsteady step toward Bruce, then another, still smiling that dazed, blissful smile, as though an angel had appeared before him.
Bruce tensed a little. He could detect no hint of aggression from this stranger. Still, he willed himself to remain on guard.
“Your mask is incredible,” the man said dreamily. He raised one hand slowly, as though to touch it.
Definitely tripping. “I think I should take you somewhere safe until the drops wear off.”
“What? Drops?” He blinked a few times. He looked baffled, hurt. “I never touch that poison. I know better. That’s how they destroy us. They sell us our own death.”
“So...you're not on anything?"
"No."
"You're acting strangely."
“I’m sorry, I—I’ve thought so many times about what I would say to you when we finally met, but I wasn’t expecting it to be tonight. I didn’t think you would find me first. And to see you in action, up close and personal...you were magnificent. The way you move, it's like a dance. I’m sorry if I’m…less than eloquent. I’m a little overwhelmed.” He let out a small, nervous laugh.
Bruce remained standing where he was, keeping his expression neutral, trying to parse the man's behavior. He was vaguely aware of the existence of Batman fanatics. He’d seen the fan-made merchandise sold by street-vendors, had heard of online groups where people obsessed over the latest Batman-sightings and shared rumors or tips on how to catch a glimpse of him in the flesh, the way people obsessed over the idea of catching Bigfoot. Mostly he ignored their existence, because they were tangential to his goals. He’d never sought that sort of fame.
Apparently, the man he’d saved tonight happened to be one of those fanatics.
“I’ve learned so much from you,” the man said earnestly, tangling his fingers together. “You’ve been such an inspiration to me."
Bruce inclined his head forward in a small nod of acknowledgment. Probably the less he said, the better.
"You saved me," he whispered. "You gave me hope."
Something about the way he said that made Bruce look more closely at his expression.
His eyes were wet behind his glasses. It caught him off guard.
Hope. Wasn't that what he'd wanted to give people? He'd used fear as a tool, but for the greater good. To give Gotham the chance at a better future. At some point, he'd lost sight of that. He'd plunged down dark and narrow paths, chasing monsters; he'd allowed the horror of it all to consume him. He'd almost forgotten what simple human gratitude looked like. And now here was this man looking at him with those warm, shining eyes.
Sure, he was a bit odd. But then, Bruce was the one dressed as a bat.
It seemed like he should say something, so he said, "I'm here now." After a few seconds, he added, "You're safe."
The man took a few trembling steps toward him. They stared at each other in silence. Then the man fell to his knees before Bruce, head bowed, and embraced his leg.
Bruce’s back stiffened. He remained frozen, rooted to the spot, as the man breathed heavily, hugging his leg tightly. His forehead rested against Bruce’s knee.
“I pledge myself to you,” he said, his voice faint and raspy. “My life. My soul.”
Bruce felt heat creeping up his neck, into his face. “Uh.”
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this moment.” He rubbed his head against Bruce’s knee like a cat, then lifted his head, cheeks flushed, and gazed up at him through pupils the size of marbles. “You—you do know who I am. Don’t you? Of course you do. That's why you saved me.”
Of course he didn't know. Was he supposed to? Maybe this guy was a big deal in the Batman fan community. Or something.
With every passing moment, this encounter got more awkward and surreal. He looked around uncertainly. They seemed to be alone, but if any passers-by happened to glance into the alley they would see the Batman standing there with this bizarre little person clinging to his pant-leg like a burr.
He was humming now, low and soft in his throat.
The man was definitely on something. Was he? Probably not drops, since those tended to have a sedative effect. Then again, they did make some people paradoxically more talkative by relaxing inhibitions. They had a numbing effect, too, which might explain why he seemed unaffected by the fact that he’d nearly been assaulted by four strangers, then witnessed those same strangers being brutalized. But this affection, this clinginess…
And suddenly Bruce knew what that electric silvery smell was and why it was so appealing. The man was an omega in heat. Of course. The Skulls had said as much, hadn't they? In the blur of the moment, he'd barely processed anything except the threat they represented.
Shit.
Bruce cleared his throat, face burning, and said, “Please let go of my leg.”
The man’s head jerked up. His eyes widened and bulged in panic, and he scrambled backwards. “I—I’m sorry.” He sprang to his feet, arms stiff at his sides.
Bruce glanced down, in spite of himself, and saw the erection tenting the front of the man’s pants, with a small wet spot where precum had already soaked through.
The man glanced down as well, then quickly covered the bulge with both hands. He clamped his eyes shut and said again, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Bruce rubbed his neck. “You can’t help it. I know about…cycles.”
“No!” The man went pale. He shook his head, still covering his erection. “No, no, no. It isn’t like that. I swear. My devotion, it isn’t about something so…base. It’s pure. It’s spiritual."
"Oh."
"I realize how this looks,” he babbled on. “I was cursed with this body, this…weakness…but I’ve learned to transcend it. I’ve mastered my own desires completely. I’ve transformed them into something greater. These reactions—they’re a meaningless reflex. They’re not who I am.”
“It’s fine.”
“Normally I can control it. I tried chemical suppressants. But I—th-the side effects were—”
“You don’t have to explain yourself.”
“F-forgive me. Sir."
“Don't call me that."
"What should I call you?"
"Batman. Look, really, it’s not—” he fell silent. He could hear voices shouting in the distance. There was a possibility the Skulls might come back with reinforcements. “We should get moving. You said you live around here?”
“Yes. A few blocks away.”
“Let me take you home. My bike’s parked nearby. You can…” He cleared his throat. “You can ride with me. There’s just enough room on the seat.” This was going to be uncomfortable. For both of them. But he wasn’t going to leave this touch-starved, half-coherent, hormone-and-possibly-drug-addled omega out in the streets where any passing thug or unscrupulous alpha could find him.
The man hadn’t replied; he was staring with those big, dazed eyes, mouth slightly open, as though the idea of sharing a motorcycle seat with Batman had temporarily shut down his brain.
“You okay with that?” Bruce prompted.
The man nodded rapidly.
“What’s your name?”
For a moment, he looked puzzled. He blinked a few times, then murmured, “Edward. My name is Edward Nashton.”
“Follow me.”
* * *
The ride to Edward’s apartment only took a few minutes. His erection pressed against Bruce’s ass the entire time, and Edward kept babbling in his ear—barely audible over the roar of the motor—about how non-sexual his admiration for Batman was and how pure he kept his mind and how his stupid animal body just reacted this way to everything, literally everything during his cycles. Really, he got an erection at the sight of toast popping out of the toaster, or squeezing toothpaste out of the tube. It was meaningless, utterly meaningless, it was the vibration of the motorcycle, it was-
It would’ve been infinitely less awkward if he’d just stop talking about it.
And Bruce could feel his own body responding now, as well, just as involuntarily. The smell of Edward’s arousal and fertility coated the inside of his sinuses with each breath, that butter and honey and lavender smell. He tried to breathe through his mouth, but he could still taste the scent. Silver fireworks unfurled behind his eyeballs. And Edward was so warm, pressed up against his back with his arms twined around Bruce’s waist. Bruce could feel his racing heart. Edward was still talking; the words blurred together like runny paint in his head. He wanted to pin Edward against the nearest hard surface and cover that babbling mouth and-
“This one?” Bruce called.
“Yes.”
He parked the bike. Edward dismounted, his erection still straining against the front of his pants.
“You live next to the Iceberg Lounge,” Bruce remarked.
“Oh yes. I see them come and go. You wouldn’t believe some of the men and women who frequent this place. Very important people." After a few seconds, he added, "Though I suppose you understand better than anyone. How deep the rot goes in this city.”
“I’ll wait until you’re inside,” Bruce said.
Edward hesitated. “You—you could come in. If you wanted.” His gaze dropped to the pavement. He fidgeted, clutching one arm. “I don’t have much. But I could make coffee.”
“No need.”
“You saved me.” His tongue crept out to moisten his lips. “I feel like I should thank you in some way.”
Was he misreading Edward’s tone? Was it only his own arousal that made that sound so suggestive?
Bruce hadn’t had a partner for a long time. And he’d never slept with an omega. Back when he was dating, he’d stuck to betas, more or less evenly split between males and females. The entire concept of heat cycles and ruts—the loss of control they implied—made him uncomfortable.
“I shouldn’t,” he said.
Edward stood motionless, his erection half-wilted. He turned his face away and smiled, a strained expression. “That’s all right."
“Edward…”
“Thank you. You’re truly everything I thought you would be, and more. But I guess we'll just consider this night an aberration. It wasn't part of the plan, was it? Not for either one of us.”
Bruce wasn't sure how to interpret that remark. He opened his mouth to tell him to go inside and rest—then closed it. “Do you live alone?”
He nodded. “I’m always alone.” He said it matter-of-factly, without self-pity.
Omegas in heat didn’t just crave sex. They craved touch, closeness. He thought about Edward clinging to his leg, rubbing against his knee. “Can I ask a personal question?”
Edward nodded uncertainly.
“Before tonight…when’s the last time anyone touched you?”
Edward blinked. “Touched me?” His gaze lost focus as he searched his memories. “I don’t know. I guess—weeks. Maybe months.”
Bruce dismounted from his bike. He approached slowly. Edward blinked a few times.
“Do you want to be touched right now?”
His eyes widened. His lips parted. He nodded once.
Slowly, Bruce raised his black-gloved hands to frame Edward’s face. Edward’s cheeks blazed brighter, and his breath caught. He remained very still, then began to tremble lightly, as Bruce cradled his face between his hands. One hand drifted up to stroke his hair.
Edward reached up, gripped Bruce’s hand, and turned his face into it. A small, hungry sound escaped his throat. Bruce’s other hand curled around the nape of his neck, gloved fingers pressing gently into the soft skin. Edward hummed low in his throat, his eyes heavy-lidded. He looked almost drunk. “You smell good,” he whispered.
“So do you.”
He let out a warbling little laugh. “It’s strange, isn’t it? What evolution has done to us. To all of us." Another pained smile pulled at his lips. "Back when I believed in the Christian god, I used to believe that this body, these desires, were a punishment.”
“Why did you believe that?”
“It’s torture. Having this need, being unable to fulfill it. Before I learned to properly channel my urges, I resorted to other means.”
Bruce frowned. “Tell me what you mean."
Edward rolled up one sleeve, showing the thin, white marks on his arm. Scratch-marks.
Bruce stared.
“I wouldn’t show these to just anyone,” Edward said. “People would misunderstand. But you understand. Don’t you? Sometimes violence, even self-directed, is the only way to deal with those urges.” He rolled his sleeve up.
His mouth had gone dry. “I thought..." He wasn't sure how to ask this, if he should ask it. "I thought omegas could satisfy their urges on their own. Like anyone."
Edward’s gaze jerked away. “I don’t like doing that," he said flatly.
That was worrisome. Even with Bruce’s limited knowledge, he knew that unmated omegas were supposed to masturbate frequently during their cycles, and trying to ignore the need was like ignoring hunger or thirst. It just got worse. Apparently it had gotten so bad for him that he was self-harming, and still…
None of your business.
He should go. The last thing he needed was to get involved in the life and problems of a random citizen. Bruce was not fit for relationships. He'd long since figured that out.
“Won’t you—” Edward fidgeted, tangling and untangling his fingers. “Won’t you come up? Just for a moment?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“I’m not…it isn’t like that. I just want company. I want to talk to you. That’s all.” He clung to Bruce’s hand.
He was so lonely. So hungry.
“Please,” Edward whispered. His thumbs stroked the back of Bruce’s hand. His breathing was heavy, his cheeks pink. “There’s so much for us to talk about. I want to hear your thoughts. Your plans. I want to help you. We can work together—”
“I can’t.”
Silence.
“I don't have time to socialize. I’m on patrol. I have an entire city to protect." His voice emerged gruffer, sterner than he intended. "There’s an active serial killer in Gotham. The Riddler’s got everyone on edge. People need to know that there’s someone looking out for them, protecting them from that monster.”
Edward’s grip went limp. After a few seconds, he said in a small voice, “What?”
“You must have heard about the murders. I’ve been working with the police, trying to track down the killer. Bring him to justice.”
Edward didn’t look up. His soft, raspy breaths echoed through the silence.
“You’ve had a stressful night. Get some rest.”
Edward stared at his shoes and smiled a strange, sad little smile. “That’s fine. We’ll meet again soon. I’m sure of it.”
Still, he didn't move. “Edward…are you...” Bruce stopped. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say.
There was something at once compelling and deeply unsettling about this man. Bruce had never met anyone like him. He was—
He’s in heat. You can smell it, and it’s affecting you. You’re allowing your judgment to become clouded.
Bruce took a breath. He thought about Edward rubbing his face against Bruce’s gloved hand. On impulse, he pulled the glove off and handed it to Edward. “Here.”
Edward blinked a few times.
“You're a fan, right? Keep it. As a souvenir,” Batman said. “I have others.”
Edward stared at the glove in his hand with an unreadable expression.
“I know you feel embarrassed about your reactions tonight. But I want you to know—there’s nothing wrong with you. I was…surprised. That’s all. There's nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m filthy,” Edward whispered. His fingers clenched tight around the glove. “You have no idea.”
A dull ache sat in Bruce's chest. Though he'd saved Edward tonight, he somehow felt as though he'd let him down. The hope he'd seen shining in those eyes had dulled. He hesitated…then placed the first two fingers of his ungloved hand under Edward’s chin and gently lifted it. Edward’s breathing fluttered. His eyes went empty and glassy as Bruce leaned in. His lips hovered a few inches from Edward’s. What am I doing?
He pressed a soft kiss to Edward’s cheek. A faint, strangled sound escaped Edward's throat.
Without waiting for a response, without even glancing at his expression, Bruce got on his bike and drove away. If he stayed any longer, he might end up accepting Edward’s invitation to come upstairs. And that would absolutely be a terrible idea.
This entire encounter had been so—so fucking confusing.
But Bruce knew where he lived, now. The building, at least. He intended to come back here sometime, to check up on him.
As he drove, his mind replayed the events of the night, starting with the moment when he'd first noticed Edward pursued by the four Skulls. Throughout their entire conversation afterward, Edward had barely remarked on the fact that four men had attacked him tonight. As though he hadn’t even processed the fact that it had happened. As though he were accustomed to repressing such things. As though violence were simply a part of his world.
Bruce thought about those eyes. Calling them green was an oversimplification. But greenish.
He'd seen those eyes before. Hadn't he?
The bike screeched to a halt. Bruce stared into space, his breath clouding the night air.