Bat-nanigans

[skybluejeep]

Characters: Batman and his next Robin Stiles. CLOSED.
Date: After the Late October Teen Wolf Invasion
Location: Roof of Stiles' suite.
Situation: Stiles has finally been told that his father was kidnapped - and then saved from - a certain baddy. As a result, he has a very public panic attack on the network.
Warnings/Rating: Spoilers for Teen Wolf season 3A. Bat-stalking. Daddy angst.

***

Stiles has a feeling that this time, being at the turtle head wouldn't help. He's beginning to suspect he spends way too much time up there anyway, wallowing in the peaceful vibes. Was it possible to become addicted to the inner peace a giant turtle can bring?

Better than Klonopin. Which was what Stiles was rocking today. Three full tabs. His head felt a little floaty, but he kinda needed it, thanks. It kept his heart from turning his chest cavity into a drum circle.

He's sitting on the roof of his suite, having climbed up there free-style. (How do you think he got on Scott's roof all the time? He was a house-climbing expert by now.) He's reeling from the triple whammy of the last few days. Lydia. His dad. And Derek telling him about Scott's Alpha status.

But the thing that's haunting him is his dad. Kidnapped by the Darach. Nearly sacrificed in her (her? the Darach is a her?) insane lust for power and revenge. His dad. Who he worked so hard to keep safe, to keep out of the supernatural bullshit that plagued Beacon Hills. And he's honestly furious with Scott and Isaac for not telling him sooner. He can't stay angry, of course. Not with Scott, and not really with Isaac anymore, either. But tonight, he's turned off his computer, called out sick from work, and is hiding. Sure, he can't hide from werewolf senses...but he can certainly try to grab some alone time.

Comments

[cowled]

Many things have been attributed to Bruce over the years. He spent so long being an urban myth, watching his legend chase its own shadows, everything murky and obscured. There were those that knew him for mortal, but for every person that's seen him bleed there are ten convinced he can't. Doesn't.

It's how he prefers it. How he needs things to be. If Batman is just a man, he can be killed. He has things - friends, family - to lose. He thinks about the Joker and his fingers curl in memory, in desire to have them around the clown's sick throat. He doesn't think he'll ever quite buck the urge, the desire to kill him.

But Bruce has brought him back from the dead, too. Not once (Dick beat him to death after Tim was presumed dead, it was Bruce that restarted his heart then) but twice (he built a Lazarus Pit to raise that man, the only one who knew how to stop Ra's--) and it will never cease to bother him.

Every life matters. Even the Joker.

It makes him sick to think about, so he doesn't. Instead, he shuts his mind off and patrols, a bleak and silent shadow overlooking the city. He halts one robbery in the Fire Sector, checks the listening devices he's planted in an Earth Sector to ensure they haven't been disturbed - he's tracking the long-term activity of a gang poised to move into Metal with a new sort of drug based on Dust - and then he sits on the edge of a roof in the Earth Sector and simply listens.

You can tell a lot about a city by what you hear when you're standing perfectly still. No matter the time of day in Gotham, there is always the wail of distant sirens, screaming or crying children. The screech of tires on asphalt, sometimes the telltale scrape of a hockey stick across the ground. Industrial noise. The sound and smell of the bay.

Here it's different. Less technology. Fewer screams, no sirens. But if he closes his eyes, meditative, the sounds of Keeliai still carry all the hallmarks and characteristics of a city in pain. It's why, for all that this isn't his home, he's been able to stay functioning here. This place, these people don't need Batman the way Gotham does. But he's carved a niche for himself, regardless.

He's perched as a gargoyle might on the edge of one of the residential buildings, the tallest ones in the Earth Sector, cape drawn firm around him in the light chill of the midnight air when a sound catches his attention. It's faint, and that in and of itself draws his suspicion, the scuff of sneakers against the side of a building. How many time has he caught Tim doing the same thing? Bruce doesn't turn around. The people that live in this building are Stiles, Holiday and the creature Yaha.

And he's spent enough time in Stiles' company to recognize the exact quality of his presence. Bruce doesn't move for a time. In his experience, boys have a tendency to climb buildings when they're upset. How many times, before Dick became Robin, would he scale the walls of Wayne Manor? How many times did Jason? He remembers following the younger Robin once, armed with a thermos of Alfred's cider, the two of them sitting up there silent, sharing it as they watched the sunrise.

He doesn't have a thermos now, and he hasn't seen Alfred in over two years. His absence is a persistently sharp ache, like a broken bone that's healed twisted, and Bruce's lips tug down in displeasure to think of it. Rather than dwell in his own dark thoughts, and without turning, he addresses the boy.

"Can't sleep?"

[skybluejeep]

Stiles is honestly too floaty on his anti-anxiety meds to even jerk. He turns a slow, blinking face to the sound of that rough-gravel voice, and then sighs. Really, this was inevitable. And god, of course Batman did nightly patrols of Keelai. Why did he never make that connection before? Just because this wasn't Gotham, of course he was out doing his thing. Jeez.

He shakes his head slowly, before turning his head back up to stare at the sky. The totally alien sky, with no recognizable constellations. There's no big dipper, no Orion, no Sagittarius. The wolf isn't chasing the hunter here, or vice versa. Damn wolves and hunters.

"Nope," he answers, his voice low and steady. "Definitely could not sleep. Which is so much of a trend for me it's amazing my growth hasn't been stunted yet. The way my biology operates, I should be five foot two and looking like the Elephant Man."

[cowled]

Bruce ignores the babbling - why does Stiles sound so much like Dick when he's been drugged into oblivion? - and turns, finally, to step down off the edge of the roof. His legs are stiff from having perched so long, but you wouldn't know it by the way he moves. Though he does ensure his cape hangs about him such that it would hide any betrayals of his body.

He's never been good at being a comfort, and the times are few and far between when he tries, but he likes Stiles well enough. "What happened?" It sounds more like an order to relay information than a question, but. That's probably just a side effect of being Batman.

[skybluejeep]

Stiles gulps down a mouthful of saliva, which has flooded out from under his tongue. Always a weird side-effect of Klonopin, he's noticed. Forget dry mouth, he turns into a drooling idiot if he's not careful. And he wipes a hand across his mouth to make sure that's exactly what's not happening. Doing that in front of Batman would be mortifying.

"Some more of my friends from back home arrived here," he murmurs, still staring up at the stars. "And of course they were from my subjective future. We've kinda had this agreement, you know? Me and Scott and Isaac and Erica. We don't tell each other what's coming in the future. It was mainly for Erica's benefit. But Scott was keeping something from me. And I finally found out what that something was. My best friend...my brother. Lied to me to protect me. And I get it, up here."

He taps one temple with his forefinger twice, indicating where he gets it. But then that same finger moves down to his chest, and taps his left pectoral muscle twice.

"Here's the problem. And don't feed me a line about that not mattering, because it does. I had a panic attack and could hardly breathe, so yes, my chest does actually play a huge part in my emotional fabric."

He swallows heavily again, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down along the line of his neck.

"It's my dad. My dad's been kidnapped back home. By an evil druid who's intent on slitting his throat, bashing his skull in, and garotting him, not necessarily in that order. Or will be kidnapped. Or has been and let go. It's all really timey-wimey right now and I kinda hate that I've watched Back to The Future too much because otherwise I wouldn't give a shit about the rules and I'd go back there and take Jennifer Blake's head off with my lacrosse stick."

[cowled]

Bruce is silent, through the - what, tirade? Though his mouth quirks at the don't feed me a line bit. It bothers him, especially knowing the fate of Stiles' mother, to hear that his father may be likewise in danger of death, and honestly? He knows exactly how the boy feels. It's how he felt, after Jim Gordon was shot, and he was pacing lines into the tile at the foot of the man's hospital bed.

He's silent for so long a time it might seem as if he won't speak at all. Then, "I'm sorry about your father." Bruce has approximately the worst bedside manner ever, and he crosses his arms beneath his cape, which makes the heavy material ripple almost ominously, like pooled shadow.

"But wishing violence on those that have sought to harm him isn't the answer."

[skybluejeep]

He scoffs slightly.

"Now how did I know you were gonna say that?" is the soft, not at all sarcastic reply. But that's always been one of his big complaints about the man, that he's not willing to kill. Sometimes, it's inevitable. It's got to happen. "You and Scott would get along so well, it's not even funny."

He flicks a pebble off the roof with his finger and thumb, frowning thoughtfully.

"I know that. I mean, I know it. But I also know that if I had no choice but to kill somebody who was about to kill my dad...I'd take the shot and take the nightmares that went along with it. I don't want to be a killer...but that night in the realm of Death? I was the one to bring a rock down on the back of Isaac's dad's head. It was a shade, it was a lie, it wasn't really him, but I did it."

[cowled]

"It's not about nightmares," Bruce says, firm but impassive. This is a dangerous road for anyone to be on, much less a sixteen year old boy, and it troubles him to hear it. He thinks about Zucco, about Garzonas. Cluemaster. "If that was the only downside to murder, everyone would do it."

His mouth thins. "It's about life. Everyone deserves a chance to reform. To be shown that there's another way. And there is always another way."

[skybluejeep]

"...Seriously, you and Scott would love each other."

He's remembering himself, now. Remembering that police van in the middle of the woods, and a half-naked Jackson Whittemore practically hog-tied in it. Trying to keep him from killing again as the Kanima. And Scott...Scott was the one who'd begged for Jackson's life, begged to keep the others (especially Derek) from killing him.

And Stiles had been the one to flat out say, without a speck of hyperbole, 'Seriously, can I again vote to kill him?'

He looks up at his hero, his absolute favorite. And he discovers something about himself that he really hates.

"I don't want to be a killer. I'm not a killer. But I have to protect my family."

[cowled]

Bruce simply looks at him, and nothing visibly changes in his expression. How many times has he heard that? That protection must be so integrally entwined with destruction. How long has he fought so that his protection can be otherwise?

Too long. And most times, he thinks, not nearly hard enough. He looks out over the city, and maintains his silent vigil. There's a distant noise, something he identifies as a crime in occurrence, but Damian's watching that Sector tonight, and will triumph over whatever it is.

The boy's come a long way from the days of emptying heads out of bloodied bags and onto the floor of the Cave. "If you think the only way to do that is to kill, remember this. I will always be there to stop you. But if you want to learn another way, I will train you. The decision is yours."

[skybluejeep]

Three days later.

Stiles makes his way to the address Batman gave him. It's getting colder out, so he's got on a pair of silk pants, since there's no such thing as sweatpants on the turtle. And a long-sleeved shirt. And his flannel, which he'll discard as the training session goes on.

The Metal sector is not a place where he's spent much time, since all his friends are in other places. So it's a tentative Stiles that peers inside the place. Apparently abandoned. So he steps inside, not sure what he'll find, but ready to face anything. Even the Batman.

[cowled]

Bruce is already waiting, and as soon as Stiles is through the door, it slams shut behind him. At least sixty percent of what he does is showmanship, sleight of hand. Parlour tricks. Things he's stolen from stages, magicians, cutpurses and criminals of a harder sort. Everything he learns is one more thing to add to his arsenal, whether it's slowing his heartbeat to the point he can pass as the recently deceased to the ability to tell poisons from one another by sight, taste, texture or smell.

He's standing, stock-still in the shadows along the far wall, all but invisible to even the closest scrutinies. He's curious, more than anything, how Stiles will react to the slam of the door.

[skybluejeep]

The boy goes stiff. Of course he does. But he's also spent so much of his time around Derek Hale, Peter Hale, and other various supernatural baddies that he doesn't flinch.

Instead, his eyes narrow, and he puts his back against the wall next to the door, his arms across his chest.

"Dude. Seriously? Cheap scares? Homie don't play that. You know I hang out with werewolves. Don't go there."

[cowled]

"Cheap scares are effective against the right opponents," Bruce says, stepping out into the light. He's in full kit, mostly because it's the easiest way to continue obscuring his identity, and mostly because he'll be patrolling afterwards. "Don't belittle them. Learn them. They can be your greatest weapon with the proper application of force."

[skybluejeep]

He frowns a bit, and shakes his head.

"Okay, no. And here's why; werewolves. Seriously, I'm always up against a bunch of huge, supernatural bastards who grow claws and too much hair."

He doesn't budge, staring down the Bat. This isn't training, it's a lecture, and he gets those enough from his dad. He was expecting to learn how to throw a punch or six, not this intellectual BS.

"Derek Hale alone loves nothing more than to freak me out, and he just grabs me and shoves me up against the wall. And he's on my side."

[cowled]

"You won't always be fighting werewolves," Bruce tells him flatly, his tone edging just slightly into displeased. "Each fight requires different tactics. Knowing all of the ones available to you are how you select the one necessary to win. How would you fight a larger opponent?"

[skybluejeep]

"Cheap tricks and nut shots?"

That displeased tone makes him worried, but not upset. He rubs his forehead, but doesn't back down.

"Seriously, come to Beacon Hills and tell me I won't always be fighting werewolves. Well...okay, fair enough, once I fought a giant fucking lizard."

[cowled]

"'Cheap tricks'," Bruce echoes. Stiles, honestly, you just made his point for him, and now he's leaving it to you to figure it out. He falls completely silent, arms folded, cape pooling at his feet like an oil slick. Every once in a while, he forgets what normal teenagers are like, and this is serving as... a reminder. Not an unpleasant one, necessarily. But a reminder, nevertheless.

Somewhere, he thinks Alfred is probably laughing at him.

Posting order Stiles, Derek, Batman

[skybluejeep]

Zero hour. The night of the hunt.

Stiles had actually thought things out, and was wearing a dark gray sweater, a black knitted wool cap, black pants, and other shadowy, but above all warm clothes. Damn it, Bats, you had to set the hunt on such a freezing cold night?

Oh well, at least it would keep him awake.

His breath fogging at his mouth, Stiles was sitting with his nose "buried in a book." But in reality, he was watching the meeting in the cafe very carefully. From a good distance, yes. But close enough to see when this Matches guy left the place. Matches Malone. Good lord, how Dick Tracy could you get?

But at least he has backup in case things all go terribly, terribly wrong. And when have they not?

He leans over and nudges Derek in the ribs with one elbow, a giant smirk on his face.

"Having fun yet, Snubbull?"

Yes, he just compared Derek to a pink dog Pokemon. Lord.

Posting order Stiles, Derek, Batman

[garou]

Derek sighs, rolling his gaze over to Stiles, because a, he doesn't get that reference and b, did you really just elbow him, Stiles, really? His own butt is cold on the bench they're seated on, wrapped up in his own warm clothes, despite the fact that he runs hot. The cold didn't bother him anyway, for the most part, and he's not as bundled up as Stiles.

"Why am I here, again?"

okay fudge the posting order LOL

[skybluejeep]

Derek has never played Pokemon. What a shocker. Rolling his eyes right back, he smirks at his...friend? Yeah, settle for friend for now.

"You're here to make sure I don't do something stupid. And to help me track a guy over what could be miles of uninhabited turtle. We catch this guy? We might just prevent a gang war. Which would be good for everybody, including you. So. Shh."

That first part of his speech is really the important part, because god knows Stiles is capable of some truly epic spazzing.

[garou]

Derek throws him a pointed look. "I think staking out an apparently dangerous person is a stupid idea. And yet here you are doing it anyway."

[skybluejeep]

"He's not dangerous!" he protests. "I have it on very good authority that he'll run a mile before he'd fight us. But I don't have this."

On that last word, he reaches up and literally boops Derek on the nose with his forefinger.

"You can track him by scent. I can't. So in case I lose him, I need you. Get it?"

[garou]

Derek resists the urge to pretend to bite at Stiles' finger.

Okay no he doesn't. He comes about a millimeter from nipping at Stiles' skin.

[skybluejeep]

And of course, even after all this time knowing each other, Stiles flinches away from that.

"Oh my god," he groans, yanking his hand back. "Down, Rex. Jesus, you could have taken my finger off, you jerk! Wouldn't that look great on my resume with Batman? Sorry I lost track of the guy you needed me to find, I was bleeding out from the stump where my forefinger was."

[garou]

"Then don't put it in my face," he replies flatly, with a huff. "He's right there. You don't need me to track him."